The Truth Hurts Page 19

  Before

  Later that night, Caroline lay awake in bed.

  They were sleeping on the first floor, the kids on the second and Poppy had a cool, spacious wing on the ground floor—the room that she and Jim usually slept in. Caroline had insisted that Poppy take it so that she had some space from the kids. She was terrified that Poppy would look back in a decade and think that she and Jim had somehow taken advantage of her despite paying her her full salary to be there.

  This room felt foreign to Caroline. The bed was huge and squashy and must be almost a hundred years old. The ancient fan spun determinedly in the corner, giving out the ghost of a breeze.

  “Poppy said something about her passport earlier,” she said into the darkness, careful to sound offhand.

  “What?” Jim turned over.

  “Poppy. She said something about you helping her with her passport?”

  “Oh,” he said. “She didn’t have one.”

  “She didn’t have a passport?”

  “Not everyone does, Caro. I didn’t have one until I was her age. We don’t all grow up going on holiday every year.”

  His tone stung her. She turned over, feeling for the cold side of the pillow.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m being chippy.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “She was embarrassed,” he said, his voice gentle now. She felt his hand on her lower back. “She’s completely in awe of you.”

  “What?”

  “Oh come on! You’ve seen how she looks at you. She thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread. She wants to be you when she grows up. Is it any wonder that she didn’t want to admit to you that she doesn’t even have a passport?”

  His hand was on her thigh now, pushing up the sensible, comfortable nightdress that she’d started wearing after Grace was born. “Mm?” he asked.

  She didn’t say no, so he continued his determined quest.

  “Have you got a condom?” she whispered.

  He got up, clearly irked, and returned from the bathroom holding it aloft, like a trophy. She smiled, disappointed. She’d hoped that he might struggle to find one, giving her a reason to pretend that she wanted to, that she was sad they hadn’t managed it. But still, it was a good thing really. It meant they had already done it once this holiday. And the fact he felt like doing it was a great sign. When he was in one of his low patches he’d barely lay a finger on her for weeks at a time.

  She felt him against her and wrapped her ankles around his back, running her hands through his hair. The same movements she had made a thousand times, the same movements that had brought them countless orgasms, orgasms that had brought them three children.

  “Good?” he whispered, pushing into her.

  It wasn’t bad. “So good,” she replied.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Even if Poppy was ashamed, she didn’t have to know that Jim had told her. Wasn’t it strange that he hadn’t told her? She pictured Poppy walking into his office while the kids were watching Phineas and Ferb downstairs. Saying, with that gentle voice, “Can I ask your help?”

  He would have pushed back his chair, put down whatever he was doing without a second thought. Of course he would. What middle-aged man could resist offering help to a girl like Poppy? She would have blushed, probably. She blushed a lot. When she dropped something, when she mispronounced something, when she had to ask how to do anything. She’d have looked at the floor too, probably. And Jim would have coaxed it out of her, got her to admit what was wrong, just like he did with the children. She wouldn’t quite have sat on his lap and rested her head on his shoulder, but it wasn’t so far off.

  And he had made it all OK. Just like he used to for her, when they were younger and she had problems that he could help with.

  They weren’t like that anymore. He couldn’t help when it looked like she was going to lose a case. She couldn’t help him when he was trying to fit more bathrooms onto the fifteenth floor of a building. There wasn’t any room for each other in those cracks of their lives anymore.

  Jim grunted. “Are you close?” he whispered.

  “No,” she said, “I’ve had too much wine. Don’t worry.” Almost as the words were out of her mouth, he came.

  “Thank you,” he said, running his hand over her hair and kissing her forehead. “That was great.”

  When did they start thanking each other for sex? As though it was a favor. She kissed him back. “It really was,” she lied. “I love you.”

  Chapter 30

  “So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Ralph addressed the group, who were gathered around the outside table.

  “Well,” Poppy said, pulling a cigarette from the packet on the table and rolling it between her fingers. She hadn’t smoked for weeks, not since they came back to England. But it smoothed the jagged edges of her nerves, giving her something to do with her hands. Emma had said something to Drew about it earlier, a snitty comment about how she would have thought he would have given up by now and Poppy had lit up, almost in defense of him. “I was thinking we would eat out here.”

  “Lovely,” said Mac, just as Cordelia said, “You don’t think it’ll be too cold?”

  “Nah,” said Gina, dismissing her. “It’s still warm and we’ve got heaters. And what about food?”

  Gina was the best wing-woman a girl could have. She knew how badly Poppy would want to seem cavalier, like she hadn’t been planning the menu for this weekend since the day that Drew suggested his friends come to stay.

  “We’re having sea bass,” Poppy said. “But I was thinking we could barbecue it. Drew, d’you fancy being manly with fire?”

  Drew seemed younger since his friends had arrived. Sillier. He got to his feet, still laughing at something Ralph had been saying. “Absolutely, my darling,” he said, stopping to kiss her neck as he ambled across the lawn.

