Perfect Timing (22 page)

Upstairs, Dina slowly regained consciousness. She listened for several seconds, bemused by the fact that the breathing she could hear appeared to be in stereo.

She turned her head to the left. B.J. lay with his smooth brown back to her. His dark hair stuck up at angles. Each breath he took was deep and regular, almost but not quite a snore.

Dina turned to the right. Another back, paler than the first and bonier around the shoulders. This time the hair was sandy-blond, finely textured, and floppy like a child's.

Just to make sure, Dina levered herself up on one elbow. She peered over at the sleeping profile of Hans.

Blimey, thought Dina, don't remember that happening. She lay back down again and tried to rack her aching brains, in case it had. But the bedroom door was wide open, and Hans—another quick check revealed—was wearing trousers. He had most likely stumbled into the room in the small hours in search of something more comfortable to sleep on than a floor.

Dina wouldn't have minded a three-in-a-bed situation, but it would have been a shame not being able to remember it.

Reassured that she hadn't missed anything, and dealing with her hangover in the only sensible way, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

***

Tyler was something of a connoisseur when it came to bathrooms. He didn't know why, he certainly didn't do it on purpose, but every time he went to a party, he woke up the next morning on the bathroom floor. Carpet if you were lucky, lino if you weren't.

Student flats were the worst.

No, correction: all-male student flats were the worst.

But waking up in a bathroom had its advantages. You could relieve your bursting bladder, splash cold water over your face, and clean your teeth before anyone saw you and took fright. Tyler, who never went out on a Friday evening without a folding toothbrush in his back pocket, did all these things now. There, he felt better already, and the bathroom had been a positive pleasure to spend the night in. Thick carpet, he noted approvingly, a good quality bath towel that had rolled up to make a comfortable pillow, and plenty of expensive, girlie-smelling soap to wash with.

Tyler screwed the top carefully back on the toothpaste, replaced his folding toothbrush into its plastic case, and slid it into his back pocket.

Halfway along the landing on his way to the stairs he passed an open bedroom door. Inside, in a row like the three bears—except these were all in the same bed—lay B.J., Dina, and Hans.

They were all fast asleep. Hans had his arm around Dina, who in turn had her arm flung across B.J. B.J., stubbly-chinned and handsome, was snoring into his pillow like a train.

Tyler experienced a stab of envy. How did that lucky sod B.J. do it? How did chaps like him always manage to pull? Why did some blokes go through life effortlessly getting the girls while others spent their nights alone on the bathroom floor?

Still, that was B.J. for you. The man knew how to operate. Spotting a camera on the carpet beside the bed where it was likely to get trodden on, Tyler picked it up.

It was a good camera, an Olympus. Only one picture left before the film was used up. For Tyler, who was tidy by nature, it was as irresistible as the last window on an advent calendar.

He stepped back, took the photograph and rewound the film. He liked finishing things, rounding them off.

When the camera had stopped whirring he placed it on a chest of drawers where it couldn't get stepped on and went downstairs.

In the sitting room he found Neil talking to Poppy. From behind the sofa, Ken's feet stuck out.

‘There was me thinking I was the first one up,' Tyler grinned at Poppy. ‘And look at you, with your face done already.'

Poppy flew to the mirror over the fireplace. She clapped her hands in despair over her aubergine lips.

‘I don't believe this stuff,' she wailed. ‘It's still
on
.'

By Sunday night, Jake had taken fifteen calls on his mobile phone and was no longer feeling like a secret agent with a walkie-talkie. The novelty had soon worn off. He was an old hand at this now. A pro.

The phone calls had been a letdown though. Mostly they had come from men claiming to be Tom.

‘Yeah, mate, that's me. Met this bird down the disco, like your advert said. What's her name? Poppy, yeah… right, so I'm phoning you up, like you said. What do I get, like, a reward or something?'

Some made a better job of it than others, but all Jake needed to do was ask what color Poppy's hair had been to prove they weren't the Tom he was looking for. ‘Blonde,' most replied. ‘Brown,' said two. ‘She was so beautiful I didn't notice,' claimed one gallant soul.

‘Okay.' Jake gave him another chance, chiefly to relieve the boredom. ‘How did the two of you meet?'

