The Truth Hurts Page 10
“Hello?” came a voice.
“Um, hi, yes, sorry,” she said, sitting up. “I found your number online. I’m looking for a cleaner.”
“Right,” said the woman at the other end, who sounded like she was in the middle of doing something else. “How many bedrooms?”
“Eight,” said Poppy, guiltily.
“Eight?”
“Yeah. We’ve just moved in. It’s, um”—she paused—“quite a big place.”
The woman laughed. “Sounds like you need help. Where are you?”
“Just outside of Linfield.”
“Which road?”
“Croft Lane.” The speaker on her phone crackled. “Hello?” she said.
“We don’t have anyone available,” the woman said, and the line went dead.
Turning onto her front and pulling a pillow under her elbows, she went back to Google, typing the same words. There was an agency, based in Bath. That would be better. More professional.
“Hello,” she said when a woman picked up. “I’m looking for a cleaner.” That was better. She’d planned what she was going to say while it rang. She sounded far more convincing; she would not be cut off this time.
“Name?”
“Mrs. Poppy Spencer,” she said. The Spencer part had become second nature. It was the “Mrs.” that felt like it belonged to someone else.
“Bedrooms?”
“Eight.”
There was no reaction this time, just a pause while she noted the information. Poppy pictured her, sitting behind a desk with a headset on, looking at the clock and breaking down the day into manageable chunks. An hour until a cigarette break, three hours until lunch. Six hours until a coffee break. Eight until home time.
“Where are you based?”
Poppy recited the address once again.
“We’ve got someone who can come tomorrow. She’s new to the company. Is that all right?”
“Yes, totally fine,” Poppy replied, too quickly. “That’s great, thanks so much.”
There. She had achieved something. When Drew came home she would be able to tell him that she had hired a cleaner. Now all she had to do was fill the rest of the day.
Before
A beam of sunlight fell across Caroline’s computer screen, obscuring the words she was wrestling with. She got up, taking the shabby curtain in one hand and starting to pull it across the glass. Down in the garden she could see the children playing with the hose. The children and Poppy, she corrected herself. She had found herself thinking of them collectively as “the children” more and more lately.
Poppy wore denim jeans and a white bikini top printed with cherries. She was putting her thumb over the top of the hose to make the water spray sideways in all directions. The children were shrieking, running in and out of the water, which was always freezing. Jack was collecting water in his hands and throwing it at Poppy, aiming primarily at her chest. Caroline smiled to herself. This would inevitably be his first crush. Perhaps she had accidentally given him a type for life. Would all future girlfriends be redheaded and domestic? she wondered. The idea gave her a strange, jealous sort of ache in her chest. She tried to push it away. She refused to be one of those mothers who clung to her son, wanting him to be a little boy forever. His interest in Poppy was normal. Healthy.
It felt strange to watch them like this. She was seeing her children like other people did, how they behaved when they weren’t aware of being watched by their mother. Were they this happy and carefree when they played with her? When was the last time that they had all messed around together? The ache in her chest doubled.
She could go downstairs and join in. But even as the thought occurred to her she knew it wasn’t possible. This was the sort of rough, silly play that Mummy didn’t do. This wasn’t her domain. Her job was to be consistent. Reliable. Boring, even. That was what they needed from her.
At the end of the garden the door to Jim’s shed opened. It wasn’t a shed really; it had lights and power and heating, all installed at great expense because Jim claimed he needed his own space, that he couldn’t concentrate in the house with the children shouting and interrupting. Caroline strained her eyes, trying to make out Jim’s expression. Was he pissed off at the interruption? All three children stopped, looking at their father. Poppy dropped the hose. She looked terrified. Something in Caroline swelled, a raw animal instinct. What had happened to her before she came here to make her so afraid?
Suddenly all five of them were laughing. Jack picked up the hose and sprayed Jim. Jim took it back and sprayed Ella. Poppy, tentative, picked up the hose and aimed it meekly at Jim’s feet. She looked bowled over by her own boldness. Jim chuckled, saying something that Caroline couldn’t hear, and then picked Poppy up, throwing her upward. She squirmed and giggled.
Funny, Caroline thought, how he doesn’t mind being interrupted to play outside with the kids when Poppy is around. She tried to convince herself it was perfectly natural that Jim wanted to play with them now, that it was sunny and warm and everyone was in a better mood than usual. But she couldn’t shake the niggling memory of all the times he had slammed the door on her and locked himself away, claiming his work came first, that he couldn’t be expected to be Mary Poppins and bring in a salary.
Jack ran toward his father, trying to pull Poppy out of his arms. Jim laughed and pulled away. He couldn’t see it. He must be missing the expression of anger on Jack’s face, his fury at his father for holding Poppy in a way that he couldn’t. Caroline sighed. Jack hit his father’s arms, pretending to be playful. Jim put Poppy down and rubbed his arm, saying something to Jack, the expression on his face no longer jovial. Jack turned from the garden and stormed into the kitchen. Caroline felt the slam of the door shudder through the house.
That night she sat in bed filing her fingernails while Jim padded around, looking for a book he was convinced they used to own.
