Part 5 (1/2)

'Nothing,' said Poppy, positioning herself in front of the graffiti. She was sure the marks would come out with a bit of soap and water. 'Clara's just tired. Aren't you, poppet?'

'No, Mummeee. No tired.'

'Did you have a good day?' Poppy asked. It had been Luke's day off and she had hoped he might spend it with them, but he'd lunched in town with a contact.

'Yeah, not bad,' he said absently. 'Will Glenda be here soon? You should be getting ready.'

'Half past seven, I told her.'

'That's now,' Luke said, flopping on the bed. Poppy's heart started to thud. If he discovered the Post Post under the duvet cover she'd be in big trouble. Happily, he was distracted by Clara trying to scramble on to his chest. under the duvet cover she'd be in big trouble. Happily, he was distracted by Clara trying to scramble on to his chest.

'Clah-Clah, I just told Mummy, it's time you got in your pyjamas.'

'I don't think she's ready yet,' Poppy said, rearranging the bedclothes to hide the paper better. 'She had a really long nap this afternoon.'

'You just said she was tired.' Luke sighed. 'You let her sleep too long in the afternoons. Hannah had some kind of routine for the children, where you only let them sleep a bit in the day at set times and then they always went to bed at seven and were always up at seven. That way you got the evenings to yourself.'

'Mmm,' Poppy said, trying surrept.i.tiously to s.h.i.+ft the cheval mirror, so it covered the red marks on the wall. It was what she always said when Luke praised his ex-wife. b.l.o.o.d.y control freak. Why on earth would you want your child up at seven every day? She didn't want Clara going to bed at seven sharp either. Well, sometimes it would be nice, but Luke was out so often in the evenings; Poppy relied on her daughter for company.

The doorbell rang. 'Ah, that'll be Glenda. I'll let her in. The cab's coming at quarter to. Think you can be ready by then?'

Poppy knew a dig when she heard one. She always did everything to delay these outings, in the vain hope Luke would suddenly decide he'd rather spend an evening in with her than go out schmoozing. She looked in the mirror on her dressing table. Not bad, she thought, looking at her floaty blue top from Portobello and the grey pinstripe trousers she'd found on a market stall in Dalston when she and Clara were on one of their adventures in the East End. Poppy had never been that into clothes and had quite happily slipped into the new-mum's uniform of stained sweatpants and T-s.h.i.+rts, not worried if she ever wore a pair of heels again. But she knew she had to make some effort when she and Luke went out together. It had taken some time to s.h.i.+ft the baby weight after Clara was born and she was still not quite as skinny as when she had been modelling, but she thought a healthy child was more important than getting to size zero.

'h.e.l.lo, darlin'!'

Glenda came bustling into the room. She was forty-five, with four children of her own in the Philippines whom she visited once a year for a fortnight. Compared to her, Poppy knew her problems were small. But the Alonto family's loss had been Poppy's gain. She hadn't wanted a cleaner, but she hadn't realized Glenda would end up being an unpaid shrink as well. Without her weekly visits, Poppy thought she would have gone a bit doolally for want of another mother to confide in.

'Hey! How are you?' She smiled.

'Fine, my love. How are you?' She swooped on Clara. 'h.e.l.lo, darling. How are you? Oh, I missed you, sweet angel.'

'Gwenda!'

'Why you no in your pyjamas? Come with Auntie Glenda, I make you all cosy.'

Obediently Clara toddled off with her. Poppy watched, stricken. How come Clara never did that with her? Was there anything anything she wasn't rubbish at? The doorbell rang again. she wasn't rubbish at? The doorbell rang again.

'Poppy, that's the cab,' Luke yelled from downstairs.

'Just a second.' She ran into Clara's room, where her baby was looking angelic in her flowery pyjamas. She fell to her knees. 'Goodnight, darling. Can Mummy have a cuddle?'

'No-wagh.'

'I'll read you a story.' Poppy always tried this one on the rare occasion Luke had friends over, even though she knew she should be making witty and erudite conversation downstairs. She could spend hours tucked up cosily with Poppy, avoiding the 'grown-ups' as she couldn't help thinking of them by invoking the cast-iron excuse of introducing her daughter to the glory of the written word.

But as usual Clara was wise to her mummy's ruse. 'No wanna story.'

Luke stuck his head round the door. 'Poppy! The taxi's here.'

'But Clara needs a story.'

'No wanna story,' Clara repeated, as Luke said. 'Well, Glenda can read you one.'

Defeated, Poppy knelt down and kissed her. 'I'll see you in the morning, then. Be a good girl for Glenda.'

'She's always a good girl for me,' Glenda purred.

In the back of the taxi, Luke leant back against the burgundy upholstery and sighed.

'At long last we're going out together.'

'I'm looking forward to it,' Poppy lied. 'Tell me more about it. Dean Cutler's your new editor.'

'Yup, so be very, very nice to him because the rumour is that Dean has the knives out for everyone on the show over forty. Which means me.'

'You mean you might lose your job?'

'I might indeed.' Luke stared out at the Marylebone Road. 'How old is Clara now?' he asked suddenly. 'Nearly two?'

'Twenty-three months.' It never failed to amaze her that Luke couldn't remember pieces of information that were tattooed on her heart.

'So she'll start nursery soon.'

'I suppose so,' said Poppy vaguely. Despite nagging from everyone from the man at the dry cleaners to the health visitor, from Louise to Meena, she had steadfastly refused to put Clara's name down for nursery, so much did the prospect of sending her baby out into the big, bad world terrify her.

'So you'll soon be able to go back to work.'

'Mmm.'

Luke reached out and took her hand. 'I've been thinking about it, Poppy. It would be good for you. Get you out of the house. Earn your own money. Be able to talk to people about something more than nappies and Teletubbies Teletubbies.'

He'd been reading b.l.o.o.d.y Hannah. 'Mmm,' she said then, deciding it was worth another try, she squeezed his hand. 'But I was thinking maybe soon we'd have another baby.'

As always when the subject came up, Luke sighed heavily. 'You know what I think about that. I've got four children already. I can't support another one.' He ran his fingers through his hair. 'Look, sweetheart, just think about the work thing. You can't stay at home doing nothing for ever.'

'I don't do nothing nothing,' Poppy protested, but the cab was drawing up outside Dean Cutler's terrace house in West Hampstead.

8.

About an hour earlier Thea Mackharven was turning this way and that in front of the mirror of her one-bedroom flat in Stockwell to the strains of Bob Dylan singing about Black Diamond Bay on her favourite of all his alb.u.ms Desire Desire. Not bad, she thought of her dark green Joseph trouser suit and her hair piled in an unruly topknot, that she hoped was s.e.xy rather than bag lady.