Part 27 (1/2)

A great weariness came over her, a weariness that had nothing to do with the dawn hour and everything to do with the fact she was sick of pretending, sick of having to act as if she was indifferent to Luke when just standing next to him she was aware of her body tingling and the fact that she was wearing boring black M&S knickers.

'What do you think of your wife's new column?' she said, desperate to steer the conversation in a different direction.

'Sorry?'

'You know, in Wicked Wicked magazine.' magazine.'

'What column?'

'Oh. I guess you haven't seen it. You were in Guatemala. It's nothing,' Thea said hastily. 'Ask Poppy about it.'

He turned to look at her. 'I don't ask Poppy about anything any more. Our marriage is a farce, Thea. The worst mistake of my life.'

She gulped.

'I've really missed you, you know,' Luke said softly, taking her face in his hands.

'I...' she said, looking up at him. Her body felt as if it had been turned inside out and her ears buzzed with deafness. A voice just behind her broke through the static.

'Minnie Maltravers is the hor-se's a.r.s.e!'

They jumped away from each other as if goaded by electric prods.

'She's the meanest! She sucks the horse's p.e.n.i.s.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, George. You gave us a shock.' Luke was quite red in the face.

'Her left t.i.t hangs down to her belly,' George warbled to the tune of 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean'. 'Her right t.i.t lies down to her knee.'

'George,' Thea said firmly, 'perhaps you should cool it.'

'If her left t.i.t did equal her right t.i.t, she'd get lots of weenie from me.' He slumped on an iron chair, wiping away tears of mirth.

Thea and Luke looked at each other. They smiled.

'It is is just like old times,' Luke said. just like old times,' Luke said.

Then, as if in slow motion, he leant towards her, put his hand on her arm and whispered in her ear, 'Things might be quieter back in my room.'

35.

Without Brigita, Sat.u.r.days were the day Poppy dedicated to ch.o.r.es like the shopping. She strapped Clara in the buggy and set off to Tesco's, stopping at the cash machine outside to extract the enormous wodge of cash she needed to pay Brigita at the end of every day. Briefly, she thought of Luke, probably in Scotland now, cosying up to Minnie. When he'd called to say that was his next port of call, Poppy realized her heart had acquired some kind of double glazing. The sadness that hit her was a niggly draught rather than the freezing-cold blast she'd endured for so long.

Pondering on this, she took Luke's card out of her wallet when a thought struck her. She put it back and took out her HSBC card which she hadn't used since she had moved in with Luke. The bank had sent her a new card recently, but it was as yet unused. What was the point when Poppy knew her old account contained 19.11? But that should have changed. She slipped it in, keyed in her PIN and clicked on 'balance'.

There is 419.11 in your account All right, it wasn't exactly enough to retire on. But next week, with her pay rise, there would be 1,019.11. Then 1,519.11. Then... Poppy wasn't very good at maths, but she got the point. Having been totally reliant on Luke she now had a little something of her own. She felt light-headed as if she'd jumped out of a steamy bath.

'Mummeee, come on.'

'OK, darling.'

She pushed the buggy round Tesco's, realizing, too late, she'd forgotten her list. Now, what was it Brigita had wanted her to buy? Ready Brek for Clara, tick. Organic frozen peas, tick. Potatoes, tick. Brigita was a great one for making trains out of mashed potato and diced vegetables, meals that even Gordon Ramsay might have found a bit of a ha.s.sle, but which Clara adored.

'Mummee?'

'Yes, darling?' Poppy stopped at the magazine rack. Daisy McNeil was on the cover of b.l.o.o.d.y Elle. Elle. And where was And where was Wicked? Wicked? Down at the bottom where no one taller than Clara was going to see it. Glancing over her shoulder, she picked up the three copies and lined them up on the top shelf. She stood back, admiring her handiwork. Maybe she'd go into Martin's next door and do the same and then in the afternoon she could go down to WH Smith's at Paddington... Down at the bottom where no one taller than Clara was going to see it. Glancing over her shoulder, she picked up the three copies and lined them up on the top shelf. She stood back, admiring her handiwork. Maybe she'd go into Martin's next door and do the same and then in the afternoon she could go down to WH Smith's at Paddington...

'Mummeee? Need to do a wee.'

'Oh. Hang on a minute, schnooks. I'll just get you out of here.' Rapidly, she headed towards the checkout, when a voice said: 'h.e.l.lo!'

'Oh, h.e.l.lo.' It was the unfriendly mum she'd last b.u.mped into that bleak January day when she'd felt so low.

'How are you?' said the mum, sounding distinctly warmer than last time.

'I'm fine.'

Her child had snot running down his face in thick rivulets. Poppy looked at him disdainfully. Why were other people's children never anywhere near as gorgeous as one's own?

'I saw you in Wicked Wicked last week. How... well, how wicked.' The woman laughed. 'I mean, not that I buy it or anything, but I picked it up at the hairdressers and I thought: ”I last week. How... well, how wicked.' The woman laughed. 'I mean, not that I buy it or anything, but I picked it up at the hairdressers and I thought: ”I know know that woman.” What fun. Have you been doing it for long?' that woman.” What fun. Have you been doing it for long?'

'Yeah, a while now,' Poppy said airily.

'I had no idea.' She had terrible split ends. They always said no one over forty should even dream of having long hair. 'Listen, I was hoping I'd see you around,' she continued. 'Some of us local mums have coffee every Thursday at eleven at Starbucks. If you'd like to join us.'

'Sorry,' Poppy said. 'I work work on Thursdays.' on Thursdays.'

'Mummeee!' came a very distressed wail.

Poppy looked at Tesco's newly mopped floor marred by a small yellow puddle. 'Oh, Clara,' she exclaimed, 'never mind. Let's get you home quickly, shall we? Bye, nice to see you,' she added airily over her shoulder and outside resisted the temptation to punch the air like a contestant in some TV reality show.

Back home, Clara refused to touch her spaghetti Bolognese.

'But it's your favourite!' Poppy exclaimed, horrified that the old dependable had fallen out of fas.h.i.+on as brutally as last season's vogue for acid yellows.

'No like.' Clara pushed her bowl away.

'Come on, darling. Just a little bite. Have one for Daddy.'

'Where is Daddy?'

'He's in Scotland with a famous lady.'

'What's Scotland?'

'It's a country far away. OK. One for Daddy. Good girl. One for Granny Louise.' Poppy's phone rang. She was too busy flying the spoon, like an aeroplane, into Clara's mouth to look at the caller ID.