“Jack was a little shit earlier,” he said, bending down to look at the bottom shelf of their bookcase.
“Oh?” Caroline wasn’t sure why she pretended not to have seen the whole scene unfold. “What happened?”
“We were playing in the garden, I picked Agnes—sorry, Poppy—up, and he went for me.”
“Went for you?”
“Started punching me. We were play fighting but he really went at it.”
Caroline nodded. “You know why, don’t you?”
Jim looked up. “No?”
“He’s got a thumping great crush on her.”
Jim smiled. “Who could blame him?”
Caroline raised one eyebrow. “Careful.”
“Poor kid. Unrequited love’s a killer.”
“You don’t think we need to do anything?” said Caroline.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Tell her not to be alone with him in his room or anything. In case he tries it on. I suppose if she were a bloke and Jack were a nearly fifteen-year-old girl wouldn’t you have read the riot act?”
“There it is!” Jim pulled the book triumphantly from the shelf. “I knew we had it.”
“Jim?”
“Yes?”
“What I just said. About Poppy and Jack. What do you think?”
“Oh. No, I don’t think we need to. He’s too shy to try anything, and even if he did, she’d come to us.”
He flopped down heavily on the bed, lying on top of the duvet. Caroline looked down at his long, hairy legs. “All right,” she said. “Goodnight. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Chapter 14
By Thursday the prospect of another day alone in the house was unbearable. Poppy jumped every time there was a noise in another room, and wandered from room to room trying to shake the feeling that she was being watched. She put the TV or radio on in every possible room to try to drown out the silence and counted the hours until Drew came home. Every day she had resolved to talk to Drew about the house. She hoped that saying the words out loud might help: telling him that she di
dn’t feel at home here without him, that she didn’t feel like the house wanted her. Nothing worked for her like it did for him. Maybe that mirror hadn’t been an omen, but a curse. But when Drew came home and lit up at the sight of the house, she lost her nerve. There was no way to explain her fear of a pile of bricks without sounding mad.
Poppy looked at the bedroom clock. It was 8:45 a.m. Gina would have just dropped the Winterson kids at school and would be wending her way back home with the youngest of her charges. They hadn’t spoken properly since Poppy had gotten back to England. Her fear of showing off had stopped her from sending pictures or updates, but now that she thought about it, it was unlike Gina to go quiet on her.
To Poppy’s surprise, Gina answered on the second ring.
“Uhuh?”
“Gina, it’s me.”
“Uhuh?”
“It’s Poppy, you nightmare.”
There was a shuffling noise and then Gina’s voice, slightly less slurred. “Sorry, I just woke up.”
“What? I thought term had started again?”
“It has.”
“So who took the kids to school?”
“Fern.” This registered as odd. Mrs. Winterson always, always left the house before the kids were up. She worked half the time on Harley Street and the other half volunteering with kids.
“Why wasn’t Fern at work?”
“I’m off sick.”
“You’re sick?”
“Not sick sick. Booze flu. Why’d you call? I thought I’d lost you to the New Boyfriend Bermuda Triangle for at least another month.”
To talk to you, she wanted to say. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be interested in what’s going on in my life. Since when did I need a reason?
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “Just to catch up, I guess.”
“Bullshit. What’s going on?”
“It’s stupid.” Poppy played with the edge of the duvet cover. “It’s just a big house and I don’t really know what to do with myself. I’m fine. I just feel like I’m playing pretend.”
There was a rustling noise as Gina sat up in bed, a sign that she was about to take Poppy’s problem, however stupid it was, seriously. Poppy felt a warm rush of love for her.
“Have you done anything to the house yet?”
“I hired a cleaner. She’s coming this afternoon.”
“What about the décor? You’ve been talking about wanting to decorate your own place for as long as I’ve known you. Why aren’t you doing it?”
“I’m going to, I just . . .” Just what? What was the reason? She didn’t want Drew to think she was ungrateful for not loving the house just exactly as it came? She didn’t know where to start? She was worried that she wouldn’t do it right and Drew would be reminded that she didn’t come from his world? Or maybe it was something deeper.
“You need to do something,” Gina said. She sounded happier. Gina loved giving Poppy advice. Or maybe she loved giving everyone advice, Poppy was never quite sure. “Put your stamp on the place. You’ll feel more like you belong there if you do.”
“I guess.” Poppy tried to summon some enthusiasm.
“Don’t guess, do it. Pick one thing you don’t like and change it. What’s the problem?”
“What if Drew doesn’t like it?”
“You don’t like it right now, what’s the difference?”
“He bought it.”
“Is he shitty with you about this stuff?” Gina suddenly sounded concerned.
“No, no, not at all.”
“You’re sure? He doesn’t get angry or anything?”
“No, God no,” Poppy assured her. She was telling the truth. “He’s never even raised his voice. I feel like if he came home and I’d painted the whole place black he’d be like, OK, your call. That’s the problem, I guess.”
Gina gave a dirty little laugh from the other end of the line. “You’ve found a filthy rich husband who doesn’t complain. Pops, you need to relax, you’ve got it made.”
Poppy laughed. “OK, OK. I’ll try your thing. Love you.”
