The Truth Hurts Page 18

  There was a knock at the door as it swung open. Gina’s knock was an announcement of entry, not a request. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to wear,” she said, dropping her towel.

  For the thousandth time in their friendship Poppy admired the length of her limbs and the concavity of her stomach. “How do you look like that?” she asked.

  Gina looked down, as if her body was a surprise. “Like what?”

  “Urgh, like that,” said Poppy, getting up.

  “You are joking, right? Your body is sick. I would commit actual murder for your rack.”

  Poppy pointed at the walk-in wardrobe. “Help yourself to anything you want. It’ll all be too big for you, though.”

  Downstairs she found Drew in the study, looking at the crossword. “Regard highly,” he said as she closed the dark wooden door behind her. “Six letters.”

  “Esteem?” she asked.

  “Esteem,” he repeated, filling the letters in. “Very good, Spencer.” He looked up. “What’s that face for?”

  “Face?”

  “You look miserable.”

  “I’m not.” She paused. “Do you think they’ll like their rooms?” she asked.

  “Of course they will. You’ve done an amazing job on this place, you know that. You could make a fortune as a designer. And if they don’t like their rooms then they can bugger off.”

  She knew he meant it as a reassurance, but all she heard was him admitting it was possible that they might disapprove of her taste, that Drew might finally realize what she’d told him so many times, that she was different from him, and not in a way that she was proud of. What would Caroline tell her? She closed her eyes and imagined her, tall and tanned with masses of curly dark hair. Make sure there’s enough loo roll and enough wine. That’s what she would have said. If you’ve got loo roll and wine then everything else is window dressing.

  An hour later, Poppy watched Drew’s face light up from the inside as his friend got out of the sensible, midsize family car. So this was Ralph, the miracle worker who had fixed everything about the house, made it so that they could move straight in. He wore a pink-and-white-checked shirt tucked into jeans. Poppy knew he and Drew had grown up together, but Ralph seemed older than Drew. And there was more than that. Something undeniably “dad” about him.

  Drew had said that the three of them had been at boarding school together. What must that be like? An expensive sort of orphanage, she supposed. Rafe, the oldest Henderson, would have been shipped off in September. They had had an appointment booked at Harrods to go and have his uniform fitted. Thinking about Rafe—irritating, aggressive, naughty Rafe—being packed off to school in a blazer a little too big for him raised a tightness in the back of her throat. What must it have been like for Drew, being there with all those boys, who all had families to go home to for the holidays? But then she supposed that really this was his family. She straightened up. That was why she had to make a good impression. There would be no “meeting the parents” with Drew. So this had to work. She had to make them like her. Drew loves me, she told herself, trying to ease the feeling inside her stomach. They love Drew, and Drew loves me.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling up at Ralph. “I’m Poppy. Thank you for everything you did for the house. We really couldn’t have done it without you.”

  He pulled Poppy in for a hug and then clamped his hands either side of her arms. “Wonderful to meet you,” he said, sounding sincere. “I’ve heard so much. This is my wife, Emma.” He gestured to the woman holding the bunch of flowers before turning toward Drew.

  Emma was just what Poppy had expected. Her skinny legs were encased in neat jeans, which she had paired with a long-sleeved striped T-shirt. Her hair was thick and blond and almost brushed her shoulders. The kind of woman whom Poppy met at school pickup, though they’d never have spoken, not with the unofficial nanny versus mother divide that ruled southwest London’s playgrounds.

  She smiled. “Great to meet you.”

  “You too,” said Emma. They bumped their cheeks against each other, Poppy’s cheek soft against Emma’s razor cheekbones. Emma handed her the flowers. “These are for you.”

  “Oh wow, thanks.” Wow? She bit the inside of her lip. This was not the time to start talking like a six-year-old. They had probably already spent most of the journey guessing how old she was going to be.

  “How was the drive?” she asked, reaching for an adult question.

  “Oh, fine. Shall we go inside?”

  Poppy felt her eyebrows rise. “Oh. Yeah, of course. Drew?” she called. “Shall we go in?”

