Claudia wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as Poppy would have liked her to be. Arriving home shortly after Caspar had left the house—without a word to Poppy—she was far more interested in rummaging through her wardrobe and swivelling in front of mirrors to see if last summer’s bikinis made her bottom look big. Marilyn, one of the girls from the office, had split up with her boyfriend forty-eight hours before they were due to fly out to the Canaries. Marilyn wasn’t heartbroken—‘Ah, he wasn’t up to much; what can you say about a man who wears socks in bed?’—and Claudia, desperate for some sun, had offered to take his place.
‘By this time tomorrow, I’ll be stretched out on a beach.’ She heaved a blissful sigh and held up a parrot-green swimsuit. ‘Does this look as if it’s shrunk?’
‘You’re no help,’ Poppy grumbled. ‘I’ve had the biggest fall-out since Chernobyl, Caspar’s never going to speak to me again, and you aren’t even listening.’
‘I am, I am.’ There was a hole in the side seam of the green swimsuit. Claudia kicked it under the bed, rummaged in the wardrobe some more, and unearthed a burnt-orange bikini. ‘Now this one’s good for sunbathing. But if you try and swim your boobs fall out—’
‘We may as well say good-bye now,’ said Poppy. ‘He’s bound to have kicked me out by the time you get back.’
‘D’you really think he will?’ Claudia let out a shriek of delight as she spotted her favorite white espadrilles. ‘You little darlings… I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’
‘Not that you care.’ Poppy was beginning to feel distinctly unloved. Claudia was hugging her espadrilles like puppies. Any minute now, Poppy thought, she’d give them a couple of biscuits.
‘Look,’ said Claudia, because Poppy’s thunderous expression was putting her off her packing, ‘I hate to say I told you so. But be honest: the reason you’re upset is because you’ve only just realized what a shit Caspar is. I mean, isn’t it what I’ve been saying all along?’
Claudia was lying; she loved being able to say I told you so. Poppy gritted her teeth and nodded. Under the circumstances, she didn’t have much choice.
‘You always used to think it was funny,’ Claudia went on, ‘the way he got so muddled up about who he was supposed to be seeing. I felt sorry for them but you just thought it was hysterical.’
‘I felt sorry for them too.’ Poppy was stung. ‘Well, Kate anyway.’ She decided she might as well confess. ‘I thought you were jealous because you fancied Caspar yourself.’
Claudia didn’t howl with laughter; that would have been overdoing it. She just looked suitably amused, as if a small child had told a knock-knock joke.
‘I’ve never fancied Caspar. Oh, I know he has the looks and the charm, but don’t forget I’ve lived here longer than you. I’ve always known what he’s like. Anyway,’ she added with a genuine shudder, ‘he had an affair with my mother. If that isn’t enough to put you off someone, I don’t know what is.’
Poppy had forgotten about that. Caspar and Angie Slade-Welch. He had laughingly denied it at the time, but of course he had slept with her. As Claudia pointed out, it was pretty yucky. Angie might be glamorous but she was old enough to be Caspar’s mother too.
Belatedly, Poppy remembered that Claudia wasn’t supposed to know about Angie’s visits to the house.
‘Your mum?’ She raised a tentative eyebrow. ‘And Caspar?’ Surely Caspar hadn’t been indiscreet enough to spill the beans.
Claudia carried on packing. Her expression was matter-of-fact.
‘My mother told me. She’s on some kind of mission, if you ask me, to prove how attractive she still is to the opposite sex. I think she expected me to be impressed,’ Claudia went on dryly. ‘The trouble is, having your portrait painted and getting slept with by Caspar isn’t an achievement. It’s par for the course.’
Arriving home from work the next day, Poppy found a note with her name on the front propped up against the biscuit tin.
The house was empty. Poppy’s fingers shook as she unfolded the sheet of paper. She hadn’t meant all those terrible things she’d said—well, maybe meant them a bit, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be banished from Cornwallis Crescent for good.
But all the note said was: Poppy. Have gone away for the week with Babette. As Claudia is away too, this leaves you in charge of the house (i.e. don’t leave front door wide open when you go off to work). I have bought an answering machine and set it up, so no need for you to take messages. C.
Having vented her spleen yesterday, Poppy had pretty much got her exasperation with Caspar out of her system. Now, re-reading the terse little note, she felt a lump expand in her throat. No Dear Poppy, no jokes, no lighthearted warnings about wild all-night parties. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to sign off with his full name; all she now merited was a chilly initial.