‘We were standing next to each other at the bar. I tipped out a handful of ice cubes and crushed them with my bare fist. I turned to her and said, “Now that we've broken the ice…”'

None of them had been the right Tom. Jake was far more disappointed than he had imagined and impatient to try again. He began to compile a new list. Plan B. The same ad, but this time all the papers.

He wasn't going to give up now.

Dina was smitten with B.J.

‘Should you be doing this?' asked Poppy, as Dina punched out his number for the umpteenth time on Sunday afternoon.

‘Of course I should.'

Poppy was beginning to feel like an old record.

‘But what about Ben and Daniel?'

Dina heaved an impatient sigh. ‘That's different. They're in Bristol, I'm here. Look,' she struggled to explain, ‘B.J. and I just clicked. Really, we clicked. What happened on Friday wasn't a one night stand. There was more to it than that—Oh hi! Is B.J. there?'

He wasn't. Dina left yet another message for him to call her as soon as he got in, even though she had to leave in less than two hours.

‘That was his flatmate again,' she said casually when the message had been relayed.

‘Has it crossed your mind,' Poppy was exasperated, ‘that he might be avoiding you?'

‘I've already said, haven't I? It wasn't like that with us.'

Back in Bristol on Monday afternoon, Dina was unbelievably restless. She was twitchy, too hyped up to relax. Poppy, who had promised to phone as soon as B.J. got in touch, wouldn't even be home from work before six.

But it was only three o'clock now and Dina was beginning to wonder how she was going to last. Margaret McBride had already popped-round-for-coffee and proceeded to deliver a pointed lecture on young women who don't know when they're well off. Dina, bored rigid by her mother-in-law's barbed comments about duties and responsibilities and the importance of the family—very
EastEnders
—hadn't been able to get rid of her fast enough.

Daniel, who was teething, had hardly stopped screaming all day, getting right on her nerves.

Ben had too. Placid, easy-going Ben. All he had said to Dina about her weekend away was, ‘So long as you had a good time, love. That's all that matters.'

Dina wondered what she had to do to get a reaction out of Ben these days. If she told him what had actually happened to her in London on Friday night, would he even care?

By five o'clock, like a junkie no longer able to hold out for a fix, she fell on the phone and dialed B.J.'s number.

As it rang, Dina felt the fix begin to take effect. Even if he wasn't there, it didn't matter; she felt better already, just knowing she had made the phone ring in his flat.

On the fifth ring, magically, the call was answered. Thrilled, Dina felt her heart leap into her throat. Adrenaline hurtled through her body. Her hands were all slippery with sweat.

She opened her mouth to say, ‘Hi, it's me!'

But the voice at the other end continued. The laid-back drawl belonged to B.J. but his message was being relayed via an answering machine. Swallowing disappointment, Dina listened.

‘…afraid neither B.J. nor Adam are able to take your call right now, but if you'd like to leave a message, feel free after the tone…'

Right, thought Dina, her eyes bright and her pulse racing, that's what I'll do. Just leave a friendly message reminding him he hasn't called me back—

‘…unless, that is, you're the slag from Friday night,' B.J.'s voice went on, evidently amused. ‘Nina or Dina or whatever your name is. The little tart, anyway, who keeps pestering me to phone her. If that's you, we'd much prefer you to hang up now. And please don't bother calling this number again.'

Ben, home early from work, came in through the kitchen door and found Daniel alone, strapped into his stroller. He unbuckled him and lifted him out, throwing his son up into the air to make him giggle and swooping him from side to side like an aeroplane. Then, with his elbow, he nudged open the door separating the kitchen from the hallway and aeroplaned Daniel all the way through to the living room.

He found Dina sitting bolt upright on the sofa with tears streaming down her face. She was clutching the phone.

‘What is it, is someone ill? Is someone dead? Oh my God, not Mum—'

‘Nobody's dead.'

Dina wiped her wet face on her sleeve. She hadn't heard Ben arrive home. Damn and blast… that
bastard
B.J.

‘So why are you crying?'

I don't know, I can't think of a good reason, Dina thought wearily. She didn't know if she could even be bothered to come up with one.

Ben, still holding Daniel, stared down at her. ‘Tell me why.'