  “I’d leave them to it,” Emma said, picking up her neat leather bag. “They’re always like this when they haven’t seen each other for a while.”

  Drew was rubbing Ralph’s head, saying something about his receding hairline.

  “Looks like you’ve been struck by a case of the love chub,” Ralph shouted, patting Drew’s stomach, which was marginally less washboard flat than it had been when he had met Poppy.

  “Good plan, we can make some tea. Blokes, right?”

  Emma said nothing.

  “They’re all the same,” Poppy tried again. “Eight or eighty, always taking the piss out of each other.”

  “Mmm,” said Emma. “I suppose so. Shall we put those in some water?” She put her handbag down in the kitchen and started opening cupboards. “Where are the vases?” she asked.

  Poppy pointed to the larder, the long cold room at the side of the kitchen where most of the food lived. There was a shelf, high up on the wall, running the length of it, full of vases that had survived her and Gina’s cull. Poppy allowed herself a moment to remember the glorious feeling of throwing the cushions from the drawing room on the bonfire at the bottom of the garden, watching them smolder and burn and take the last traces of that dated room with them.

  “Very neat shelves,” Emma called into the kitchen, almost sounding impressed. “Is that you or the cleaner?”

  “We don’t have a cleaner at the moment,” Poppy replied. “My friend Gina is staying with us and helping me out until I find something more permanent.”

  Emma emerged, holding a vase.

  “That one has a crack in it,” Poppy lied. She heard the words come out of her mouth and wondered why she had felt the need to say it, why she needed Emma to have gotten something wrong. “There’s a green one at the back that would work,” she added, feeling guilty. “I need to clear them out really.” She pulled herself up to her full height. “Most of them really aren’t to my taste.”

  Emma disappeared back into the larder and came out holding a tall clear glass vase. “I’d be careful with doing that,” she said, filling the vase from the tap. “That tall white one was Drew’s mother’s.”

  “His mother’s?” asked Poppy, taking the huge metal kettle and putting it on the hob. “Are you sure?”

  Emma nodded. “Quite sure. It was her favorite. I remember seeing it when I was little,” she added. As if that was an explanation.

  “Little?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? Our mothers were best friends. I spent half my life with him and his brother.”

  “No,” said Poppy weakly, pouring milk into a jug. “I knew he was at school with Ralph, but he didn’t mention that.”

  Emma snorted. “Typical Drew. Scissors?”

  “In that drawer,” said Poppy, “but honestly, I’ll do it in a bit. Just let me finish—”

  “It’s fine,” said Emma, yanking the drawer open. “They’ll wilt if you leave them too long.”

  They wouldn’t wilt in the next fifteen minutes. But there was no point in saying that. “That’s so kind of you.”

  Poppy put the kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. Why hadn’t Drew mentioned that was one of his mother’s vases? She could have dropped it without knowing, or chucked it. Was he embarrassed because he’d kept hold of something so feminine? Surely he was more evolved than that? It was sweet. So sweet that she almost wanted to go and wrap her a
rms around him. She searched in the cutlery drawer for the sugar tongs, listening to the click of Emma’s scissors as she sliced through the stems of the flowers. She should say something. Fill the silence.

  “How was the drive?” she ventured. She had already asked that.

  “Fine,” said Emma. She had lined the flowers up on the counter in a perfect stack. Each severed stem—identical in length—had been placed in a bowl. “Bin?” she asked, holding the bowl up.

  “If you leave them there I’ll take them to the compost later.”

  Poppy watched a little quirk appear at the left corner of Emma’s mouth. “Quite the country mouse,” she said.

  Poppy took the kettle off the hob and placed it on the side.

  “Isn’t that a bit hot?” asked Emma from the other end of the long kitchen, where she was arranging the flowers into a military configuration.

  “It’s OK,” said Poppy.

  “You’ll scorch it,” said Emma. “Put a mat underneath it.”

  “It’s heatproof,” said Poppy. “That’s why I chose it.”

  “You redid the kitchen?” Emma’s eyebrows disappeared into her heavy blond fringe.