  “Isn’t it funny,” said Emma, refilling her glass, “how they show no interest in cooking indoors, but when it’s outside you can’t stop them?”

  The women laughed, Gina loudest. “You’re so fucking right,” she said, getting to her feet and picking up an empty wine bottle. “Shall I bring the fish out?”

  Poppy nodded. “I’ll come help you.”

  “No, it’s fine, babe, stay here.”

  She watched Gina wind her way back into the house, still barefoot. She’d looked cold, so despite her protestations Mac had offered her his sweater. She wore it now over her shorts and it looked like she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it, just endless legs, almost as thin at the top as they were at the bottom.

  “She’s a real treasure,” said Cordelia, who unlike Emma didn’t seem to have relaxed yet. “You’ll have people all over Wiltshire trying to poach her.”

  “Oh, she’s not like that—” Poppy started.

  “Everyone thinks that.” Cordelia gave a flat laugh. “But when the offer’s good enough, you can’t blame these girls. She’s gorgeous too. So exotic. That’s your saving grace, I guess, lots of women won’t want her in the house!”

  “She’s not exotic, she’s from Crystal Palace. And she’s not one of ‘these girls’ either.”

  “I thought she was your housekeeper?”

  “No. Well, yes, technically. But she’s my friend.”

  Emma and Cordelia exchanged glances. “Friend?”

  “I told Emma earlier. She’s a friend from London, helping me out until we hire someone full time. We worked for families on the same street, back in London.”

  “Oh,” said Dilly.

  “That can be difficult,” said Emma. It seemed like she was trying to be gentle but her tone was infuriating.

  “This isn’t Downton Abbey,” said Poppy, getting up. She could hear her voice getting louder. How many drinks had she had? Three? Four? Too many. She put a smile across her lips and forced her voice back into its normal tone. She was saying this stuff to them because she hadn’t said it to Drew, because his skepticism had hur
t her more than she had let on.

  “Sorry,” she said, picking up the empty jug. “It’s just that Gina is a great friend. I don’t want her being treated like ‘staff.’”

  “Of course not,” said Emma, before Cordelia could speak. “I completely understand.”

  “I’m going to go and help her,” said Poppy, turning to the house.

  “Could you ask Ralph not to burn his eyebrows off?” called Emma.

  Poppy laughed. “I’ll try!” she called back, grateful for Emma’s olive branch.

  “This all looks beautiful, girls,” said Ralph, as if Gina and Poppy were the two sweet teenage daughters who had put together supper for their parents. They smiled politely, and Drew dropped his arm around the back of Poppy’s chair, like a tiny reminder that Poppy was his wife.

  He wasn’t wrong, though. It did look beautiful. The air smelled like sweet pollen and sunshine, stronger and heavier with scent now as the sun went down than it had been all day. It mixed with the smoke of the barbecue, the perfume of people and the faint smell of sun cream. How many generations had sat in this garden, shielded from everything in the real world by the heavy green hills and ancient trees?

  “Please start,” said Poppy, looking down at the food. She had stuffed the sea bass with lime, chili, garlic and red onion, and thrown salt and olive oil over it. It was beautiful fish, bought from the fishmonger on the other side of Linfield. No need to smother it with sauces or overwhelming flavors. Just an arugula salad, roasted new potatoes, homemade mayonnaise and a salsa verde that Gina had made that was vibrantly green, though hotter than Poppy would have made it.

  “Who did the fish?” asked Emma.

  Poppy half raised her hand, shyly.

  “Really?” said Cordelia.

  “She’s a wonderful cook,” said Drew. “As is Gina, if you can hold your spice.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “You’ve got quite the setup here,” said Mac, spooning mayonnaise onto his plate. Poppy watched Cordelia lightly place her hand on his arm as he reached for a second spoonful. He said nothing but put the bowl down.

  “Have you got enough mayo?” she asked Drew, looking at Cordelia.

  “Like a little harem,” laughed Cordelia, returning Poppy’s gaze. Poppy looked from Gina to Drew, and then back. Was that what people thought? That she and Drew and Gina had made some sort of threesome?

  “It’s not like that,” she said, too fast. Too loud. Drew’s arm stiffened on her shoulder.

  “Of course not,” he added, his tone light. “I can only just keep up with this one.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Plus,” said Gina, leaning over, “no way would he be able to afford me.”

  The laughter rang out again, through the garden. Poppy imagined the sound wrapping around the branches of the trees and floating into the purple sky. It really was like no one else in the world existed. Sometimes, in the week, when Gina hadn’t come home from the pub the night before and Drew had gone to work, it scared her. The immensity of it. The silence. She missed the smallness of her room at the Hendersons’ house. Cramped as it was, it housed everything she had ever loved and if she sat with her back against one wall, she could see it all. That was impossible at Thursday House. She didn’t believe in ghosts or anything like that, but sometimes, when she walked around the house entirely alone, there was a feeling. A feeling like the house was watching her.

