The Model Wife (24 page)

Dring, dring. Dring, dring.

‘Oh my God I have to get this!’ Minnie bolted across the room and snatched her phone out of Leanne’s hand. ‘Hellooo? Oh hi, bunny rabbit. Yeah, I’m
really
well. The baby is adorable, thank you, yes! I know, he
does
look a bit like me. Weird, isn’t it? Though God, changing diapers is the pits. I mean, of course, Rosalita does most of them but… uh, huh, uh, huh… So did you hear about Lily? Uh huh. Uh huh.’

Everyone looked at their watches, but Minnie was oblivious. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The chatter continued until suddenly: ‘Nicole? She’s coming? But you know how I feel about her. No, forget it.’

She flung her phone on to the floor. ‘Bloody Nicole,’

3
²
4

she said to the room at large. No one dared answer. Minnie stood up and headed towards the bedroom. ‘I’ve got a headache, I need to lie down.’

‘Don’t worry,’ a panicked Leanne said to Thea. ‘I’ll go and talk to her.’

She was gone for half an hour. Raised voices could be heard. Finally, a battle-weary Leanne emerged.

‘She’d like a word with you,’ she said to Thea and Luke.

In the bedroom, Minnie was curled up in an armchair, her twenty-thousand-dollar gown replaced by a towelling dressing gown. At the sight of them, she groaned.

‘Do I have to talk to them now? I feel really sick.’

‘No, no, Minnie, of course not.’ Leanne sounded like a doctor about to perform a smear test with a freezing speculum. She turned to Thea and Luke. ‘Perhaps you should go outside again?’

They backed out of the room, like minions at the court of the Sun King.

‘This is getting beyond a joke,’ Luke growled.

Leanne reappeared.

‘Thea, Luke, I am
so sorry
. Minnie really doesn’t want to do the interview now. You’ve been kept waiting so long, she thinks you’ll give her a hard time.’

‘Sorry?’ Luke said, as George stuffed his hands in his mouth to contain his mirth.

‘Yeah, she was really angry that you’d been kept waiting so long. But she
will
give you an interview. Soon.’

‘Like how soon?’ Thea asked. ‘Tomorrow?’

Leanne twisted uncomfortably. ‘Actually, tomorrow she and Max and little Cristiano are going to Barbados.’

‘So the interview’s not going to happen?’

3
²
5

‘No, no, it will! We’ll just have to reschedule.’

Suddenly, Minnie’s head popped out from behind the door. ‘Sowwy,’ she whispered, ‘but I’m weally not feeling tho good. But I will do the interview. I pwomise. I always keep my word, don’t I, Leanne? By the way, could you make a reservation for me and Max for Rhubarb tonight?’

‘Of course, Minnie,’ Leanne said instantly. ‘What time?’

Minnie yawned. ‘Say nine. And call Witchery to say we’ll be along later.’

‘But it’s nearly nine now,’ Leanne pointed out. Thea eyed her sympathetically. What was it Gran said about how there was always someone worse off than you?

‘Well, ten, then.’

‘You couldn’t do the interview before you go out for dinner?’ Thea tried. ‘It will only take half an hour.’

‘Sorry.’ Minnie shrugged and smiled winsomely. ‘We’ll just have to take a raincheck. How about next time I’m in London? We’re going to be in London some time soon, aren’t we, Leanne?’

‘You are, Minnie,’ Leanne said. Minnie walked out of the room and with a mouthed, ‘Sorry’, Leanne followed her.

34

Thea broke the news to Dean from the bedroom of the Balmoral suite, while the rest of the team dismantled the unused lights and cameras, packed away the candelabra and folded up the billowy, white sheets.

‘I fly people in from all over the world to interview Minnie Maltravers and she blew you out. Are you taking the piss, Thea?’

‘She didn’t feel well,’ Thea said. ‘We tried, Dean, honestly. We tried everything. But she just wouldn’t play ball. She says she’ll do it in London.’

‘
When
will she do it in London?’

‘I don’t know. Some time next week, her PA says. Hopefully.’ The last word was whispered.

‘She’d fucking better, Thea. Because this is a joke. Sort it out. Or else.’