  “Yep.” Poppy nodded. “It was the first thing we did.”

  She watched Emma drink in the butter-yellow cabinets and brass taps. Was Poppy being oversensitive, or did she look surprised to see that Poppy had taste? “I’m thinking about retraining in interior design,” she added, hearing how stupid the words sounded as they fell into the room.

  “Well,” said Emma, “you’ve got a great eye.” She picked up the vase and placed it at the center of the wooden table. “We can move it later, when we eat,” she said. “Nothing worse than being unable to see across the table.”

  “We’re eating outside this evening,” Poppy replied. “Because it’s still quite warm, and we’ve got the heaters, we thought it might be nice to eat on the terrace. Drew is barbecuing.”

  “Gosh,” said Emma. “I hope everyone’s packed appropriately.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s just nice to be out there while the weather holds. And we’ve got blankets and spare sweaters.”

  Emma made a noise with her lips sealed together, a noise that didn’t mean anything. “How else can I help?” she asked.

  Poppy managed to smother the smile pulling at her mouth. “Honestly, it’s all under control. I don’t need anything. Why don’t you go and get ready for supper?”

  Emma shrugged and turned for the kitchen door. As she reached for the handle, she stopped. “You know,” she said, her words slow and flat. “Drew is very special to all of us. We . . .” She paused. “. . . love him.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m so glad that you’re all here. In our home.”

  Emma did not mistake Poppy’s meaning. She gave a tight smile, which Poppy read as an admission of defeat, and closed the kitchen door behind her.

  Chapter 29

  Cordelia and Mac arrived half an hour later. Poppy was just about to slip upstairs to check her makeup and spray yet more deodorant under her arms when she heard a voice in the hall, calling hello. Running from the kitchen, she saw a dark-haired woman with muscular arms wearing a sleeveless shift dress.

  “Hello,” she said, not unkindly. “Could you let Mr. and Mrs. Spencer know that Mr. and Mrs. Wren have arrived?”

  It was a moment before Poppy processed what was happening. In fact, she was just about to wipe her hands on a tea towel and run down to give the message when she realized that she was, in fact, Mrs. Spencer.

  “You’ve just told her yourself,” said a voice from the staircase. Gina’s endless legs were appearing above her, eventually covered by denim shorts. What a moment to have chosen to finally appear downstairs. Her torso was long and lean in a cropped T-shirt. Poppy fought off the fact that Gina had gone through her entire wardrobe and hadn’t found anything she wanted to borrow. Were her clothes really that boring? “That’s Poppy,” she said. If she was trying to repress her laughter, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  Poppy stepped forward and offered her hand to shake, just as Cordelia leaned in to bump her cheek against Poppy. Poppy’s fingers sort of stabbed Cordelia’s toned stomach. Gina laughed.

  “Gina,” said Poppy, “any chance you could get everyone a drink?”

  “Sure,” she said, turning for the kitchen. “Drew and Ralph have already started.”

  Poppy looked out of the hall window and saw that Gina was right. They were both sitting at the wooden table with beers in their hands. It was fine, Poppy told herself. That was good. They were having fun.

  “Typical Ralph.” Cordelia laughed. “Always such a bad influence on poor Drew.”

  Poor Drew seemed like an odd thing to say, but Poppy couldn’t think of a response.

  “Dilly, did you have to pack everything you owned?” came a voice from the door. Looking up, Poppy saw a man, no more than five foot five, with a great deal of curly ginger hair. He dropped the suitcase heavily on the floor. “That’s it, I’ve definitely got a hernia.”

  “Hi,” said Poppy, looking from Cordelia to the man, wondering if it was possible that these two people could be married to each other. “I’m Poppy.”

  He looked her up and down, which should have been offensive but somehow from his crinkly brown eyes felt friendly. “Well,” he said. “You were quite right, Dilly.”

  “Right?” asked Poppy.

  “She said you’d be gorgeous.”

  Poppy laughed, sure that when Cordelia—Dilly—had said it, it wouldn’t have sounded like a compliment. “Thank you,” she said. “Shall I show you to your room, and then you can play catch-up with the others? They’re already a few beers deep.”

