Perfect Timing (13 page)

With the proceeds of the Angie Slade-Welch portrait Caspar had sent his parents on a Mediterranean cruise. On Christmas night, his mother, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the ship and two unaccustomed glasses of Amontillado, phoned to tell him there had been a choice of seventeen different vegetables served with lunch. There was also a waterfall—yes, an actual
waterfall
—inside—yes, actually inside—the boat.

‘I've never seen anything like it before in my life,' she gasped happily. ‘Talk about grand! Caspar, you should see it… this whole trip's like a dream come true. Oh, I do wish you could've come with us. You'd have had such fun—'

‘I'm just glad you and Dad are enjoying yourselves.' Much as he loved his parents, the prospect of going away on holiday with them filled Caspar with alarm. ‘And we're having fun here. We cooked a pretty mean lunch between us.'

‘Not with seventeen different kinds of vegetables.'

‘Maybe not.'

‘And I'm not doing the washing-up,' his mother boasted.

‘Neither am I.'

‘Oh Caspar! You haven't left the girls to do it all.'

‘Would I?' He grinned.

‘You are naughty.'

‘I am not. We used paper plates.'

***

People had been dropping in and out all day. Friends not caught up in the family-visiting routine had called by, staying for lunch or for a few drinks, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and informal hospitality. At six o'clock, Kate left to spend the evening with her parents. Claudia disappeared into the kitchen to deal with the washing-up.

‘What washing-up?' Caspar protested.

‘We didn't cook with paper saucepans, stupid.'

‘Come on, leave all that. We'll do it tomorrow.'

‘You mean I'll do it tomorrow.'

Caspar leaned against the kitchen door. He watched Claudia push up her sleeves in businesslike fashion and run a torrent of hot water into the bowl. He wondered if she'd had some kind of upset with her mother. She hadn't been in a bad mood today, but there had been a definite edge about her. He sensed something wasn't right.

Caspar wondered if it was him.

‘Claudie, have I done something wrong?'

‘Wrong? You?' Claudia was whipping up a mountain of bubbles. She shook her head. ‘No. I don't suppose you have.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means you're the same now as you've always been. And I don't suppose you'll ever change.' She plunged her hands into the soapy water and began trawling for cutlery. ‘After all, why should you?'

Claudia knew she shouldn't snipe, but she
was
fed up. It just seemed so unfair, Caspar and his endless capacity for sex, her with no sex life at all…

Caspar looked closely at her, but Claudia was busy looking closely at the washing-up. He assumed this was some veiled reference to the fact that he never did any.

It was Christmas. He experienced a pang of guilt.

‘Okay, point taken. We'll go shopping next week. Get a machine to do the dirty work for us.' He gave her an encouraging nod. ‘How about it, would that cheer you up?'

Claudia turned and stared. Surely he wasn't offering to buy her a vibrator! She went bright pink.

‘Caspar, are you drunk?'

‘No.' Well, not plastered.

‘So what in heaven's name are you talking about?'

He looked perplexed. ‘A dishwasher.'

Despite herself, Claudia began to giggle. This was why she could never stay angry with Caspar for long. Okay, so he had slept with her mother. But Angie was the one she was unable to forgive.

‘Are you okay?' asked Caspar.

Claudia had no intention of bringing up the subject of his fling with Angie.

‘I'm okay,' she said.

She was damned if she'd let Caspar think she cared.

The doorbell rang. They heard the clatter of footsteps as Poppy raced across the hall.

‘Who's that?' said Claudia.

‘Could be Jake. She mentioned he might drop by.'

Claudia flushed again. Maybe she should nip upstairs quickly and redo her make-up. She was sure her T-zone was shiny; a dab of powder wouldn't go amiss.

Poppy yelled to Caspar that
The Sound of Music
was on and Julie Andrews was going mad with a machete. Caspar took another bottle of wine from the fridge and made his way back to the sitting room. Claudia scrubbed away at a roasting pan and told herself that all she had to do when she joined the rest of them was act naturally, treat Jake as if he were any other casual dropper-in… and not make a prat of herself.

‘Hello,' said Jake.

Claudia jumped, the sponge in her hand skidded up the roasting pan, and a wave of greasy water shot over her white shirt.

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.' Jake passed her a tea towel and watched as she mopped her wet front. ‘Caspar forgot the corkscrew.' He paused. ‘Merry Christmas, by the way.'

Act normal, act casual, thought Claudia frenziedly. She wondered if a festive kiss on the cheek might be in the cards then realized at once she didn't have the nerve to try.

‘Um… Merry Christmas. The corkscrew's over there. On the… um… fridge.'

