Perfect Timing (32 page)

Jake, arriving back from a house auction at four o'clock the following afternoon, found Poppy sitting with her bare feet tucked cozily under her on the bottle green velvet chaise longue he had sold that morning. She was curled over a folded-up copy of the
Evening Standard
, so absorbed in what she was reading she hadn't noticed the top fall off her felt-tip pen. Having clearly spent the last twenty minutes absentmindedly flicking the pen against her thigh, the leg of her white jeans was now crisscrossed with red ink.

Jake dumped a box of copper jelly molds on the floor.

‘These need cleaning. Have you finished pricing the cutlery?'

Poppy nodded.

‘Been busy?'

She shook her head.

Exasperated, Jake picked up a pile of glossy brochures. Poppy hadn't exactly been working her socks off in his absence, even if her feet were bare.

‘What are these doing here?'

At last she looked up. ‘Claudia came by earlier, dropped them off for you to have a look at.'

They were sales brochures for new cars. BMW. Mercedes. There was even—for heaven's sake—one from the Rolls Royce showroom in Mayfair.

Jake tipped the brochures into the bin.

‘Feet off that chaise. The buyer's picking it up at five.'

It's one hundred and fifty years old, thought Poppy. If it can survive that much action, I don't see what difference another hour of my feet can make.

But she swung her legs down, dumping the paper on top of the jewelry cabinet. Jake looked at the ads she had circled in red.

‘What's this? Flats and studios?' He raised his eyebrows at Poppy. ‘I thought you didn't want to move.'

‘That was then, this is now.' She shrugged and began listlessly unpacking the jelly molds. ‘I thought about what you said and decided you were right. I'd be better off living somewhere else.'

‘What happened to getting over it, like measles?'

‘It might not be measles,' said Poppy. ‘It might be something that goes on for years, like TB.' She took the paper back from him, tore out the page she'd been studying, and folded it, tucking it into her shirt pocket.

‘You could stay at my house,' Jake offered.

‘Claudia would love that. Fifty ways to irritate your lover.' Poppy's smile was dry. ‘It's okay, I'll be fine. There's a studio in Peckham that doesn't sound too bad. I'm going round to have a look at it after work.'

‘Go now,' said Jake, ‘if you want.'

‘No hurry. They aren't expecting me until six.' She opened the cupboard, took out a couple of cloths and a tin of Brasso. ‘I'll do these first.' Spotting the brochures sticking out of the bin she said, ‘Aren't you interested? From the sound of it, Claudia has her heart set on a Merc.'

Not looking amused, Jake said, ‘Claudia can take a running jump.'

Poppy was on her knees engrossed in an extra-vigorous bout of polishing when Caspar came through the glass doors.

Jake said, ‘Caspar's here,' and the tin slipped out of Poppy's hand.

‘Oh fuck.' She let out a wail as escaped Brasso soaked into her jeans. From her position on the floor she glared defensively up at Caspar, who was wearing a blue and white rugby shirt and dark blue chinos. ‘What do
you
want?'

‘I can see why you employ her,' Caspar told Jake. ‘Cheerful, polite, eager to assist the customer—'

‘You aren't a customer.' Poppy gazed down in dismay at her now totally wrecked white jeans.

‘Yes I am.' Grinning, he waved his wallet. ‘I want to buy a ring, a big glittery one. Come on, Poppy, wipe that gunk off your hands and sell me something expensive.'

Poppy guessed it must be Babette's birthday. If past experience was anything to go by, it was probably her birthday today and Caspar had forgotten. Now he had to buy something fast. Guilt always made men spend more.

Jake sat pretending to read the BMW brochure while Caspar studied the trays of rings. To impress Jake, Poppy reeled off dates, carats, and settings. She described the way the stones had been cut and the meaning of the different hallmarks. What she didn't know, she made up.

‘This is completely riveting stuff,' drawled Caspar some time later, ‘but I'd rather know which one you like best.'

Poppy didn't see why; about the only thing she and Babette had in common was they both had periods.

But, to humor him, she pointed to a diamond gypsy ring, heavy, totally unfussy and worn smooth with age.

