Part 20 (1/2)

Even though her limbs ached with tiredness, it was a long time before Poppy went back to sleep. She wondered why she was getting so excited about Toby. She was a married woman, other men shouldn't make her pulse flutter. But Luke was away so much and she was so bored, so often. What was the harm in a little flirtation? It didn't mean anything, it wasn't going to lead anywhere. It was just a welcome reminder that Poppy was still young, that she hadn't been buried alive.

The Other Woman As the Home Secretary introduces his new lady friend to the world before the ink is dry on his divorce papers, columnist Hannah Creighton asks: What exactly do we call women who steal husbands?

A couple of years ago I had what I now see to be the great fortune of losing my husband, the Seven Thirty News's Seven Thirty News's anchorman, Luke Norton, 52, to a 22-year-old model. Initially, of course, I was somewhat put out by this unbelievable manifestation of a midlife crisis. anchorman, Luke Norton, 52, to a 22-year-old model. Initially, of course, I was somewhat put out by this unbelievable manifestation of a midlife crisis.

I didn't understand why Luke couldn't have just got an earring and a Harley, instead of impregnating a girl young enough to be his daughter. However, I got over it, not least by writing a weekly newspaper column (soon to be turned into a book) in which I charted the disintegration of my rotten marriage and the beginning of a new and happy life.

One thing, however, is asked of me constantly why do I never name the woman who stole my husband? The answer is, why should I? In an era when children want to be famous in the same way they used to want to be train drivers or nurses why should she she get her name in print? So the question, initially, was what to call her? I racked my brains for a suitable epithet. My solicitor called her the correspondent, but that was far too bland for me. 'Mistress' suggests a lady in a negligee and fluffy mules being kept in a tiny, chintzy flat in Earl's Court, which bestowed an air of glamour on the little girl, as did another brief nickname Cruella. get her name in print? So the question, initially, was what to call her? I racked my brains for a suitable epithet. My solicitor called her the correspondent, but that was far too bland for me. 'Mistress' suggests a lady in a negligee and fluffy mules being kept in a tiny, chintzy flat in Earl's Court, which bestowed an air of glamour on the little girl, as did another brief nickname Cruella.

I considered the Black Hole because any woman who could so flippantly catapult a family's future into cybers.p.a.ce with the ping of a bra strap must have been brought up in a vacuum devoid of morality and decency, but there was something faintly gynaecological about the phrase.

So I turned to my trusty Roget's Thesaurus Roget's Thesaurus, where I took my choice from the following: debauchee, doxy, easy lay, floozy, harlot, hussy, Jezebel, loose woman, slattern, s.l.u.t, strumpet, tart, tramp, trollop, wench, wh.o.r.e. All of which had a beautiful d.i.c.kensian ring to them. But my favourite epithet was the one that came first in this alphabetical list: bimbo! When I looked up its exact definition I found: a young woman indulged by a rich and powerful older man. What better way to describe Luke's brainless piece of fluff ?

Rechristening the woman who broke up your marriage is very healing, not least because it irritates the h.e.l.l out of your ex-husband. 'How's the bimbo getting along?' I say when I am obliged to discuss the children on the phone with him. As he replies in pained tones, some of the agony I have gone through is briefly numbed. I've also been known to share the odd blonde joke with him. For example: 'What do you call a blonde with two brain cells?' 'Pregnant.'

There's something very therapeutic about p.r.o.nouncing the word bimbo. Who needs Prozac when you can juggle those two syllables on the tip of your tongue before spitting them out? It can be said in rage, which somehow helps douse the fury that at times still threatens to overwhelm me. Or it can be trilled out in a way that makes your long-suffering friends snort with laughter. And laughter, I learnt, was one of the keys to leading me out of this sorry situation and into happier times.

27.

Time, which had pa.s.sed so slowly for so long for Poppy, suddenly started flas.h.i.+ng by, like a landscape seen from the window of an accelerating train. On Monday, she went to the launch of a new Janis Lyons perfume where she didn't see Toby, but she and Meena got tiddly on bellinis and left with several goodie bags (Meena grabbed an armful when the cloakroom attendant momentarily turned her back) containing a scented candle, a silver paperweight, a bottle of Janis Lyons perfume and a bar of organic dark chocolate.

The next night she was dead to the world by ten. The night after she went to a party at an art gallery in Mayfair, where she didn't see Toby again, but she did spot Tracey Emin, Brian who'd won Big Brother Big Brother aeons ago, Prince Harry's new girlfriend ('b.i.t.c.h,' Meena said. 'What's she got that I haven't?') and Marco Jensen and his girlfriend, Stephanie, having a spat at check-in because he refused to put her lipstick in his trouser pocket in case it 'ruined the line'. Luckily they didn't see her; Poppy would have not quite known what to say to them. Instead, she had a conversation with a man called Gus, who told her he was 'the calligrapher'. aeons ago, Prince Harry's new girlfriend ('b.i.t.c.h,' Meena said. 'What's she got that I haven't?') and Marco Jensen and his girlfriend, Stephanie, having a spat at check-in because he refused to put her lipstick in his trouser pocket in case it 'ruined the line'. Luckily they didn't see her; Poppy would have not quite known what to say to them. Instead, she had a conversation with a man called Gus, who told her he was 'the calligrapher'.