  She realized now that the house was built for this, for people and parties and lots of noise. It was never designed to be lived in by two people; it had been designed to overflow with children and grandchildren and dogs and servants and guests. So perhaps she and Drew should get on with it. Maybe the house would like her more if she gave it a child.

  Reading her thoughts, Emma and Cordelia broke through her distraction.

  “Poppy?”

  “Yes, sorry,” she said. “I was a million miles away.”

  They both made noises about it not mattering. “So, are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Gosh, you really were somewhere else. Thinking about having children?”

  Poppy turned to Drew. She must have looked horrified because he intervened. “Rather a personal question, don’t you think?”

  “We’re amongst friends,” replied Cordelia.

  “Poppy is a new friend,” said Drew. His voice was calm, but cold. Poppy wouldn’t have pushed back against it.

  Cordelia smirked. “She’s a new lots of things.”

  “So perhaps we could afford her some privacy? Just while she gets to know us.”

  “Of course.” Cordelia folded her napkin in her lap.

  “Anyway, you’re young. There’s no rush with these things for the boys, not like there is for us. You probably want a little time to adjust,” Emma interrupted.

  “To living in the country?” said Poppy, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes,” said Emma, “and being married, all of that.”

  “And making the jump from downstairs to upstairs,” said Cordelia, her voice just low enough that Poppy wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to have heard the comment.

  “I’m sorry, Cordelia?” she asked.

  Cordelia gave a tinkly little laugh. “Call me Dilly; everyone else does.”

  “What did you say?” Poppy repeated. She could feel the heat in her chest that meant she was about to lose her temper.

  “I said call me Dilly?”

  “Is everyone finished?” asked Gina, getting up. “Shall we clear?”

  “What a good idea,” replied Cordelia. “I’ll help you, Gina.”

  Poppy took a long gulp from her wine glass and rested her head against Drew’s shoulder. He was always so warm, his heat radiating through his shirt. The rage was still pumping under her skin, but the opportunity was lost. If she tried to bring it up when Dilly came back to the table she would look petty.

  “She doesn’t mean to be—” started Mac, sotto voce. Did he have to do this often? Follow behind Dilly, apologizing for her?

  “A bitch?” Drew said, looking at Mac.

  Emma laughed, and the boys joined in. Poppy reached forward to top up everyone’s wine glasses, and as she did, music poured out of the kitchen. Gina came running out, looking delighted with herself. She’d opened every window and let the song come spilling over the lawn. Poppy jumped up. “Amazing!”

  “Come on,” shouted Gina at the assembled group. “Come dance.”

  She and Poppy grabbed hands and spun together; then Poppy was being twirled around by Drew, and Gina was jumping up and down with Mac. Even Emma was self-consciously tipping from side to side and singing along. Poppy was almost too out of breath to follow suit, but she dragged air into her lungs, forming the familiar words.

  “Thank fuck you don’t have any neighbors,” exclaimed Gina just as Cordelia, a perplexed expression on her face, came back out. There was a little wet patch on the front of her dress where the tap of the downstairs loo must have caught her off guard and splashed her. Poppy decided not to say anything about it.

  The song finished and Poppy dropped to the ground, lying on the cold grass. Gina collapsed next to her and everyone else followed suit.

  “What did I miss?” asked Cordelia, sounding perplexed.

  “Nothing, Dilly,” said Poppy, laughing on the ground. “Just having fun.”

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Mac and Ralph decided that they’d had enough port. They’d made the “any port in a storm” joke four times each, and Poppy had watched them lurch up the stairs to their rooms, desperate to collapse on her own bed and tangle her body around Drew, to talk about how it had gone and what had worked and what they’d do differently next time. She’d have to be up before eight the next morning to make breakfast. How did everyone know what time to get up?

  “How do you think that went?” asked Drew, unbuttoning his shirt. “I think everyone had fun.”

  Would she ever stop being impressed at the way his body was b
uilt? A little glow swelled inside her, thinking how much more attractive Drew was than Mac or Ralph.

  “Good, I think. I like Emma a lot. And all of them, really. Though I don’t think Dilly likes me very much.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that.” Drew had changed into a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and settled on the bed, the last of his Ibiza tan still clinging to his skin. Something about the fact that Drew told her not to worry, rather than reassuring her that everyone thought she was great, stung.

  “But I want your friends to like me.”

  “They do like you.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “I can tell.”

  “You think Dilly likes me?”

  Drew put a pillow behind his back, seeming to accept that this was going to be a conversation. “Things are complicated with Dilly.”

  “Why?”

  “We were together. Years ago.”

  Poppy dropped the coat hanger she was putting her dress back onto. “What?” She half laughed. “You and Dilly?”

  Drew dropped his gaze to the floor, a bashful smile on his lips. “Yes, me and Dilly. Is that so strange?”

  “But she’s so . . .” Poppy trailed off.

  “Conservative?” he suggested.

  “I was going to say cold. Didn’t you get frostbite on your dick?”

  Drew surprised her by snorting out loud, racked with real laughter that came from the stomach. “Oh God,” he said. “I can’t wait to tell Ralph that.”