‘Bloody double-glazing people.' She found a tissue up her sleeve, the one she'd used earlier to wipe puréed rusk off Daniel's face. ‘Five calls in the last hour, from different firms, all trying to sell me bloody windows.' Dina mopped at her eyes with the baby formula–encrusted tissue. ‘I'm sorry, it just gets me down.'

‘Oh, love.'

Ben put Daniel down on the floor and placed an awkward arm around his wife. ‘You can't let double-glazing salesmen reduce you to this. Maybe you should see the doctor. You could be depressed.'

I am, I'm
bloody
depressed, thought Dina, beginning to howl again.

The house wasn't as much of a tip as Claudia had been expecting. When she arrived home, bronzed and glowing after six heavenly days in the Canaries, the place was actually clean. It was also empty. Poppy and Caspar must both be out. This was a big shame, because she was bursting to show off her glorious tan, but at least it meant she could lie in the bath, give her sun-bleached hair a hot oil treatment, and unpack in peace.

After her bath, feeling extremely efficient, Claudia emptied her suitcases and sorted her washing into whites and coloreds. She loaded the washing machine, chucked her espadrilles into the sink to soak, and lugged the empty cases upstairs. Since getting them back on top of the wardrobe was always a hazardous occupation—so much harder than getting them down—she left that task to Caspar. It was a job for a man.

Spotting Caspar's camera on her dressing table reminded Claudia that she had a film to be developed. What Caspar's Olympus was doing in her room was anyone's guess but that was Caspar for you; the other week she had found his sunglasses in the fridge. Caspar's film was used up too, Claudia noticed. He was so hopeless it would be months before he got round to doing anything about it. May as well take both rolls down to the chemist together, she thought a trifle smugly. Goodness, doing favors, I
must
be in a good mood…

***

She picked up both sets of prints two days later. Just to make sure they were Caspar's, Claudia flipped through the first few—taken at a friend's exhibition at some new gallery in Soho—and was soon bored. Modern art wasn't her scene. Shoveling the photos back into their envelope, she ran upstairs and drawing-pinned it to Caspar's attic door along with the rest of his mail, ready for when he arrived home. Claudia was far more interested in her own photos, the ones of her basking on the terrace by the hotel pool. She had been browner, blonder, and bosomier than Marilyn, and it hadn't escaped the hotel waiters' notice. She'd been whistled at nonstop.

Wait until Jake sees me looking like this, Claudia thought happily as she pored over the various pictures of herself, bikini-clad and positively oozing sex appeal. She was going to knock the unappreciative bugger's socks off.

Caspar had spent the first half of his holiday doing so much thinking it made his head ache.

Poppy was right; he knew that now. Keeping three girls on the go at one time was ridiculous. Disastrous. He might not be hurting himself, but he was certainly hurting them.

And why? Caspar hadn't a clue. It wasn't as if he even enjoyed the subterfuge.

It was all so pointless too. None of them was exactly the romance of the decade. He wasn't madly in love with any of them.

He thought he was probably in love with Poppy.

He wasn't sure about this, not completely. It was a pretty bizarre situation, Caspar felt. Could you actually
be
in love with someone you'd never even kissed?

Anyway, that hardly mattered; it was beside the point. Because Poppy had made it abundantly clear to him that he was just about the least fanciable man on the planet. In her view, any girls interested in him needed their empty heads examined. Or, as Poppy had rather cruelly put it, if their IQs were any lower, they'd need watering.

The situation Caspar found himself in wasn't an easy one. The time had come, he decided, to put some distance between himself and Poppy.

Over dinner on the fourth night of the holiday he spoke to Babette.

‘I've been thinking about what you said the other week.'

‘Oh yes?' Babette knew at once what he meant.

‘Have you ever wondered how it would feel, being married?'

They had parted on the chilliest of terms. Poppy, arriving home from work several days later, saw Caspar's car parked outside the house and felt a twinge of apprehension. She had never been one for holding a grudge or keeping a feud simmering. It wasn't in her nature. She hoped it wasn't in Caspar's either.

So how do I do this, she thought, loitering nervously at the foot of the steps. Burst into the house, give Caspar a big kiss, and say sorry?

Act as if nothing's happened?

Or wait and see how Caspar handles it and take it from there?

At that moment Claudia pulled up. As usual, she parked extremely badly and took an age doing it. Much squeaking of tire against pavement ensued.