'The calligrapher? You mean calligrapher? You mean a a calligrapher?' calligrapher?'

'No.' Gus giggled. 'The calligrapher. For this party. There's an exclusive dinner after this for the most important guests and my job's to be at hand in case there are any last-minute calligrapher. For this party. There's an exclusive dinner after this for the most important guests and my job's to be at hand in case there are any last-minute placement placement changes.' changes.'

'Is this for real?'

Gus looked a bit put out. 'Of course it is,' he snapped. 'You wouldn't believe how many people are no-shows or turn up with their lover instead of their wife.' Unamused by Poppy's incredulous expression, he sniped, 'Excuse me, darling, but I must go and talk to Freddie Windsor.'

Briefly marooned, wondering how she'd managed to cause so much offence, Poppy picked up a gla.s.s from a pa.s.sing tray. She was relieved to see Charlie, the gossip columnist.

'Oh h.e.l.lo. You again.' He smiled as she hurried up to him.

'Hi!' Poppy didn't know why she was so pleased to see him, but she was. There was something rea.s.suring about Charlie. He was cosy and unintimidating like a tatty old dressing gown, though she thought better of telling him that.

'It never rains but it pours,' he continued. 'I've never seen you in my life and suddenly twice in one week.'

Poppy debated whether to tell him about the column, but decided against it. 'I've got a nanny,' she said. 'I'm able to go out more.'

Charlie smote his forehead in mock shock. 'h.e.l.l's bells, I knew you were married but I didn't know you had a child as well. Now I really do feel like Methuselah. When were you born? Don't tell me it was in the nineties.'

'No, the eighties.' Poppy giggled. 'Mid eighties.'

'The mid eighties. G.o.d, in the mid eighties I was...' Charlie trailed off. 'Well, I won't bore you. Nor will I tell you the decade I was born in. All you need know is electric light had only just been invented and the crinoline was considered the height of fas.h.i.+on. Would you like a drink by the way, sweetheart? a.s.suming it's legal for you to consume alcoholic beverages.'

'I'd love another gla.s.s of champagne.'

'One gla.s.s of champagne for the lady and one tonic water,' he said to the barman.

'Tonic water? Without gin or vodka?'

'I never drink,' Charlie said, accepting the gla.s.ses. 'Thank you so much.'

'Why not?'

Charlie smiled. 'Now that shows what an innocent you are, my dear. I don't drink because I'm an alcoholic.'

'But alcoholics are always p.i.s.sed, aren't they?'

'If I had half the chance I would be. But about the time you were born I almost killed myself from too much booze. And pills. And other nasty substances. I was living in the South of France and I ended up getting in some very nasty situations. Hurt a lot of people.' He grimaced faintly. 'Had to spend a year on and off in a drying-out clinic. It kind of put me off the booze.'

'But it must be so strange going to parties and not drinking.'

'It's interesting.' Charlie's eyes twinkled. 'You see the world in a completely different way from everyone else when you're sober. I feel a little bit out of things, but then it's my job to report on what's going on not to take part.'

'Are you married?' It was a rather nosy question but there was something so inviting about him, Poppy didn't think he'd mind if you asked him if he had terrible problems with flatulence.

'Sadly not. Too wild for too long, then once I'd got my act together all the good girls had been taken, and the younger models aren't interested because I'm not a banker or a lawyer.'

'But you're a lovely man. Women aren't all gold-diggers you know.' Poppy knew what she was talking about here.

'You'd be surprised. As soon as they've checked out my payslip, most of them are making their excuses and...' Charlie gulped down his tonic. 'On which note, sweetheart, sorry, but I've got to dash. Need to grab Gianluca Mazza. Cosmetic surgeon to the stars. He's always got some good gossip for me, though he keeps trying to laser my spider veins.'

Luke got back on Thursday morning, tired and grumpy. Apparently the hotel in Paris had been dreadful. 'Roxanne's insisting we can't stay anywhere that costs more than a hundred a night. It's ridiculous,' he moaned as he unpacked. 'We were practically in a bed and breakfast.'

'Oh poor you. But your reports were really good.'

'Yeah?' He brightened up. 'Do you think we did better than Sky?'

'Definitely.'

She thought about telling him about the column, but couldn't quite face it. Perhaps she'd just surprise him by showing him the finished object. After all, she'd been to the parties so there needed to be some kind of payback. Her phone rang.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Oh hi, Poppy. It's Mich.e.l.le Rembelthorpe. Calling as promised.'

Poppy glanced at Luke, flinging his dirty underwear into the laundry bin.

'Um, just a minute,' she said. 'I'll take this in the study.' She went into the little room with its view over the ca.n.a.l and closed the door. 'Right, I can talk better now.'

'So how's your week been?'

'Great,' Poppy said. 'I've been to three parties. I got you a Janis Lyons goodie bag.'