Her spirits didn’t improve when, at around eleven, their taxi pulled up outside the Hootsmon Hotel. From the website, Thea had hoped for a cutting-edge joint epitomizing minimalist, funky cool. What she got was a shabby unchic building on the outskirts of town with a lobby full of wilting flower arrangements and a blazing fire in the grate, despite the fact it was a warm May night. As they bundled through the door, they were greeted by the strains of ‘Hi ho, silver lining’ blaring through ancient fire doors.

3
²
7

‘It’s a wedding,’ said the elderly lady at reception, who looked as if she’d wandered out of an Agatha Christie series. ‘I do hope they warned you. It might be just a wee bit noisy.’

Luke groaned and smote his forehead with his fist. George rubbed his hands in glee.

The receptionist glared at him over the top of her glasses, then turned to Thea. ‘Your shower’s a bit temperamental,’ she warned her, handing over a brass key attached to a wooden plank so hefty it could double as a murder weapon, ‘but otherwise it’s a very nice room.’

‘Is there a mini bar in the room?’ George was asking the receptionist.

‘No sir. This is a small, family-run establishment. No mini bars. However, the bar is open for the party, but I should respectfully ask you to make it clear you are not an invited guest and to pay for all your drinks.’

‘Absolutely.’ George smiled, a huge grin spreading across his face. ‘Anyone care to join me for a nightcap?’

‘All right,’ Rhys said gamely. Luke, Alexa and Thea shook their heads.

‘I, for one, am looking forward to my bed,’ Luke said.

Four hours later, Thea was woken by a text bleeping. She rolled over and stared at the clock radio: 3.02 blinked the neon digits. In the dawn light filtering through the curtains, she fumbled for her phone.

Heard about the cock-up. Really sorry. Call me if you want to talk. Sure we can sort something. Jake x She flung the phone across the room. Bloody incompetent dwarf. He should have known something like this was going to happen. He should have somehow stopped it. It was her own stupid fault for thinking someone so young, so inexperienced, someone who should have been working as an extra in
The Hobbit
could deliver her a scoop.

She lay back on her lumpy polyester pillow and closed her eyes, but thoughts of the aborted interview rampaged round her head like a mad bull. It was no good. She wasn’t going back to sleep. The plane was leaving at eight, they had to be at the airport at six. From downstairs, she could hear a faint wheeze of bagpipes. She might as well go and see what was happening rather than fester here. Cursing, she pulled on her jeans and sweatshirt and headed down the corridor to the creaking lift.

The wedding party was still in full swing. Bodies were draped across sofas, in armchairs, on the floor. Thea stepped over them and headed towards the library where a hard-core posse of three men in kilts were reeling vigorously with Alexa and another young woman in an unfortunate yellow dress. A CDplayer in the corner rattled out ‘Scotland the Brave’ as they clapped and stamped.

‘All right,’ bellowed one of the reddest-faced men. ‘Gentlemen. Right hands joined over ladies’ shoulder. Left hands joined in front. Walk forwards four steps, that’s right…’

‘
Haii, caramba!
’ cried Alexa spotting her. ‘Come and join us, Thea. Everybody salsa!’

‘You’re not in Guatemala now.’

3
²
9

‘Oh shit. Nor I am.
Arriba, arriba!
’ She clicked a pair of imaginary castanets.

‘I thought you were going to bed?’ Thea couldn’t help smiling.

‘I was talked out of it.’

‘How nice to see you,’ said a voice behind her. A flushed but slightly more cheerful-looking Luke was leaning back in an armchair, nursing what looked like a large glass of Scotch.

‘I thought you wanted to go to bed. Am I the only one old-fashioned enough to think a few hour’s kip might be in order?’

‘Looks like it. The rest of us decided it would be rude not to toast the happy couple.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They left for their honeymoon at midnight.’ He laughed.

‘Right.’ Thea looked at the devastation. ‘Where’s Rhys?’

‘Head down the toilet. These young ones are such lightweights.’

‘George?’

‘In bed with the matron of honour.’

‘The
matron
? You mean the maid.’

‘I mean the matron; the bride’s elder married sister. Her husband’s over there.’ He nodded in the direction of a chaise lounge, where a man with a ginger beard lay comatose.