‘Okay. I like that one. But I really think Babette would prefer this.' Picking up a ravishing solitaire with rose diamond three-stone shoulders, she held it up to the light. ‘Look at the cut of those stones. You could send morse code signals across Kensington. Of course it costs fifteen hundred more—'

‘Try on the gypsy one,' said Caspar. ‘I want to see how it looks. No,' he ordered, ‘put it on the third finger.'

Poppy did as she was told. The ring was miles too big.

‘Bloody typical,' said Caspar. If this was a film with Meg Ryan in it, it would have fitted.

‘Doesn't matter.' Shifting from one bare foot to the other, wishing she didn't reek so overwhelmingly of Brasso, Poppy pointed towards the far end of the market. ‘Dennis, over there by the fire exit, does alterations. He can take it down a few sizes. You mustn't just guess, though,' she went on, remembering that Caspar was probably desperate to get the thing home. ‘Can you remember what size Babette's wedding ring was when you bought it?'

‘No. What size are you?'

‘Don't look at my hands,' Poppy said irritably. ‘Babette's fingers are fatter than mine.'

Caspar burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you bitch.'

‘I'm not being bitchy; I'm just stating a fact. She isn't going to be thrilled if she can't get the bloody ring
on
.'

He was still shaking with laughter.

‘Poppy, now listen. Do you love me?'

For a moment Poppy thought she must have misheard. How embarrassing, for a moment there, she thought he had said love.

Poppy's mind worked feverishly, struggling to figure out what he had actually said.

Try as she might, she was unable to come up with another word that sounded like love—glove? lug? nudge?—and still made sense.

Finally she said, ‘What?'

‘Do you?' Grinning, Caspar leaned across the counter towards her, his grey eyes searching her face. ‘The thing is, you see, rumor has it you do. But I don't always trust rumors. I prefer to hear things from…'

‘…the horse's mouth?' suggested Jake.

‘Thank you.' Gravely Caspar nodded. ‘I didn't quite have the nerve to say it myself. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, the rumor. Is it true?'

‘Ouch—no!' shouted Jake, clutching his naked face, but Poppy, fueled by adrenaline, was too fast for him. She snapped his expensive spectacles in two, tore the arms off for good measure and hurled the bits into the bin.

‘You snake! You complete lowlife,' she hissed at Jake. ‘I can't believe you told him!'

He looked indignant. ‘I didn't. I only told Claudia.'

‘And Claudia told me,' Caspar said cheerfully. ‘Come on, Poppy, I'm still waiting. Do you love me?'

Poppy's fists were bunched in anguish. She wanted to break a lot more than a pair of lousy glasses. And her face, her treacherous face, felt as if it was on
fire
…

‘Dammit, what kind of a question is that?' she howled at Caspar. ‘I'll tell you, it's the most stinking rotten bloody question I ever heard! You can't go around asking people things like that, for crying out loud! You're
married
.'

She was trying to make a bolt for it but Caspar had somehow managed to grab hold of both her hands.

Still smiling broadly he said, ‘No I'm not.'

It seemed safest, as Caspar drove her back to Cornwallis Crescent, to say nothing. Poppy closed her eyes and didn't open them until they reached the house. The smell of Brasso in the car was overwhelming.

When they were inside she bent down automatically to pick up the morning's post. The folded-up piece of newspaper slid out of her shirt pocket. Caspar picked it up, glanced at it and crumpled it into a ball.

‘You won't be needing that.'

‘This is bizarre,' said Poppy finally. ‘If you aren't married, why on earth did you say you were?'

He shrugged. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. You said I needed to sort myself out, to stop pratting around and settle down. You told me I should get married,' Caspar reminded her. ‘So I told you I had.'

‘But
why
?'

‘I realized I was crazy about you,' he said simply. ‘I also knew that as far as you were concerned I was the worst news since Hiroshima. The last person you'd
ever
be interested in was someone like me, with my abysmal track record.'

‘I still don't see—'

‘So I thought I'd give it a whirl, see what being married felt like. I wanted to find out if I could be happy with one person, turning down offers from other women instead of always thinking what the hell, go for it, why not?' Looking pleased with himself, Caspar added, ‘And I discovered I could. I actually enjoyed it. I was pretty bloody amazed, I can tell you. But it was great.'

