The Truth Hurts Read online

  Chapter 3

  Poppy woke alone. She sat up, struggling for a moment to work out where she was, before her eyes rested on a blue linen shirt, thrown over the back of a chair. A tidal wave of anxiety swept over her. Her job. The Hendersons. The car. The shoes. Drew. Drew’s house. Her tongue was dry and half stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  A long window ran across the wall opposite the bed, looking out over the sea. Everything she could see was either cream, white or glass. It was a house for grown-ups.

  The previous night started to develop in her mind. They had stood on the balcony and looked out over the dark sea. Drunk a bottle of wine. Talked about his job, his friends, why he was in Ibiza. Had she asked if he was married?

  She stretched, running her hands over the smooth sheets. It was painfully tempting to go back to sleep, to drag out her time here as long as possible. It made the Hendersons’ villa look mediocre. Which was no surprise, really. It was everything that his accent and confidence had led her to expect. Fleetingly she wondered how he’d cope if he had to spend a night in the windowless bedroom she lived in at the Hendersons’ house. The Hendersons. Would they be awake yet? Would they have realized that the car was gone?

  Bending down she found the pile of clothes she’d been wearing last night: knickers, bra, sandals and a pink cotton sundress. Mrs. Henderson had called her brave for wearing pink because it clashed with her hair. How could that have only been yesterday? She picked up the knickers. What was worse, dirty knickers or no knickers? She shoved them in her handbag and put the dress and bra on. Would Drew give her a lift back to the Hendersons’ car?

  They hadn’t had sex. Poppy had wanted to. They’d fallen into the bed kissing, a tangle of limbs, his hands up her dress, on her back, twisting in her hair. But then he’d stopped. Told her that he wanted her. Badly. But that he wanted her to be sober, at least the first time. Poppy had pretended to be OK with that and then turned away, a pounding heartbeat between her legs. Once she heard his breathing slow, she had clamped her hand between her legs and brought herself to a shuddering climax. The second she finished she had been filled with guilt and self-loathing. She’d felt her skin grow hot, humiliated at the memory. What kind of a person got themselves off lying in bed next to a sleeping stranger? She’d fallen asleep afterward, drugged by her orgasm, the alcohol and the horrors of the day.

  Wandering along the corridor, which also had one entirely glass wall overlooking the sea, Poppy wondered who cleaned all the windows in this place. It must be a nightmare. Outside on the terrace, wearing navy shorts and a white shirt, was Drew. He had one leg casually slung over the other and was reading the Daily Telegraph. How had he managed that? Mr. Henderson had whined every day about the lack of English newspapers over here, how reading it on his iPad just wasn’t the same. Drew had a cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of Wayfarers over his eyes. He looked like the kind of guy who picked up a kid once every two weeks from the Henderson children’s school and then acted like it made him father of the year. What had she been thinking last night? This was exactly the kind of man who patronized her when she served drinks at parties.

  “Hey,” she said, squinting into the sun, one hand shielding her eyes. “I’m going to go.”

  “Go?” He jumped to his feet. “Where?”

  “Back to the car. I need to return it or they’ll report it stolen. Do you have the number for a taxi?”

  Drew was smiling a strange smile. Poppy tried not to express her frustration. He might have all the time in the world but she didn’t. The angrier the Hendersons were the less likely they’d be to give her the money they owed her. If she got the car back quickly enough, she could get a flight. Get out of here.

  “I’ll take you to drop the car back,” said Drew, draining his coffee and getting to his feet.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun, squinting at him. So polished, so together. “Why?” she asked.

  “I like you,” he said, heading toward the car.

  “Why?” she heard herself ask again, her walk almost a run to keep up with his pace.

  It was a stupid question; she was fully aware of that. But she wanted an answer. She knew she was attractive enough, and younger than him. She understood why someone like him would want to sleep with someone like her. But this was more than that. He didn’t sleep with her last night, although he so easily could have. And he could have brushed her off with a cup of coffee this morning, maybe even paid for her taxi if he really wanted to be nice.