‘Oh, good Lord,’ Thea started to laugh.

‘It’s good to see you smile again.’ He nodded towards the bar. No one was tending it. ‘Fancy a tipple?’

‘Yup, I think this calls for a large… Oh, I don’t know, let’s make it a pina colada.’ She smiled at him, as he held a glass up to an optic, which dispensed a measure of whisky.

‘That’s a bit miserable,’ Luke said. ‘Let’s double it. No, sorry, triple it.’ He handed her the glass brimming with neat alcohol and raised his. ‘Cheers, then.’

‘Cheers.’ They clinked. Memories of other bars, other late nights, other large whiskies flooded Thea’s mind. She swallowed hard.

‘Good luck to the happy couple,’ Luke said. ‘May they have better luck than I have.’ He nodded towards a pair of French doors. ‘Shall we go outside? Snatch a breath of air?’

‘Why not?’

Luke opened the door and she followed him outside on to a terrace. The Hootsmon was on a hill. The craggy spires of Edinburgh lay spread out beneath them in the midsummer dawn like a city in a fairy tale. They leant against the parapet.

‘Christ, I thought we’d never be alone,’ Luke said.

Despite the whisky, Thea’s throat was suddenly dry. ‘It’s been a busy day.’

‘I’ll say.’ He grinned. ‘Busy week. Manic. I’ve enjoyed it, though. I miss my old life on the road, bumbling from place to place not knowing where you’re going to lay your head that night.’ He paused. ‘But I realize my full-time roving reporter days are over. Getting too old.’

You’re only as old as the person you feel, Thea thought with sudden viciousness, but she said, ‘You’re hardly old. You’re what – forty-five?’

‘Fifty-one.’ Her white lie cheered him enormously. ‘That’s not that old these days, is it?’

33
¹

‘Of course not. John Simpson’s sixty-three or something and he’s still going strong.’

It was the wrong thing to say, she realized. Luke loathed his BBC rival. He scowled.

‘Well, hardly going strong, Thea. I mean, those reports he did recently from South Africa were pretty weak.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed hastily. ‘What I meant was he’s still working as much as ever and no one’s talking about replacing him.’

‘What do you mean? Are they thinking about replacing me?’

God, she shouldn’t have taken such a big slug of whisky. ‘No, no, of course not, Luke. You
are
the
Seven Thirty News
. It would be unthinkable without you at its helm.’

‘Hmm.’ Luke frowned, then looked at her again. ‘Just like old times, isn’t it? You. Me. A hotel. On location.’

‘Um…’

‘Anyone in your life right now?’ he asked, staring straight ahead towards the mossy green mound of Arthur’s Seat. Before she could reply, he continued, ‘I can’t
believe
you’re still single. An attractive woman like you.’

‘I’m happy this way.’ She shrugged. ‘You know that.’

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
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 arse!’

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

‘She’s the meanest! She sucks the horse’s penis.’

‘Bloody hell, George. You gave us a shock.’ Luke was quite red in the face.

‘Her left tit hangs down to her belly,’ George warbled to the tune of ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’. ‘Her right tit lies down to her knee.’

‘George,’ Thea said firmly, ‘perhaps you should cool it.’

‘If her left tit did equal her right tit, 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
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, Saturdays were the day Poppy dedicated to chores 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 hassle, but which Clara adored.

‘Mummee?’

‘Yes, darling?’ Poppy stopped at the magazine rack. Daisy McNeil was on the cover of bloody
Elle.
And where was
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…

‘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:

‘Hello!’

‘Oh, hello.’ It was the unfriendly mum she’d last bumped 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
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
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
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 fashion 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.

‘Hello?’

‘Poppy.’

He didn’t say who he was; he didn’t need to. ‘Toby!’ she squawked.

‘Hey. How’s it going?’

‘Wanna biscuit! Gimme biscuit! No Mummy, no Bolognese.’

‘Christ, what the hell’s that noise? Are you torturing a chipmunk?’

‘Nothing. Just a second.’ Poppy got up, ran to the cupboard, got out a Jaffa Cake and shoved it in Clara’s hands, then switched her phone to mute.

‘Now, just eat that while Mummy has a little talk on the phone.’