‘Caspar's back,' Claudia exclaimed, having also spotted his car. Climbing out, she flashed a great deal of tanned leg. ‘Come on, let's see what he's been up to. I'll kill him if his tan's better than mine.'

Poppy felt very much the poor relation. Claudia was brown but Caspar was browner still. And—something she hadn't been expecting—Babette was with him, all dark-haired and glossy and expensive-looking like something out of
Vogue
. She was wearing a long silk jersey dress the color of peanut butter and a modest smile. Caspar, in a dark blue tee-shirt and battered jeans, poured Bollinger into four unmatched glasses.

He handed one to Claudia.

‘What are we celebrating,' she giggled, ‘how glad you are to be back?'

Caspar passed the second glass across to Poppy, who was perched nervously on the arm of the sofa.

‘Not exactly.' He was speaking to Claudia but his gaze was fixed on Poppy. ‘I was given some advice a little while ago. You'll be amazed to hear I took it.'

Poppy glanced across at Babette, who was sitting there looking charming. This was the girl who had told her in no uncertain terms how plain she was. Presumably, this meant Caspar had finished with Kate and Jules.

Caspar handed the third glass to Babette.

‘And there we were, thinking you'd missed us like mad,' Claudia chirruped. ‘We thought you couldn't wait to get home.'

‘Actually,' said Caspar. ‘I'm moving out.'

Claudia did a double-take.

‘What do you mean?' she said finally. ‘How can you move out? This is your home. You live here.'

‘Like I said, I was given some advice and I took it.' Caspar couldn't help turning to look at Poppy again. ‘And no,' he said coolly, ‘I didn't go eeny meeny miney mo.'

Poppy felt sick.

‘What are you
talking
about?' protested Claudia.

‘I can't stand the suspense a moment longer.' Babette smiled and held up her left hand. ‘We got married.'

Poppy drank her drink without noticing. She couldn't believe Caspar had done something so stupid. She couldn't believe he was putting the blame for his whim on
her
.

‘…honestly, Antigua's just so beautiful, such a romantic place,' Babette chattered on, addressing Claudia rather than Poppy because Claudia was so obviously agog. ‘The scenery is out of this world. Of course, that's why so many people are getting married out there nowadays. I mean, be honest, where would you rather exchange your vows? On a glorious beach with the sea lapping at your toes and tropical flowers in your hair or in some musty old register office?'

‘Oh well, goes without saying,' agreed Claudia, who would happily have exchanged her vows in a snake pit up to her neck in anacondas. Anywhere, so long as she got married.

‘This wasn't planned in advance, you see. We were simply strolling along the beach one morning, and we happened to pass a wedding ceremony in progress.' Babette dimpled and glanced across at Caspar, sharing the moment. ‘Well, I'd love to be able to say he dropped down on one knee and proposed, but—'

‘But I didn't.'

Confidingly, Babette told Claudia, ‘He's not really the dropping down on one knee type. But he asked me to marry him and I said yes. So we made our way back to the hotel and spoke to the manager. He's an old hand at this kind of thing… he arranged everything.' Babette shrugged and spread her hands, the narrow gold ring on her third finger catching the light. ‘Three days later it was our turn! What can I say? It was utterly magical. The most perfect day of my life.'

‘It sounds amazing,' sighed Claudia. ‘What did you wear?'

‘A Liza Bruce swimsuit and an island sarong.' Babette reached for her bag and drew out an envelope. ‘I'm sure the only reason Caspar went through with it was because he could wear his cut-off jeans. Here, have a look at the photos. See that confetti? Fresh flower petals. And this is the minister who performed the service.'

‘Congratulations,' said Poppy, when Caspar had finished refilling her glass. It wasn't true; she simply couldn't think of anything else to say. Apart from bugger.

‘All thanks to you.' He gave her a measured look. ‘It was your idea.'

There was definitely no answer to that. Poppy bit the corner of her mouth. She tried to imagine stamping her foot and yelling, ‘Okay, I know it was my idea but I didn't
mean
it.'

Caspar said dryly, ‘And there was me thinking you'd approve.'

Poppy, all of a sudden dangerously close to tears, changed the subject.

‘You still haven't explained why you're moving out. Isn't that a bit stupid? Claudia and I are the ones who should be doing that.'