‘If it's so great,' demanded Poppy, now experiencing a horrible mixture of confusion and jealousy, ‘why don't you marry Babette for real?'

‘I like her. A lot. But I don't love her.' Caspar half-smiled. ‘And before you say anything else, she doesn't love me either. She went along with the idea, got herself and her beloved company a ton of publicity… where was the harm?'

Poppy shook her head in bemusement; her insides felt so scrunched up she could hardly breathe.

‘So what happens now?'

‘I told her last night. She wished me good luck.' His mouth began to twitch. ‘Even though, personally, she'd far rather I got together with Claudia than you.'

Fat-fingered cow, thought Poppy. But what Caspar had been saying was beginning, finally, to sink in.

‘Look, do you mean this?' She spoke with a touch of belligerence. ‘Are you serious? Because I'm warning you, if this is some kind of joke—'

‘What, you'll break my glasses too? Really, Poppy, violence isn't the answer.'

He certainly picks his moments to get witty, thought Poppy. Aloud she said, ‘I'm not sure I even understand the question.'

‘Sorry, I don't appear to be making a great job of this.' No longer grinning, Caspar pushed his sunbleached hair away from his face. ‘I'm nervous too, okay? I've never told anyone I loved them before. This is scary stuff.'

‘It's supposed to be nice stuff.' Poppy was beginning to feel decidedly weak-kneed.

‘I know. But what if it doesn't work? We've been friends for almost a year.'

‘Maybe you should try kissing me first. See what that's like.' As she said the words, Poppy began to tremble. ‘Then, if it seems okay, we can carry on. If it's weird or awful… well, we'll just forget it.'

She was standing there waiting for him, but Caspar was making an unhappy discovery. He couldn't move. A lifetime of confidence had abruptly deserted him—now, when for the first time it really, truly mattered. It was ridiculous. Walking into the antiques market had been easy. Telling Poppy he wasn't married to Babette had been easy. But this… this…

This wasn't.

Watching Caspar, knowing him as well as she did, Poppy realized what was happening.

It's up to me, she thought, bracing herself against the fridge. If I don't do it we'll still be here at midnight.

The trouble was, her knees were feeling horribly unreliable.

‘You'll have to come here,' she told Caspar. ‘I can't walk.'

When he did, she slid her arms slowly around his waist. Holding her breath, feeling as if her lungs were about to burst, Poppy touched her mouth to his.

‘Okay so far?' She murmured the words against his lips, amazed she could even speak, what with all the firework effects zapping through her body. ‘If not, I can always stop—'

In reply, Caspar held her so tightly and kissed her for so long, neither of them heard the front door open and close.

‘Well,' gasped Poppy, her heart hammering like a road drill when they finally paused for breath, ‘how was it for you?'

She was grinning. Caspar, hopelessly aroused and wondering whether to carry her upstairs or just ravish her right here on the kitchen floor, bit her earlobe.

‘I suppose you'll never let me forget this. For the next fifty years, at every party we go to, you won't be able to resist telling people about the time I lost my bottle.'

‘You lost your bottle?' Poppy kissed him again, pressing her hips against him. Starting to laugh, she glanced down at the front of his trousers. ‘There, I've found it again. Gosh, it's a magnum.'

Caspar began undoing the buttons of her white cotton shirt.

‘I love you, even if you are a teasing bitch.'

‘I love you,' Poppy retaliated, ‘even if you did sleep with Angie Slade-Welch.'

‘I didn't.'

‘Yes you did.'

‘Bloody hell, I did
not
—'

‘We'll argue about that later. We can make a list of things to argue about. Right now, I'd far rather be doing something else.' Overwhelmed with lust, Poppy leaned back against the fridge and watched him unfasten the last couple of buttons. ‘Um… shouldn't we find somewhere a bit more private?'

Caspar smiled.

‘We have some serious catching up to do. I'm going to make love to you in every room in this house.'

As he began to kiss her again, Poppy glanced up at the clock on the wall.

‘Look, Claudia could be home at any minute. We don't want her to see us…'