For a second, Clara looked shocked at her victory, then she began cramming the biscuit into her mouth as if she had just been released from a Japanese POW camp. Poppy switched the phone back on.

‘Sorry about that. How are you?’

‘Oh, you know, busy. But, listen, it’s my birthday so I wondered if you fancied dinner tonight.’

33
⁸

Poppy jolted as if she’d accidentally touched a hot iron. ‘I’d love to.’ Provided Brigita can babysit. But she wasn’t going to bore Toby with such mundanities.

He named a Thai restaurant in Bayswater, and they arranged to meet at eight; she hung up, heart skittering. Toby had asked her on a date. For his birthday. Immediately, Poppy reproved herself. It wasn’t a date, she was a married woman. But married women could have male friends; they weren’t living in Afghanistan. Clara would be asleep tonight. Why should Poppy stay in in front of
American Idol
when every other woman of her age in the Western world would be sitting, laughing somewhere, out with friends? When Luke was in Scotland, hanging out with glamorous Thea and Minnie Maltravers.

Of course Brigita was available. She arrived just after Poppy had tucked Clara up in bed. Having checked and double checked herself in the cheval mirror, she decided to walk to the restaurant, even though it involved a slightly scary journey through the nearby council estate and a urine-soaked underpass, because then she could buy Toby a present on the way. She almost ran to the bridge that led over the canal. Even though it was a May night, it was chilly and the people she passed looked grey and worried. Poppy felt sorry for them; their heads were bent as they walked into the wind, unlike Poppy who stood erect and faced the elements full on.

She racked her brains thinking what to buy Toby. Nothing too expensive, that would obviously be a mistake. She ran into Whiteley’s mall and headed straight to Books Etc where she had spent so many long hours browsing while Clara slept in her pram. She’d get him
London from the Air
, a book of beautiful aerial photos of the city she loved flicking through. As she handed over her card, full of pride that she was paying for this herself, she grabbed a pen from the desk and wrote on the inside flap: To Toby from Poppy on his birthday.

Nicely understated, she thought, then glanced at the clock in a panic. It was quarter past eight. Heart pittering, because, despite her time in the fashion industry, she hated being late, she hurried down messy Queensway with its foot traffic of women in burkas pushing buggies with six-year-olds asleep in them, American tourists wondering if they were in Notting Hill and teenagers coming out of the ice rink. The restaurant was in a quiet side road. Pushing the door open, Poppy saw Toby straight away, sitting at a corner table. Waving.

‘Finally! Now we can order.’

He stood up, smiling. Nine other people looked at her. It wasn’t a date. It was his birthday party. And one of the guests was Daisy McNeil.

Poppy felt dizzy. Some of it was shock, some of it was because she hadn’t eaten much that day. She opened her bag and got out the book.

‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’

‘Oh thanks,’ said Toby. Without looking at it, he deposited it on top of a pile of presents on the floor. Poppy noted it contained two Jo Malone bags, one Hermes bag and one Gucci. Her face flamed. Why hadn’t she been more lavish?

‘Now you sit there,’ Toby gestured to a space between a tall man in a hacking jacket with a green silk scarf round his neck and a dark guy in a cream polo neck and matching jeans. ‘This is Freddie and this is Andreas. Freddie, Andreas, Poppy.’

‘Madam?’ asked a waiter. ‘What would you like to drink?’

She looked wildly to see what the others had. ‘A beer,’ she said rapidly, pointing at the dark guy’s glass.

‘Ooh, how macho,’ Freddie of the hacking jacket purred. Poppy fought the urge to beat him over the head with her handbag. ‘One of the boys are we, darling?’

‘Hardly,’ exclaimed Andreas, the dark guy. ‘A beautiful girl like her.’

Everyone was chatting merrily. Poppy’s eyes raked the other women. A virtually emaciated Asian girl was on one side of Toby, laughing at his every word. On the other was a Scandinavian-looking blonde who stared moodily into a glass of champagne.

Poppy tried to work out which one was playing the game best, but Toby didn’t seem particularly bothered by either of them, holding court to the entire table. It’s cool, Poppy told herself. You’re a young woman out having dinner with friends. It’s what young women do on a Saturday night. You’re in a hip London restaurant. And anyway you’re married. But the words on the menu still swam in front of her eyes.

