Poppy Day (33 page)

Max Holman stood out from the crowd. He wasn’t doing anything to stand out particularly, but because Poppy knew him, recognised his face among the sea of strangers, he seemed to be bigger and clearer to her than anyone else in the room. His eyes were wide and bright, his expression one of real
excitement
. Poppy thought it was because he knew her, that maybe he was pleased that with so much competition in the room, he had a route in. He was clearly confident that he was going to get his question answered over and above every other journalist because he knew Miles, he had shared a bus with her and he knew what she had been through. Poppy didn’t know just how much he knew about what she had been through.

‘Yes, Max?’ She felt assertive in asking the question.

‘Hi, Poppy,’ he smiled as if greeting an old friend.

Poppy was pleased to see him. ‘Hi, Max.’

He continued to smile as he spoke, ‘Your story is a
remarkable
one—’

‘Thank you!’ she interrupted him; some of the assembled crowd laughed.

‘—but it wasn’t without a price, was it, Poppy?’

Her voice faltered slightly as she started to lose the thread of what he was saying. ‘Sorry, I…?’

‘What did you have to do to get Martin back, Poppy? It is incredible and unbelievable in its truest sense that you simply waltzed into the house of a ruthless warlord and demanded that he give you your husband back. And he did, just like that, because you asked him to? Do you expect us to believe that he rolled over like a puppy and gave you what you asked for without compromise or bargain? It doesn’t wash, Poppy. So I ask you again, what really happened? What did you do? What did you have to do to get your husband released?’

Zelgai’s form swam before her eyes. She heard his words with absolute clarity just as he had spoken them, ‘Why do you think that I will listen to you? Why do you think that I will do anything to help someone like you? Why do you think that you can come before me in my own country and make any demand at all?’

Max had spat the words from his mouth, almost a snigger. Of course, it wasn’t Poppy he was having a go at. He was trying to get at Miles, Miles the award-winning journalist, the superior journalist, superior man. Did he think there was more to their relationship than there was? Did he not know that she loved her husband? Had her actions not proved that point?

Poppy felt as if the room had lost its air. She couldn’t breathe properly, feeling every pair of eyes in the room on her, the
collective
breath of all present was held, awaiting her answer. She felt her skin blush crimson. Despite being hot, the sweat was cold against her skin. She could feel the brush of a beard against her neck, the rake of manicured nails against her arm, the whisper of unfamiliar breath as it tainted the air around her mouth. She thought she was going to pass out.

The next thing she heard was her husband’s voice; which echoed slightly, ‘Enough!’

When she awoke, she was in the back of a car.

Martin had listened to the stuck-up prick taunting his wife. ‘What he…? He just let your husband go, did he? Just like that?’ It was like listening to the major all over again, as if she had been lying. He felt his fists bunching in readiness when he looked at Poppy and could see that she was going to faint.

The colonel and he more or less carried her to the car that had been organised to take them to the hotel in London. Martin sat in the back with Poppy next to him. His ribs throbbed in pain, but it was a discomfort he could happily tolerate; he was glad to finally be heading back to his home town. Home, finally.

When Poppy came round in the car; she found herself in a big, flash motor with leather seats and a chauffeur. Her head was on Mart’s shoulder, he was stroking her hair. It was one of the first times they had been alone since his release. The driver was preoccupied with the M4, meaning they could talk without being overheard by Anthony Dickhead Parrot Helm, Colonel Blakemore, a guard, a chaperone, one of a million journalists, or someone wanting to wish them well. It felt lovely to be with her man, but she was agitated, nervous.

Her mind was racing. She didn’t know how Max Holman knew, she wasn’t sure what he knew, but he sure as hell knew something. Maybe he, too, was in contact with the real Nina Folkstok. The way he had looked at her, his mouth set in a sneer; it made her feel sick, afraid and dirty all over again. ‘I love you, Mart.’ She wanted to reassure him that she did and that no matter what she had done, it had all been because she loved him.