Gina made a high-pitched kissing noise and hung up.
Poppy wandered down into the hall, barefoot in her pajamas, pushing doors open and looking into rooms. One change. That was what she had promised Gina.
Poppy spent the morning in Bath. She drove into town, parked with miraculous ease and then happened upon the most amazing home interiors shop she’d ever seen. Hushed and dark, it was crammed with beautiful things, all illuminated by warm gold light. Poppy wandered around the shop running her fingers over glass decanters and velvet cushions. Eventually she decided on the perfect lampshade. It was blue silk with a copper-gold interior. “Have you checked the size of the light fitting?” asked the slender girl behind the counter.
“Yes,” Poppy lied. It would inevitably fit one of the lights in the house, though it would have been showing off to tell the girl that.
Delighted with herself, she’d taken the lampshade, wrapped in tissue and placed in a huge box, and driven back to the house full of good intentions. Gina was right. It was her home. She just needed to assert herself. Wrap the house around her and Drew, not the other way around.
Chapter 15
Poppy signaled, turning the car sharply into the drive and hoping that the display on the dashboard was wrong, that she wasn’t back late. But of course it wasn’t wrong, and standing on the front steps of the house was a teenage girl in black trousers and a T-shirt with “Merrie Maids” written on it.
“I’m so sorry,” said Poppy, slamming the car door shut and taking her bags from the trunk. “I lost track of time. Have you been here long?”
The girl raised one heavily drawn-in eyebrow. “About ten minutes. Are you Poppy Spencer?”
“Yes,” said Poppy, fumbling for her keys in her handbag. There was an unquestionable air of suspicion on the girl’s face.
“I’m Kay-Lynne,” the girl said.
“Nice to meet you, Caitlin.”
“No, Kay-Lynne,” said the girl, following her into the house.
“Oh, sorry.” Poppy could hear her accent slipping back to its original, away from the rounded vowels she’d started copying all those years ago, wanting to sound like the rest of Caroline’s family. “Nice to meet you.”
“This is a big house.”
“Yes.” Poppy looked up, as if the hall were news to her. “Come to the kitchen, I’ll make you a tea and we’ll work out what we’re doing?”
Kay-Lynne shrugged. “Sure.”
Poppy put the kettle on and steadied herself. She was at least ten years older than this girl. This was her house. She lived here. She belonged here. Kay-Lynne was infuriatingly comfortable. The first time Poppy had visited a house for an interview she’d been so nervous she’d got on the wrong tube and cried all the way there. Kay-Lynne clearly didn’t share that kind of nervousness. She went under the sink and started to look at Poppy’s cleaning supplies. “I’ve got products in my bag that I can use,” she said, standing up. “But that’s an extra seven pounds.”
“That’s fine,” said Poppy, pouring water into the cups. “Do you want milk and sugar?”
Kay-Lynne nodded. “How long have you lived here?”
“Nearly two weeks.”
Kay-Lynne looked around. “You got everything unpacked quick.”
“Lots of the furniture and things were left here by the previous owners.”
Kay-Lynne had unpacked various brightly colored bottles and sponges. “Why?”
“They didn’t want it, they were going abroad.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know,” said Poppy, feeling stupid. She took a seat on the sofa by the window and pulled her legs up to her chest. Where had the previous owners gone?
“That’s weird,” Kay-Lynne said.
“I guess it is.”
A silence settled between them, broken only by the intermittent spritzing of kitchen spray. Kay-Lynne was methodical and precise in the
way that she cleaned, and the counters, which Poppy had thought were quite clean, were coming up with an unfamiliar shine.
“You’ve not had a cleaner before, have you?” said Kay-Lynne after a while.
Poppy flushed. “No, no, I haven’t. Why?”
“Most people don’t feel the need to sit there and talk to me.”
“Sorry,” Poppy apologized. “I just thought maybe you might want some help, and . . .” She grappled for something to say that didn’t sound completely stupid. “And I used to be a nanny, and do cleaning, and sometimes I liked having company.”
Kay-Lynne’s thick eyebrows moved up toward her peroxide hair. “You were a nanny?”
Poppy nodded. “Six years.”
“You still do that?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not working at the moment. I’m going to finish getting us moved in and then I might retrain . . .”
“How long you been together?”
There was no way that Poppy was going to watch the firework-display reaction on Kay-Lynne’s wide face that was inevitable if she told the truth. “Five years,” she said. “We got married earlier this summer.”
Kay-Lynne looked her up and down, pausing on her ring finger. “What does your husband do?”
“He’s in finance.”
“Banking?”
Yes? No? Poppy paused for a moment. “Yes,” she said.
“Is he from round here originally?”
“No.”
“Where’s he from?”
Poppy cleared her throat, fumbling for something to say, anything other than I don’t know. Literally anything. “London,” she said eventually, her voice high and strange.
Kay-Lynne laughed. “You looked confused for a moment there! Mind you, when my mum and dad went to get registered to get married he got her birthday wrong when they asked him, and she went mental in front of the woman from the council . . .”
Poppy made the right faces and noises while Kay-Lynne cleaned and talked, but inside she was burning.