  She could hear herself doing it, playing the cool girl. Something about Cordelia’s starched dress and sprayed blow-dry was making her want to be the polar opposite. Any resentment she had felt at Drew for sitting outside drinking beers rather than making the cocktail she’d found a recipe for drained away. There was no way Cordelia would let Mac sit outside getting gently pissed and not helping. So that was exactly what Drew was going to be allowed to do. She remembered Drew saying something before they came back to England about his friends’ wives. How diligent and reliable they were. Two words that no woman ever wanted to be described as.

  “Follow me upstairs,” she said as she turned to show them their room.

  In the kitchen, Gina was taking a long slug out of the vodka bottle.

  “What are you doing?” asked Poppy gently as she walked in. It was warm in here. Too warm? It would be lovely to eat outside. That was what she had told Emma they were doing. But then, people might get cold. There was a basket of neatly rolled blankets by the back door, specifically for anyone who got cold, yet there was the strong chance that that was the kind of thing Emma or Cordelia would consider tacky.

  “Sorry,” said Gina, putting the bottle down. “I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be able to cope with that one”—she gestured toward the front of the house—“sober. By the way, I found that on the floor of the larder.” She pointed to the kitchen table at the far end of the room where the tall white vase was lying in two neat parts.

  “Gina! What the fuck?”

  “What? It’s one of the old ones that came with the house, no?”

  “How did you break it?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You just found it on the floor?”

  “Yes, I just found it on the floor.”

  Poppy picked up the two halves and took them into the larder. She wrapped the pieces in newspaper and hid them in the recycling bin. “Don’t tell Drew,” she said.

  “It’s a vase, not a dead body. Why are you so worried about him finding out?”

  “Just don’t tell him, OK?” Gina gave her a look. “What?”

  “Why are you so worried about what he thinks? It’s like you’re scared of him.”

  Poppy wanted to stamp her feet and scream. “Gina, do we really need to do t
his right now? I’m not scared of him, I don’t know why you keep asking that, but you really don’t need to. I love him, he loves me, I just don’t want him to find out that the vase is broken when his friends have just arrived. OK?”

  “OK.” Gina held out the vodka bottle to Poppy.

  She shook her head. “I can’t smell like booze.”

  “Vodka doesn’t smell.”

  It was an olive branch, so Poppy took the bottle and drank from it. “You make a good point.”

  “Did you see that one’s arms?” whispered Gina, gesturing upstairs toward Mac and Dilly’s bedroom.

  “I know. That’s six hours a week of boot camp, I reckon.”

  “Imagine doing that when your pelvic floor’s been ripped out.”

  They both laughed, but the laugh brought Poppy a wash of guilt. They were Drew’s friends, and they hadn’t done anything wrong. Thinking she was the housekeeper was almost certainly an honest mistake. “I shouldn’t be a bitch,” she said, taking another sip from the bottle. “They’re nice. Really. She liked her room.”

  “Well, that was big of her.”

  “She’s not that bad.”

  Gina raised one perfectly angled eyebrow. She didn’t need to say a word.

  “OK, they might not be nice,” Poppy said. “But they’re here, and they love Drew, and they might be nice when I get to know them?”

  Gina’s eyebrow didn’t move. She picked up the jug of Moscow Mule she had made and then headed for the kitchen door. Poppy stood by the long window that ran the length of the kitchen, watching as Gina padded across the lawn and reached the table where the boys were sitting. Mac’s and Ralph’s eyes widened as Gina appeared, playing to her audience and swinging her slender hips. A little warmth swelled in the middle of her chest as she watched Drew’s eyeline. He barely glanced at Gina. She shouldn’t feel smug, she knew that. The other two had been married for years, to impressive, successful women. They had children and whole big lives together. Of course they wanted to sneak a look at Gina’s thighs. She was young and vibrant and the shorts she was wearing were designed to show that off. It didn’t mean Drew loved her more than those men loved their wives. But she couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit triumphant.