And why do I get myself into this ridiculous state anyway, she thought crossly. I mean, look at him, look at that grey sweater… and those terrible trousers… how
can
I be nervous around someone who wears what looks like a school uniform left over from the last war?

He really
really
isn't my type, Claudia reminded herself. Apart from anything else, he isn't even rich.

Moments later, it struck her that she didn't need to be nervous anyway. Jake had invited her to visit those flea markets the other week, hadn't he? And she hadn't been able to go. Maybe, thought Claudia, I could make up for it now. In, of course, a casual and natural manner.

‘Will you be finished soon,' said Jake, ‘or shall I bring a glass of wine through for you?'

‘Don't worry.' Claudia smiled over her shoulder at him in Lauren Bacall-ish fashion… well, apart from the shiny nose. ‘Almost done. Actually, I've been invited to a small party at a friend's house over in Baltic Wharf. If you'd like to come along you'd be welcome… I mean, we could go together. They're… um… nice people,' she added hurriedly, ‘and very casual. Not a bit fancy.'

Claudia winced; she hadn't meant to put it quite that baldly.

‘Thanks, but I promised I'd call in on a friend of mine.'

For a second Jake looked amused. As well he might, thought Claudia. Here he was, getting his own back, turning
her
down for a change.

‘Truly, or is that a bit of a flimsy excuse?' She tried to sound playful—like Lauren Bacall huskily asking Bogart if he knew how to whistle.

Jake reached for the corkscrew and moved towards the door.

‘Truly. I'm expected for drinks at nine. At a friend's house.' Again that glimmer of a smile. ‘You may remember me mentioning him once before. Ellis Featherstone. He runs our Neighborhood Watch.'

By eight o'clock, Poppy and Caspar were alone, sprawled in front of the television with a whole evening's uninterrupted supply of chocolate.
The Sound of Music
was over, Poppy had already eaten eleven feet of orange Matchmakers, and neither of them could understand the rules of What's Your Fetish?, a board game given to Caspar by the hopeful blonde receptionist at the Denver Parrish Gallery.

‘Maybe it's just as well.' Caspar abandoned the box of cards that went with it. The top card had begun, somewhat dubiously, ‘Take two cans of whipping cream and a can of pineapple rings…'

‘We could watch my Gary Glitter video.' Poppy looked hopeful.

Caspar pulled a face. ‘I bought the thing for you. Wasn't that enough?'

‘You'd love it.'

‘I wouldn't, I promise.'

‘You are such a disappointment to me,' Poppy said sorrowfully. ‘We like nearly all the same things. I don't understand how you can not love Gary Glitter.'

It was true, Caspar realized. They did like a lot of the same things. Well, as far as films and food and jokes were concerned anyway. Caspar smiled to himself. Morally, of course, they had their small differences.

‘Now that we're on our own,' said Poppy, ‘I have a bit of a confession to make.'

‘Brilliant. Something sordid, I hope.'

‘It's about that tiepin Kate gave you.'

When she had finished, Caspar grinned.

‘Makes no difference to me. Diamonds or no diamonds. When am I ever going to wear a tie?'

‘On your wedding day, according to Kate.'

‘But I'm not going to be marrying Kate.'

‘You see, that's why I made her buy the cheaper tiepin,' Poppy explained. ‘I didn't even think you'd last this long. I was sure you'd have dumped her by now.'

‘I tried, believe me.' Caspar shuddered at the memory. ‘She got herself… well, into a bit of a state. She kept crying, “Not before Christmas, not before Christmas,” so in the end I gave up.' He shrugged and leaned over the edge of the sofa, delving into the box of Licorice Allsorts Poppy had just opened. ‘I'll do it properly next week.'

‘Poor Kate.'

‘Poor me.' Caspar looked indignant. ‘It isn't fun, you know. Finishing with people who don't want to be finished with.'

‘My heart bleeds.'

They watched a bit of a Bond film in companionable silence, Caspar stretched out across the sofa and Poppy sitting on the floor propped up against it.

She was right in front of him, hugging her knees and idly twiddling a purple sweet wrapper between her fingers, oblivious to the fact that Caspar's gaze had shifted from the television to the back of her neck.

He looked at Poppy, jolted to realize how much he still wanted her. She had tied her hair up with a black ribbon and loose red-gold tendrils curled around her ears. She was wearing the white stretchy top thing that Claudia had given her for Christmas and which, confusingly, appeared to be called a body. Caspar didn't care what it was called, he just liked the way the wide neckline curved, ballerina-style, around Poppy's slender shoulders, leaving the back of her neck bare.

Caspar realized he was fed up with trying to think of Poppy as just one of the lads. It wasn't working and it was as frustrating as hell.

It wasn't a sudden decision. He'd been exerting heroic self-control for weeks. Well, now it was Christmas night and what better time could there be to make his long-awaited move?