He was still angry with her.
She might not be out on her ear—yet, anyway—but they definitely weren’t friends.
TOM: Are you the Tom who visited a Bristol nightclub last June and met a girl, out at her bachelorette party, called Poppy?
If you are Tom or you think you may know him, please phone this number, any evening…
Studying the advert in the personal column of the Evening Standard, Jake experienced a rush of something that was a mixture of excitement and pride. He felt quite private detectivish, maybe even a bit James Bondy. It had taken him hours to perfect the wording of the advertisement. He had been tempted, at first, to put Desperately Seeking Tom. Then he had toyed—quite daringly for him—with Did You Ever Meet A Girl Who Wore Durex On Her Head?
In the end, he kept it simple. He had bought a mobile phone—okay, so the world and his dog carried mobiles around these days, but it still secretly gave Jake a thrill—and arranged for the ad to run every night for a week. He’d had two calls already, from a girl offering exotic personal services and from a man called James who would be more than happy to change his name to Tom. So long as the money was good, he explained matter-of-factly, he’d answer to any name Jake liked.
‘Fancy a trip to the cinema?’ asked Poppy, who was missing Caspar and Claudia dreadfully. The big house felt strange without them, and the weekend loomed emptily ahead. She sat on a George III giltwood armchair with her feet tucked under her and prodded Jake’s copy of the Standard. ‘Whenever you like, tonight or tomorrow night. Go on, have a look and see what’s on. You can choose.’
‘Can’t make it,’ said Jake, imagining his mobile phone ringing in the middle of the film. He had already decided he had to stay at home in order to take the calls that were bound to flood in. ‘Sorry, I’m… er… pretty busy just now.’
Jake never went anywhere in the evenings. Poppy wondered if he was cinemaphobic.
‘Okay, never mind seeing a film. How about coming round to my place and letting me cook dinner? Nothing too glamorous, just chili or something, but we could play Boggle, open a bottle of wine…’
Jake had compiled a series of questions to ask the potential Toms who phoned up, in order to weed out the cranks. The questionnaire was his version of Cinderella’s glass slipper and he could hardly put it to each caller with Poppy there, her ears out on stalks.
‘Sorry. I really am busy. Maybe another time.’
Poppy nodded without speaking. She tried not to feel hurt. Jake’s manner had become almost abrupt; he clearly had better things to do these days than socialize with her.
I smartened him up, she thought with a twinge of resentment, and now I’m paying the price. Jake isn’t busy; he’s just seeing someone else.
As if on cue, two women who were regulars at the market approached Jake’s stall. Hunched low in her chair pretending to read next week’s Bonham’s catalogue, Poppy watched them flirt gently with Jake. In the old days he would have blushed, stammered out some lame excuse, and disappeared before you could say white rabbit.
To look at him now you wouldn’t believe it. He was coping beautifully, taking their attentions in his stride, and well on his way to making a sale. He wasn’t flirting back at them, Poppy noticed, but he was certainly letting them think he might.
And all thanks to a new image.
Jake had discovered self-confidence and it suited him.
Poppy, whose weekend was looking emptier and more gloomy by the minute, thought: Fat lot of good it’s done me.
Feeling faintly guilty, even though all she was doing was phoning a friend for a chat, Poppy rang Dina in Bristol.
‘…it’s so weird, I’m never usually like this. Six o’clock on a Friday evening and I’m already bored out of my skull. You wouldn’t believe how quiet the house is. Every room is so empty.’
‘What do you look like?’ Dina, ever practical, thought it best to check.
‘Eh?’
‘Your face. D’you still look like a gargoyle?’
‘Oh! No, that’s all gone down.’
‘So you can be seen out in public?’ In Bristol, Dina fluffed her hair up in front of the mirror and gave her reflection a knowing grin.
Poppy pretended not to understand. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Come on! I can be there by nine. And if Claudia’s not there I can’t upset her, can I? While the cat’s away and all that. We’ll have a ball!’
Poppy felt guilty again.
‘What about Ben? And the baby?’
‘They’ll manage,’ Dina breezily dismissed that problem. ‘You know Ben. If I’m happy, he’s happy. He won’t mind. And as for Daniel, he won’t even notice! Tell you what, hang on a sec and I’ll just square it…’
She was back on the line moments later.
‘Get your kit on, girl. And do yourself up. This weekend is going to be wild!’