‘Doesn't seem fair, turfing you out.' Caspar shrugged, unconcerned. ‘And Babs doesn't want to move. Her flat's her business base. It's easier for me to move in with her.'

Babette's flat, Poppy dimly recalled, was in Soho.

‘What about your painting?'

‘We'll be living together at the flat. I'll still have to come here to paint. If that's okay with you,' he added with a cool smile.

Poppy didn't smile back. She wanted to hit him. She still couldn't believe he had actually gone and got married.

‘Poppy, you aren't looking.' Claudia passed the first handful of photographs across. Numbly, Poppy took them. Caspar and Babette, on the beach, grinned up at her. Their arms were around each other. The minister who had performed the ceremony beamed for the camera. In the second photograph, two small girls in white dresses and flower garland headdresses stood proudly on either side of them.

‘Our bridesmaids,' said Babette, leaning across to see which one she was looking at. ‘They're the hotel manager's daughters… aren't they simply angelic?'

Poppy turned to the next picture, taken in the hotel's beachfront bar. Caspar was kissing Babette on the mouth. Around them, a crowd of fellow holidaymakers clapped and cheered them on.

Jealousy, like bile, rose in Poppy's throat.

‘Our wedding reception,' Babette explained smugly. ‘Goodness, that was a party and a half. We drank some booze, I can tell you. Isn't it amazing, how a happy event brings people together? At breakfast we didn't know this crowd from Adam, and by nightfall we were practically best friends.'

‘Talking of parties,' said Caspar, ‘have we missed any good ones? What have you been getting up to while we've been away?'

Patronizing bastard. Poppy handed the photographs back to Babette.

‘Nothing. No parties.' She stood up. ‘Actually, I think I'll have a bath.'

Claudia and Babette were wittering happily away to each other like new best friends. Caspar left them to it. As he went upstairs, he passed the bathroom. The door was shut. Inside, hot water was running, and Bruce Springsteen was belting out ‘Born to Run.' For once, Poppy wasn't singing along to the tape.

He wondered if what he had done was the right thing. Poppy had looked quite shaken when he and Babette had broken their news.

For the first time, Caspar experienced a twinge of doubt.

When he reached the studio, the door was festooned with messages and post. Caspar unpinned a dozen or so envelopes and a folder of photographs, and opened the door. The brown bills he didn't bother to look at. He skimmed through the more interesting envelopes—invitations to exhibitions and parties—then opened the folder. The first fifteen or so photographs had been taken at the Edison gallery. Not exactly riveting stuff.

Then he came to one of Poppy, though for a couple of seconds he wondered if it was really her.

Feeling odd, Caspar flipped through the rest of the photographs.

Looking as he had never seen her look before, Poppy was hoisted Gladiator-style onto the shoulders of some bloke. Her hair was wild, her eyes heavily made up. Her mouth was plastered with dark red lipstick. She looked like something out of the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
and she was laughing uproariously, clearly having the time of her life.

In
my house
, thought Caspar, realizing that the picture had been taken in the sitting room.

The rest of the photographs revealed more. Poppy and Dina, dancing with two men he didn't know. A couple of blonde girls kissing a dark-haired chap with a tea towel on his head and a bottle of vodka in each hand. Poppy again, in a wheelbarrow race around the sofa, flashing her knickers into the bargain. Dina, caught unawares, snogging in the kitchen with some muscle-bound hulk. And another one of Poppy lying on the floor shrieking with laughter as a blond guy in a torn tee-shirt tickled the soles of her bare feet.

The last photograph, taken in Claudia's bedroom, was of Dina fast asleep in Claudia's bed, flanked on one side by Mr Muscle and on the other by the blond guy. At the foot of the bed lay a tangled heap of clothes and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

So this was Poppy's idea of a quiet time. Caspar flipped through the relevant photographs again. By a process of elimination, he worked out who must have shared Poppy's bed; either
him
or
him
. Or maybe they both had. Her bed was only a single, but would that have stopped them? Bitterly, he thought, they could have taken it in turns.

Caspar realized he couldn't look at the photographs anymore. He shoveled them back into the envelope, wondering if Poppy had used his camera on purpose to make her point. He also wondered if Claudia knew what Dina had been getting up to in her bed.