‘So how do you know Toby?’ Andreas was asking.

‘Oh, just from here and there.’ Poppy shrugged.

‘Poppy has a column in a magazine,’ Freddie reproved him. ‘It’s hilarious, it’s called “The Bimbo Bites Back” and she really lays in to people. So you’d better watch yourself, Andy-Pandy.’

‘I’m not that nasty.’ Poppy flushed. She debated telling him she didn’t actually write it, but decided against it.

‘I think you’re vile. That’s why I love it.’

‘It’s great, Poppy,’ said Daisy from Andreas’s left. ‘I thought you were all washed-up after you got married. That’s what the agency said, anyway. I mean it’s so difficult to work after you’ve had kids. Your boobs are ruined and everything. So hats off to you for reinventing yourself.’

‘Thanks, Daisy.’

‘I have to tell you. I can’t keep it a secret any longer. I’ve just got my first
Vogue
cover. Isn’t that great? They’re going to profile me as one of the new breed of supermodels.’

‘Well, make sure Poppy doesn’t write it up,’ Freddie tittered.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Poppy said with her sweetest smile, ‘Daisy wouldn’t be able to read it.’ Then she stopped, shocked. Where the hell had that come from?

‘Miaow!’ Freddie howled. Toby, who’d been listening, threw back his beautiful head and roared. After a second, Daisy giggled too.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I…’

‘That’s OK, Poppy. I knew you were only joking.’

After that, the dynamic changed. Poppy worked like a court jester, to entertain Freddie and Andreas. She could feel pearls of sweat forming on her forehead, as she cracked bad jokes and made spirited conversation. She could see Toby straining to be part of their gang, but the two women on either side of him were battling to gain his attention. She realized the more she ignored him, the more he watched her. Poppy began to enjoy herself; she felt part of the action, which was more than she ever did at one of Luke’s stuffy affairs. The food was delicious and the alcohol kept flowing. The only thing she didn’t like was the way groups kept getting up and disappearing to the loos. When they came back, they’d be even noisier than before, pushing their untouched food around their plates. Poppy knew what was going on and it made her uneasy.

‘Going to join us?’ Freddie asked when he and Daisy got up.

Poppy thought of Clara, asleep in her fairy sleeping-bag. She thought of how shocked Luke would be. She thought of the movie they’d been shown at school of the pink-and-white cheeked middle-class girl slumped on a dank bathroom floor clutching a needle.

‘No thanks.’ She smiled.

‘Come on.’ He nodded at the passion-fruit soufflé, which had just been placed under her nose. ‘Stop you eating so much.’

Poppy felt slapped.

‘I like a woman who enjoys her food,’ Andreas said, with a wink.

Ears still ringing, she was just standing up to join Freddie in his bathroom visit, when from behind them, Toby said, ‘Shift your fat arse, Freddie. I want to talk to Poppy now.’

Her heart helter-skeltered, as Freddie stood up and Toby slipped into his seat.

‘I thought I’d never get a chance,’ he said in a low voice, so only she could hear. ‘Are you having fun?’

‘Um…’

He laughed at her expression. ‘Say no more. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Most of these people are arseholes.’

‘Then why have you invited them to your birthday dinner?’ Poppy found the world a stranger and stranger place.

‘Work really. They’re contacts you know. My job’s all about keeping people sweet. Freddie helps style a lot of my male clients and Andreas is… well, he knows a lot of people I have to deal with too.’

‘And the girls?’ Poppy said, glancing at a giggling Daisy.

‘Well, the girls are gorgeous. They come with me to a lot of events my clients attend and they keep my clients very happy.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘But none of them are as gorgeous as you.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. ‘Excuse me a second,’ she said pulling it out, her cheeks hot. Probably Luke. She wondered what she’d tell him she was doing. But no, it was Brigita.

‘Is everything OK?’ she gasped, sticking a finger in her ear so she could hear.

‘I don’t think so. Clara she is puking everywhere. Very sick. Like
Exorcist
. She wants Mummy. You must come home.’

Shock crashed Poppy into an invisible wall. ‘Oh my God. I’ll be right back.’ She hung up. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go,’ she said to the table at large.