  Drew stopped, lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her on the lips. “Lots of reasons,” he said. “Come on.

  “Roof down?” he asked as he pulled out of the drive. Poppy nodded. The car was long and low and the leather seats were sticking to the backs of her bare thighs. He pushed a button and back went the canvas, exposing their skin to the blazing sunshine. Poppy pulled her scratched sunglasses from her handbag and tipped her head back, watching the bright blue sky sail past them. The roads turned sharply but Drew clearly liked to drive. Poppy felt safe with him. Illogically so. She noticed a sign hurtle past them.

  “We missed the turn for San Sebastián,” she called over the noise of the engine.

  “We have a stop to make first,” said Drew, without taking his eyes off the road.

  “Where?” asked Poppy, suddenly nervous.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” he asked.

  She studied his broken nose, high forehead, tanned forearms. “No,” she called. “Of course not. I literally just met you. You’re a complete stranger.”

  “You share beds with complete strangers often?”

  She raised one eyebrow to show him what a stupid question that was. He laughed. And for some reason, the speed or the sun or maybe just because of him, she found herself laughing too.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as Drew locked the car. They were on a long wide street lined with stone buildings and cream awnings. She looked at the clock on the car’s display, worried about the time, the car, the Hendersons. A vision of a Spanish-speaking policeman wielding handcuffs filled her mind.

  “You’re going to do me a favor,” he said. He set off, walking fast.

  “Favor?”

  Drew smiled. “I’m going to go and sit at that café over there”—he gestured to a café with white tablecloths—“and you’re going to go in there”—he pointed to a shop—“and then in there”—he pointed to a building next door. Poppy pulled her sunglasses up onto her head, studying Drew’s face in the sunlight.

  “What?” she asked.

  He pointed again. “Dress shop. Hair salon.”

  “You remember the part about me being broke, right?”

  “It’s on me,” said Drew, holding out a credit card. “It’s a favor. Remember?”

  “How is buying me a dress and a haircut a favor?”

  “I’ve been thinking about those vile people you worked for all morning,” said Drew, taking Poppy’s hand. His skin was cool, his fingers long. “And I want to shut them up.”

  “This feels like a deleted scene from Pretty Woman.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  Poppy scrunched her nose in disbelief. “It’s about a guy who pays a hooker to be his girlfriend for a week. He even sends her out shopping on his card.”

  Drew raised his left eyebrow. “I’m not trying to buy you. I thought it might be fun to turn up with you looking ten million euros, throw them the keys and tell them to stuff their job.”

  “Drew, look, this is very sweet but I need to get the car back. They’ll think I’ve stolen it.”

  “Text her and say you’re bringing it back later.”

  “What if she calls the police?”

  “You think she’s going to call the police and tell them that her nanny borrowed the car and is bringing it back later?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So stop worrying.”

>   How amazing would it be to be the kind of person who could just stop worrying, the kind of person who didn’t wake up every morning with their stomach in a tight knot, waiting to remember all the things they were stressing about before they fell asleep. Poppy stepped closer to him, catching another hint of his scent, as if by standing close enough to him she might absorb some of his attitude.

  “Why do you want to do this?” she asked, her resolve weakening. Across the road, she could see a dress in the shop window. White, button-front with a Bardot neckline.

  “I’m being childish,” he replied. His face was bright with enthusiasm. He looked like a naughty teenager. “I don’t often get the chance to say a great big fuck you to the kind of people I always have to play nice with.”

  “OK,” she said, “I suppose I could do you one favor. After all, you put a roof over my head last night.”

  “You are the very emblem of generosity,” he quipped.