There was something in her tone that got Martin thinking. It was reminiscent of the old bad news sandwiched between two bits of good to soften the blow. More relevant, it was the tactic employed by someone who wants to finish a relationship with you: ‘It’s me, not you, I will always love you, but I can’t do this any more…’ As if the fact that they love you and the fact that it’s not your fault makes it easier; it doesn’t. It would still make you feel really shit, not any less shit.

Martin knew Poppy so well, knew her every mood and expression, that he caught the same tremor in her voice that he would expect to hear in those exact circumstances. His heart constricted when she said, ‘I love you, Mart.’ He almost expected, ‘but…’ to be her next word. It ripped his heart open, the thought; the very idea of her saying those words to him was enough to induce panic, especially now when his head was such a mess, when he needed her more than ever. He knew that to hear rejection from her lips would be, in its truest sense, to quote that other dickhead from the press conference, unbearable.

For Martin, the love of Poppy Day was like fuel, the thing that allowed him to wake up with a smile on his face and go to bed happy for nearly his whole life. No matter what the day threw at him, he had the love of Poppy to make everything better. It was a safety blanket that warmed and protected him; it was all he had and the one thing, the only thing, that made him special, made him someone.

Poppy never had a secret from Martin, never, not one. Having always known each other, there had never been
anything
to hide. He knew her back to front and inside out, as she did him. All the crappy things that had happened to Poppy as she was growing up, all the things that she carried around in her head, he knew it all because all those experiences were what made her into the person she was. He never laughed at her many foibles, like her obsession with sticking tiny scraps of soap together to get one more use out of them, rather than throwing them away. He knew she remembered not having soap and the idea of being unclean horrified her. That’s how they existed, without one single secret. Until now. She hated him not knowing what had happened to her. The facts sat in her stomach like heavy rocks that she hauled around all day, the facts that made eating and sleeping impossible. She hadn’t told him because she didn’t know if she had the courage to say those words to him, or to anyone; even the idea of it would send her to the loo to be sick. The idea of having to phrase it, say it out loud, to admit to it, would then make it true somehow.

She tried not to think about it, tried not to remember; it was easier that way and she hoped that one day she would forget enough to be able to move forward. The worst thing now was the idea that someone else knew and that ‘someone’ could easily tell Martin. He would find out those dreadful details from someone else and not her.

The car was driving along The Embankment in no time. It was lovely to be back in London, really lovely in the way that being in a familiar place after any time away is. Poppy looked at Martin, who was staring at the river and the buildings; he looked like a kid taking in the sights for the first time,
wide-eyed
and excited. She wanted to talk to him, really talk to him, but couldn’t find the right moment.

Poppy continued to rest, her head on his shoulder. He stroked her scalp, feeling her silky hair slip through his fingers. He always felt the most love for her when she was sleepy or asleep, leaning on him. He loved the feeling that he was
protecting
her and that she trusted him enough to fall into a deep sleep, knowing that he would be there, keeping watch. He thought that she looked small and vulnerable; he quite liked it.

They were getting closer to the hotel. Martin was looking forward to seeing their room and to having a kip, he was exhausted. Poppy looked up at him and she did it again. She wrinkled her nose and brow as though she had something to tell him, hesitating for the briefest second before she spoke, ‘I really love you.’

Martin knew then. He didn’t know what, but he knew that she had something to tell him. He also knew that it was
something
he really didn’t want to hear.

They walked into the hotel reception, both feeling horribly out of place, it was so posh. There was a red velvet board up behind the reception,
Tariff
was written across the top. Poppy couldn’t believe it; she had to squint to confirm the numbers. A double room was nearly five hundred quid a night! A night! There was a junior suite for six hundred quid. That was more or less their monthly outgoings, including rent, for one night.

‘Why would anyone pay that?’

Martin shrugged in response.

Yes, it was nice but six hundred quid a night nice? Poppy couldn’t get her head around it.