Reaching out, Caspar briefly touched the nape of Poppy's neck. His fingers rested against the sensitive ridge of bone where her spine began.

‘Ooh, lovely.' Poppy squirmed with delight. ‘Scratch my back.'

It wasn't quite the promising start he'd hoped to make. Every time Caspar tried to slow down to sensual-massage speed, Poppy shouted unromantically, ‘Up a bit, left a bit—no, no,
much
harder than that!'

‘Isn't it amazing,' she puffed minutes later, ‘how just when you think you've got one itch sorted out, another three pop up out of nowhere. They must breed like rabbits.'

Lucky old itches. Caspar, unused to having to plan his next move—or, worse still, wondering if it would actually work—shifted a few inches further along the sofa. Now he was in line with Poppy's head. Surely, if he kissed the back of her neck, she'd begin to get the message?

Or would he be better turning her slowly round to face him? Then he could lean forward and kiss her on the mouth?

Damn, some things simply weren't meant to be plotted in advance… and seduction strategy was one of them.

‘Poppy.'

‘No, I won't.'

Talk about flat-out rejection. Startled, Caspar said, ‘Won't what?'

‘Make the tea. It isn't my turn.'

‘Oh.' He took a deep breath. As well as the white stretchy top thing, she was wearing the perfume Dina had given her for Christmas, an amazingly restrained scent considering who had chosen it.

‘Yes, thanks, great,' prompted Poppy when he didn't move. ‘I'd love a cup.'

Caspar breathed in again, inhaling the delicate peppery-flowery scent.

‘I don't want any tea.'

Poppy, enjoying herself, twisted round and grinned up at him.

‘I didn't ask you if you wanted any. I said I did.'

Right, thought Caspar, as nervous as any adolescent.
Now
. Go go go—

The phone rang, out in the hall.

‘Three to one it's Claudia reminding me to switch her electric blanket on,' said Poppy, leaping to her feet. ‘Evens it's one of your devoted girlies. Are you in or out?'

Caspar rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

‘Definitely out.'

She came back looking somber.

‘It was Rita. I left a message on their machine yesterday. She's just got back from the hospital.'

‘Bad news?'

‘They don't know yet. Not for sure anyway.' Poppy sighed and sank down onto the sofa, absently pushing Caspar's legs out of the way. ‘They get the results of the exploratory op tomorrow. But the surgeon's already warned them not to get their hopes up.'

‘Poor you.' Caspar gave her knee a comforting pat. It was surprisingly easy, now seduction was off the agenda.

Poppy sighed. There was no point feeling sorry for herself.

‘Poor Rita.'

‘At least you found him. That's why you came to London, isn't it?'

‘Oh yes.' She nodded, then hesitated. ‘Well, that was the main reason…'

‘There was something else?' To cheer her up, Caspar gave her a nudge. ‘What, you really came here because you'd read that piece about me in the
Sunday Times
and you thought here was a man you had to get to know?'

A flicker of a smile. ‘Um…'

‘Go on, you can admit it. You saw the photos of me and went “Cor!” You knew you had to leave Bristol and come in search of Caspar Fr—'

‘I had to leave Bristol to escape the McBride lynch mob.' Poppy started to laugh. Since there was nothing she could do about Alex, she was grateful for the distraction. Especially today.

Maybe making her laugh was the answer.

Caspar said, ‘No, no, that wasn't it. You realized life would have no meaning until you met me. Don't you see?' He looked triumphant. ‘This explains why you've never been able to summon up any interest in anyone else. It explains your ice-block. You've been crazy about me all along.'

Poppy blew him a kiss.

‘I'd be even crazier about you if you made me that cup of tea.'

‘There.' Back from the kitchen several minutes later, Caspar handed Poppy her mug. ‘Talk about a one-track mind. There is more to life, you know, than tea tea tea.'

‘Okay, if it'll stop you making fun of me, I'll tell you the whole story,' said Poppy. ‘The real reason why I have such an abnormal lack of interest in men.' She gave him a warning look. ‘And don't you dare laugh.'

‘Me? Laugh? Why would I laugh?'

‘Because it sounds too dopey for words,' said Poppy. She clutched her mug of tea in both hands and began to explain about Tom.

‘Good grief,' said Caspar when she had finished. ‘I thought it was just a case of cold feet. Why did you never tell us before?'

‘Like I said, it sounds stupid.' Poppy bit one of her fingernails. ‘And I thought it would have worn off by now. The thing is, it hasn't. I only have to accidentally
think
about Tom and my stomach goes all squirmy. I can't help it, I've never felt like this about anyone before. It's starting to make me nervous. I mean, what if this feeling never goes away?'

