Poppy had had to stop herself buying a first edition of The Grapes of Wrath, which her father, a lifelong lover of Steinbeck, would have treasured were he still in his right mind. He would have no idea what it was now, and it was seriously expensive. Just for a second her gaze misted over, then she shook herself and turned back to her bags of goodies.
For herself, Poppy had picked out a 1930s eau-de-nil silk slip edged with coffee-coloured lace, which she planned to wear as a dress, and an original hardback version of To Kill A Mockingbird, though that might just be on loan to herself. It would be a lovely thing to give her daughter, were she ever to have one; she remembered devouring the book when she was about 12.
The Collected Works of Hemingway, published in 1961 (the year the great man died, as Louis had helpfully pointed out), was a perfect present for her scrivener husband. Poppy savoured the word husband, still loving the sound of it. She’d pop into Macy’s on the way home for a few more bits and pieces for him. Damian was a joy to buy clothes for, his lean build and dark colouring lending themselves well to most styles. It was like having her own life-sized Ken doll, she thought fondly. She was looking forward to introducing him to her boss tonight.
Poppy wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and took another peek in the bag containing the fabulous Halston dress. She hoped Bella would take it in the spirit it was meant, that it wouldn’t scream guilt gift too loudly. She and Bella had been inseparable best friends since they first met as new girls at school, aged 10. Shagging Bella’s boyfriend would have been unforgivable under any circumstances, but when you considered that Ben had been the first person Bella had really thought herself in love with, it was just too awful to contemplate.
When Bella and Ben had first got together, Poppy had been unreservedly delighted for both of them. So when Ben had started flirting with her (very subtly at first – the odd text or Facebook message), she thought she must have been imagining it. After all, he was her boyfriend’s best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend. All very neat and symmetrical. But by the time Ben upped the ante and started coming on to her in person, Poppy was already out of her mind with grief about her father’s illness, and using coke heavily to numb her feelings. Unfortunately, it also numbed her finer feelings.
It all came to a head after the first occasion on which her father didn’t recognize her. Poppy had dealt with it (not very maturely, she knew) by going on a massive bender. It was during this bender that Ben had called her, suggesting they meet one night he knew Damian was going to be away; he had told Bella he was flying to New York for a modelling shoot. Scheming fucker.
If Bella hadn’t walked in on them, maybe nothing more would have happened, maybe … well – who knew what would have happened? But Poppy still couldn’t bear to think about how much she’d hurt Damian and Bella, and was still amazed that either of them had ever spoken to her again (they weren’t so forgiving towards Ben). It was only once she’d shacked up with the vain bastard that she’d realized how incompatible they were, how much she missed Damian. Both Poppy and Ben needed an audience, someone to adore them unconditionally. They’d ended up irritating the shit out of each other, two massive egos both clamouring to be heard loudest.
Whereas, Damian … Poppy smiled fondly again as she thought of Damian. Dear Damian, so cool and laid-back about most things. How she’d missed his dry sense of humour and (OK, she admitted it) pretty much unconditional adoration. They had a great relationship, complemented one another perfectly.
Though it was funny that somebody so laid-back in most areas of his life could be so sensitive professionally. Despite his success in the men’s magazine world (until now), Poppy knew that Damian was highly ambitious and wanted greater recognition. He was a damned good writer, after all, she thought proudly. Probably the best of the lot of them on Stadium, which had showcased his wit and left-field humour perfectly. She sincerely hoped that this recession would prove an ill wind that blew him some good. Who knew what opportunities New York would throw up?
She took her iPhone out of her new Marc Jacobs handbag and called him, just to hear his voice. It rang for ages but there was no reply. Strange. Damian always answered his phone swiftly, just in case it was a commissioning editor (or Poppy herself). She tried again. Still nothing. Oh, well. Instead, she sent a text.
Hope you’ve had a great day darling husband. Looking forward to seeing you at L’Ambassadeur at 8. Wifey x
She finished her cake and orange juice and went inside to say goodbye to Louis. She’d better go home and get changed. She wanted to make a good impression tonight.
Damian was having the time of his life. Ever since he’d hit London in the late nineties he’d been obsessed with obscure dance and indie music, keeping up with the hippest DJs and latest bands, always to be found backstage at gigs and festivals. None of his friends or men’s magazine cronies would believe it if they could see him now, singing along to cheesy Queen hits with the wild abandon of an alcoholic uncle at a wedding. ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ was going down particularly well.
He and Lars were cheered along by the motley crew of fellow daytime karaoke aficionados that made up their audience. Actually, it was no longer daytime, but most of them had been there since lunchtime. Once the song was over, they prepared to descend from the stage, despite cries of ‘More!’ and ‘Encore!’. The time had come for another drink.
‘Thanks, guys,’ said Damian modestly, taking a bow. ‘But now I think it’s time for somebody else to … to … to … RRRRRRRIP UP THE FLOOR!’ By the time he got to the end of his sentence, he was shouting and waving his mike in the air, to rapturous applause.
‘Darren, my friend,’ slurred Lars. Damian couldn’t be bothered to correct him. ‘Am I glad to have met you, man.’ And without further ado, he slung Damian over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him to the bar.
Through tears of laughter, Damian started to sing ‘New York, New York’ again, the words muffled against Lars’s huge back.
Lars joined in from somewhere around Damian’s knees, and the rest of the room happily shouted out the chorus. Then there was much shushing as the next singers had mounted the stage, about to give their performance of a lifetime.
‘What you drinkin thish time, man?’ Lars asked Damian, putting him back to his feet like a dishevelled half-Indian rag doll in designer jeans.
‘No no no, it’s my round,’ said Damian, reaching into the wrong pocket for his wallet, and pulling out his phone instead. ‘Ooooh, look, messssage … oh, fuck! Shit, Lars, what’s the time?’
‘Wasssshamatter, old buddy?’ Lars furrowed his blond brow, putting a heavy hand on Damian’s shoulder.
‘Lars, mate, what’s the time?’ Damian had forgotten he could check the time perfectly well himself on his phone. Not to mention his watch.
Lars looked at his enormous Rolex.
‘It’sh twenty hundred hoursh. But why, my friend?’
‘Because I’ve just been reminded where I’m supposed to be, right now. D’you know a place called L’Ambassadeur?’
‘Do I know L’Ambasshadeur?’ Lars smiled broadly. ‘Man, I have sharesh in that place.’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘I’ll take you there, my friend. Who ya meeting there?’
‘Oh, only my wife. And her boss. And his wife.’
Both men stared at each other for a second, then started roaring with laughter