They were shown up to their room along a tiny striped
corridor
with striped paper on the walls and striped carpets. Poppy supposed it was chic, but she could only think that it was like walking through a barcode. They were shown into a suite, not a junior suite mind, but your full on, with own sitting room and bath big enough for two, suite. When the porter left the room, they ran around, laughing and mucking about, opening the doors, looking in cupboards, examining the
biscuits
and the little soaps. They flushed the loo, ran the gold taps and then collapsed on the enormous bed to admire the view of Hyde Park.

Poppy lay with her head on Martin’s shoulder. He put his arms around her. It felt lovely to have her man back, to feel him so close, and lovely because it was intimate, without either of them wanting anything more. Neither was ready for that, for very different reasons.

They must have drifted off because it was about an hour later when they were being woken by the telephone…

Martin woke with a start and felt instantly ill-at-ease. The opulence was the polar opposite of what he had experienced in recent months and the step change was almost unbearable. It was like giving a starving man a cream gateau, when all his body desired was a simple broth, slowly, slowly… The initial novelty of their environment had worn off, he felt out of his depth. He had never been in, let alone stayed, anywhere like it and, if he was being truthful, he didn’t like it that much. It was amazing, flash and smart, but Martin felt like an intruder. He was tense as though at any time someone was going to come in and say, ‘Who the bloody hell let you in, Cricket? Get out!’

He would much rather have gone straight home to his own bed. It was exciting for about two minutes to have a good nose around the room, but all he really wanted was to go home, he wanted to go home.

They lay on the bed. Poppy still had her head on his chest. It felt how he had imagined it would on so many nights away from her, waking with his wife in his arms, it was wonderful… The bloody phone continued ringing and couldn’t be ignored any longer.

It was Rob Gisby. Poppy was disappointed that the moment was over, but was so pleased to hear his voice.

‘I’ve been having difficulty getting hold of you, Poppy. Have you been away?’

Poppy laughed; funny old Rob. ‘I couldn’t have told you, Rob, I couldn’t have told anyone.’

‘Poppy, you are an enigma. An exasperating enigma, but an enigma nonetheless.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘It depends who you are asking. I would say yes, a very good thing, off the record, of course!’

‘Of course!’

‘But, if you said the same thing to Major Anthony Helm, you would get a different response.’

‘I bet I would.’ Poppy recalled the major’s twisted mouth as spittle flew past her head.

‘Don’t make me say another word, Poppy; you’ve got me into enough trouble as it is. Listen, I need to come and see you both and talk you through the next few days, if that’s all right?’

‘Yes of course, it will be great to see you, Rob.’

‘In about an hour?’

‘See you then!’

Poppy wanted Martin to be excited, to look forward to meeting him, but he wasn’t. Martin couldn’t get enthusiastic about it. In fact, if anything, he didn’t want to meet him at all. Poppy had mentioned him frequently in the most glowing terms, it made Martin feel ill at ease that there was this bloke, senior to him, who he had never met, who appeared to have got very close to his wife while he was away. She seemed impressed with him and, no matter how obvious the platonic nature of their encounters, Martin was jealous nonetheless.

Martin also resented the fact that Rob was coming over to tell him how he was to spend the next few days of his life. He wanted to be in control of his own destiny, eat when and what he wanted, sleep in his own bed, wear his own clothes and shut his own front door on the world. He also wanted time alone with Poppy, unwilling to share her with anyone, no matter how nice or well-meaning they were.

An hour later it was too late to voice this opinion. Rob walked in and shook his head. For Poppy it was another dad moment; he was pleased to see her, yet mockingly disapproving.

‘Come in, come in! What do you think of this?’ She swept her arm around the room.

‘I think it’s very you.’

‘It is, isn’t it? I reckon we could get used to it!’

She pulled him over to the corner where Martin was sitting in a small chair behind a table, surveying the view. He looked distant. Poppy couldn’t tell by his expression what he was thinking, which bothered her. Prior to his capture, she could always gauge his mood, guess at his thoughts, but there was a new place in Martin’s mind in which he would wander and Poppy had no access.