  The woman in the dress shop was straight out of Spanish central casting, olive-skinned with a sheet of shiny dark hair. She poured Poppy a cup of black coffee, which Poppy pretended to like, and pulled item after item off the rack. Painfully aware that she wasn’t wearing any knickers, Poppy tried on the dresses, and found that in spite of herself, she was having fun. Maybe it was weird, but a hot guy wanted to buy her a dress. How often did that happen? Perhaps she should just enjoy it.

  Eventually she and Juana, who deserved every penny of her commission, settled on the beautiful white dress from the window. Poppy hadn’t worn anything white since the first time she picked up a toddler. Juana replaced Mrs. Henderson’s stolen gold shoes with an even more expensive pair before wrapping Poppy’s tired sundress and borrowed shoes in tissue paper and putting them in a fancy paper shopping bag.

  Alba, the woman in the salon, went into raptures about Poppy’s hair, praising the coppery color and the length as she scrubbed it clean. Poppy blushed a deep red when asked what products she used. She couldn’t face telling Alba the truth, that her usual grooming consisted of a stolen squirt of L’Oréal Kids and wrapping her hair up in an old T-shirt. If she was really lucky she might get a couple of minutes to aim a hairdryer at it.

  It wasn’t that Poppy didn’t care. Quite the opposite. Her mother had often told her off for being vain, and even confiscated her bedroom mirror because she was “too pleased” with her own face. But after six years of looking after three small children, she’d forgotten how to do much for herself. Now when she went out with Gina she’d stick an eyeliner in the corner of her eye and tug it back and forth a few times, brush her teeth and throw some red lipstick on.

  “There,” said Alba, putting the hairdryer down. “You like?”

  Her hair, usually tied in a knot on the top of her head, was gently waved, as though she’d been swimming in the sea and let it dry. Or rather, as though she was in a magazine where she was supposed to look as if she’d been swimming in the sea and let her hair dry naturally.

  “I love it,” said Poppy.

  “Ready?” she called to Drew, who was reading the papers. He looked up, then slowly ran his eyes along her body, his mouth spreading into a wide smile.

  So, he liked the dress. She tried not to return his grin. “Well?” she asked. “Can we go now?”

  “You know, most women would probably say thank you,” said Drew, and Poppy put the credit card down in front of him.

  “I’m doing you a favor, remember?” said Poppy.

  “You’re quite right,” said Drew, placing a twenty-euro note under his coffee cup. “How good of you to remind me. Shall we?”

  “Yes,” said Poppy, trying to ignore the fear that had returned to her guts. “We shall.”

  Chapter 4

  “Nervous?” asked Drew as they sailed around the curve of the mountain.

  “No,” lied Poppy. “We need to go to the left at the top here, so I can pick up the Range Rover.”

  Drew shook his head. “We’ll give them the keys. They can go collect it.”

  “What?”

  “They can go and collect it themselves.”

  “You haven’t met them. That’s not the kind of thing they do. They—” She stopped herself.

  “For someone who isn’t nervous, you sound nervous,” said Drew, keeping his eyes on the road. “They fired you. Why are you still worrying?”

  “I’m not,” snapped Poppy. She dug her nails into her leg, through the stiff white cotton of her new dress. “I just . . .”

  Drew slowed down. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Poppy. “I shouldn’t be pushing you. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Do you want me to turn around? We can go back and get the car.”

  Poppy focused on her feet. Juana had sold her wedged espadrilles with closed toes to hide her chipped toenail varnish. “I don’t know,” she said quietly.

  “You’re not as confident as you seem,” said Drew matter-of-factly.

  “Difficult to be confident when you don’t know if you’re getting your final paycheck.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “You don’t know these people.”

  “I know their type. And I promise, you’ll get your money. Where’s all of last night’s confidence?”

  It was a good question. She sat up a little straighter, her eyes on the road, and said, “OK. I like your plan. Let’s do your plan.”

  “Good,” said Drew, turning into the drive. “It’s this one, right?”

  Poppy rang the doorbell.