‘Would it help,' said Caspar, ‘if I told you he was probably married with three kids and a Volvo?'

‘He isn't. I just know he isn't.'

They were employing different tenses, Caspar noticed.

‘Was he good-looking?'

‘Of course.'

Caspar experienced a stab of jealousy. ‘What, better than me?'

Poppy smiled. He sounded so shocked.

‘Oh, heaps better,' she teased.

‘In that case, he's bound to be a shit.'

‘Oh well, you'd know.'

‘The thing is,' Caspar said vigorously, ‘you have to be practical about this. How long
can
you go on pining for this Mr Wonderful? I mean, let's face it. This is London. You're not going to bump into him walking down the street.'

Caspar stayed up long after Poppy had gone to bed. One way and another it had been an eventful evening. He understood a lot more now. The bad news was, it had made him want Poppy more than ever. Finding himself in competition with the absent Tom had only increased his interest. And to think that Poppy should have seen him in the petrol station only the other week…

I must have been standing right next to him, thought Caspar, trying to imagine what might have happened if Poppy had been able to get out of the car. No wonder she hadn't said much afterwards, as he had driven her to St Clare's.

But if she
had
told him then, he might have been able to help. Poppy had forgotten that all garages employ surveillance cameras. Caspar couldn't help thinking that a small bribe might have secured them a re-run of the video tape. Then all he would have needed to do was persuade a policeman friend of his to check out the car's registration number.

It was too late now. The video tape would be wiped over.

Caspar tried to decide if this was good news as far as he was concerned or bad.

Poppy called round to see Alex when he had been out of hospital for a week. She was alarmed by how much older he looked—and he wasn't the only one. It was the first time she had seen Rita in daylight and without make-up.

Now the initial shock was over, they were being determinedly cheerful.

‘Look at the state of us,' Alex mocked, squeezing Rita's hand as she bent over him to straighten his pillows. ‘Couple of leftovers from Halloween. Can't see anyone wanting to paint us in the altogether, eh love?'

‘You'd be surprised.' With a start of recognition, Poppy realized for the first time that one side of his mouth curled differently from the other. Hers did that sometimes, too. ‘They like old models; they're partial to a few lines and wrinkles.'

Rita groaned. ‘Blimey, you know how to cheer a girl up.'

‘I do my best,' said Poppy. She looked at Alex. ‘So what's happening? How do you really feel?'

‘Like I've been kicked down the Mile End Road and back.' He managed a dry smile. ‘But this is nothing, apparently. Once I get started on the chemo, I'll really know the meaning of hell on wheels.'

‘We're bracing ourselves for the worst,' Rita put in. ‘That way, anything half bearable's a bonus. So people keep telling us anyway.'

I'm not going to cry, Poppy told herself. She turned and stared very hard out of the bedroom window. The sun was shining, the sky was an optimistic shade of blue. Frost gleamed on the broad stretch of lawn below. She still didn't know how Alex and Rita had come by such a home, but what did that matter now? What good was all their dubiously-acquired money when all Alex wanted was a body not riddled with cancer?

She didn't stay long. Alex was clearly worn out.

‘Thanks, love, for coming.' He nodded to show he meant it. ‘A lot of people have steered well clear. It's all right turning up for the parties, drinking my drink, and having a blow-out, but when it comes to something like this, you don't see 'em for dust.' He coughed and laughed. ‘Too scared we might start talking funerals.'

‘They're afraid of saying the wrong thing,' said Poppy.

‘Like mentioning the d-word. In case it hasn't occurred to us that I might kick the bucket.' Alex patted her hand. ‘Anyway, you came. Bless you for that. And it's nice for Rita… does her good to see someone she can have a bit of a chat with.'

Not wanting to tire him too much, Poppy rose to leave. She pulled a newspaper-wrapped parcel out of the Sainsbury's carrier bag at her feet.

‘I brought you something. I spotted it in an auction the other day. Thought you might like it to keep the other one company.'

Alex unwrapped the spirit bottle and gazed at it in silence for several seconds. Wintry sunlight reflected off the royal blue glass as he turned it slowly in his hands.

‘Blimey, talk about coincidence,' Rita exclaimed. ‘You always said it was one of a pair, didn't you, love?'

‘Which auction room?' asked Alex.

‘Oh… um… Lassiter's.' Poppy began to feel frightened. Had she gone too far this time? ‘They do look like a pair, I know, but I expect there were hundreds made. Thousands, even. I mean,' she added hastily, ‘it'd be a bit daft, wouldn't it, to only make two?'

‘Oh well, never mind.' Alex shrugged; he was no expert. He smoothed the curved side of the bottle with an unsteady forefinger. ‘I reckon they belong together now. If you ask me, they make a pretty good pair.'