  After a short wait Mrs. Henderson came to the door. Watching the kaleidoscope of reactions on her face was even better than Poppy had hoped it would be. First there was the look of exhaustion, unquestionably caused by her first twelve hours of solid childcare in her entire time as a mother. Then shock at recognizing the girl in the white dress with the killer blow-dry was Poppy. And finally horror at the realization that Poppy had arrived with this incredibly good-looking man with an expensive watch and an even more expensive car.

  “Poppy,” she said, grinding the words out from between her subtly enhanced lips. “Can I help?”

  Poppy had fully expected to freeze up. To throw the keys at Mrs. Henderson and then run back to the car. But maybe the dress had magic powers, or some of Drew’s cool cockiness had rubbed off on her on the drive.

  “Can we come in?” And before she’d been given an answer, Poppy was through the door and settling herself on one of the high stools by the kitchen island, Drew next to her.

  Mrs. Henderson followed them, blinking. She wore a jewel-green swimsuit with a sarong around her boyish hips.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Yes please,” said Drew, acting as if he thought she was being genuine. “Water would be great.”

  Poppy tried not to squeal with joy as a dazed-looking Mrs. Henderson took a San Pellegrino from the fridge and placed it on the counter.

  “So?” said Mrs. Henderson, pulling herself up to her full height. “Can I help you?”

  “I brought these back,” said Poppy, passing the shoes back in the box that Juana had so kindly given her.

  “And these,” added Drew, putting the Range Rover keys on the counter.

  “You’re lucky you did,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Hengist wanted to report it stolen but I managed to talk him out of it.” She clearly wanted to add the words “you’re welcome.”

  “Well, as you can imagine, Poppy assumed you wanted her to take the car,” said Drew evenly. “She didn’t think there was any way that you would throw a young woman out of your house into the night without any kind of transport?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Henderson said eventually.

  “And then of course there’s Poppy’s final payment?” Drew smiled.

  Mrs. Henderson looked him up and down and then glanced at Poppy. “I’ll need to discuss it with Hengist.”

  Poppy could feel Drew watching her. “I can tell you how much I’m owed,” s
he said, more boldly than she felt. It had been easy to stand up to her before, when she’d been stewing in her anger for hours, exhausted and defensive of the kids. But it was far harder to talk about money, especially in front of Drew, who wouldn’t give a second thought to a few hundred quid. “It’s this month, plus expenses. And I’m supposed to get one month’s pay.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Henderson replied, her voice robotic. She reached for her handbag and pulled out a checkbook. “Of course,” she said as she scribbled along the lines.

  “Thank you.” Poppy took the check and shoved it into her bag.

  “We haven’t been introduced yet, by the way,” said Drew, reaching his hand across the counter. “I’m Drew Spencer.”

  Mrs. Henderson blinked slowly, and then fixed her face into a pleasant expression. “Amanda Henderson,” she replied. “I know you by reputation, of course. You probably know my husband, Hengist?”

  Drew gave her an impassive look. “Quite possibly, if he’s in finance. Forgive me. I’m not great with names. Darling, we should get going.”

  Poppy got to her feet. “Mrs. Henderson, are the kids here? Can I say goodbye?”

  “They’re not here,” she replied. “Hengist took them out to give me a break.” She looked at Drew with a martyred expression. “Three kids. I’m so lucky that Hengist does so much.”

  Poppy managed not to laugh. She wasn’t entirely sure that Lola would even be able to pick her father out of a lineup. He’d spent about ten hours with her since she had been delivered by scheduled C-section three years ago.

  “Why don’t you leave them a note?” asked Mrs. Henderson.

  “Really?” Perhaps Mrs. H was hedging her bets, thinking that if Poppy and Drew worked out they’d be an addition to her dinner-party set.

  “Of course. They’re going to miss you,” said Mrs. Henderson, as if she had forgotten how this whole thing had happened. “Come with me. There’s a notepad in here. Drew—Poppy’s bag is in that room over there.” She gestured at the tiny room where Poppy had been sleeping.