The Love Letter (16 page)

Not so easy to accommodate was the original Poppy herself, who might have been barely five feet tall and as skinny as a tightly rolled umbrella, but could make an empty Royal Albert Hall feel claustrophobic from across the gods. She swept out from behind a vast fern like a brightly coloured bird putting on a display, thin arms flung wide, screeching with delight. For all her pretty plumage, she had a hug like eagle talons landing on prey.

‘My darling, beautiful girl – how
wonderful
to see you again!’

Poppy gushed at everybody – it was her default position. Big, doeful brown eyes lapping everyone up, she would ask endless
questions, lavish endless praise, stroke cheeks, link arms, laugh at jokes and then assassinate one’s very being the moment one left the room. She was so duplicitous, it was almost admirable.

Poppy genuinely liked very few people, although she pretended to love everyone and many loved her as a consequence. Incredibly short-sighted, she refused to wear glasses or contact lenses, which meant that she lived in a blurred world where anybody more than six feet away looked the same, and so she had developed a grand, theatrical way of addressing rooms at large, matched with intimate tête-à-têtes with those who came within her focal range. Needy and neurotic yet fabulously funny and welcoming, Poppy had struggled with increasing agoraphobia for over a decade and now rarely ever left the house, relying upon a small army of visiting friends and house guests to entertain her lively mind. She loved to meet new people, she claimed, but one so rarely met the right sort these days. Obsessed with class, weight and intelligence, Poppy’s entry criteria for friendship was strict. A lack of education was unforgivable, anybody with an ounce of flesh on them was highly suspect, the obese were an absolute disgrace to themselves and should be locked away behind bars until thin enough to slip through them. Equally, an appreciation of mass culture was a gross moral weakness akin to paedophilia.

And yet, if introduced to a twenty-stone soap star who had left school at sixteen, she would be charm personified and seem unendingly fascinated by their life, their achievement and their talent.

Which was why, Legs guessed, right now she had a vice-like arm around Legs’ waist (assessing the muffin top, no doubt) and was asking all about her career, London life, her sister and her ‘gorgeous’ nephew. Her dark eyes glowed with affection and interest.

‘I gather you are Gordon Lapis’s
confidante.
’ She emphasised the word with such luscious cadence that it suggested inamorata or concubine might be just as appropriate.

‘He’s a client,’ she said carefully.

‘I can’t believe he wants to come here to our little backwater,’ she cooed. ‘So thrilling. I have never read any of his work, but I gather he is very well liked.’ Again, the insinuation was clear: ‘popular trash’. ‘I’ve even heard his oeuvre described as “magical realism”, which I’m sure is kinder than “fantasy”, and one does feel that genre authors still get very marginalised. I gather he’s compared to Pullman and even Tolkien by many. The harnessing of suspended adolescence in literature has always been a terribly clever trick, and from what I gather Ptolemy Finch has quite extraordinary charm …’ She proceeded to give a brief lecture that revealed a great deal of knowledge about Gordon’s work for one who had purportedly never read any of his books.

Then she suddenly stopped, as though realising this, and hastily redirected herself: ‘Yolande should have consulted with me when she heard that this was no ordinary request from an agent for his client. Of course Mr Lapis is not Farcombe’s usual fayre, but Francis assures me that if we host this personal appearance, it will make us all wonderfully rich and bring Hector back home to me.’

Legs shot Francis a wary look. She could never have anticipated Poppy accepting the Gordon proposal this easily, and still had an unpleasant feeling she was missing something. ‘He’ll certainly generate a great deal of public interest,’ she said cautiously.

At the mention of the great unwashed, Poppy shuddered slightly. Her bony fingers dug deeper into Legs’ waist and she dropped her voice so only she could hear. ‘Francis says we must all make sacrifices until order is restored, you two more than most. I know he is
so
grateful that you are prepared to help us save Farcombe.’

‘I’m not sure that I—’

‘Your dedication to your job is admirable, Allegra. I’m sure your boss is terribly proud of you.’ The barbed comment hung in the air briefly before the turbaned one raked her nails affectionately across Legs’ small spare tyre and asked her who she thought would win the Booker Prize this year.

Legs was well aware that Poppy had never liked her very much, having once nicknamed her ‘the Guinea Pig’, a sobriquet dating back to the squeaking laugh she’d possessed as a small girl. When Legs and Francis’s childhood romance had blossomed into adult cohabitation, his stepmother had confided to family friends that she thought the girl rather plain, very lazy and highly profiteering, and that she was lucky to have him. She predicted Legs would run to fat, like her ghastly sister.

It was therefore with great caution and carefully measured charm that Legs now replied to a barrage of questions about the London literary scene as she was steered between potted ferns and giant stone amoebas.

Behind them, Francis cleared his throat. ‘This is Kizzy, Allegra.’

Positively vibrating with emotion, Kizzy stepped from behind the beautifully laid table, sea-green eyes soaking in Legs’ face. She was absolutely stunning, dressed in a silver-grey chiffon dress that hugged wispily to her narrow body, matched with glass beads at her neck in shades of fox, bracken and moss, her flame-red hair snaking over her shoulders almost to the elbow. She looked like Klimt’s
Danaë.
Legs’ heart sank.

But then Kizzy lunged forward and shook her hand, bestowing eager kisses on both her cheeks. ‘I am sooo excited to meet you!’ she gushed. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to it. I just know we’ll be friends. We even went for the same job once, can you believe it? Is that shirt Stella McCartney? It’s beautiful.’

Legs reeled back in surprise. The bony fingers that gripped hers were ice cold, the fire in her eyes a direct contrast. Kizzy looked genuinely thrilled. Legs felt her own face flame under such scrutiny, although she was switched on enough to do a quick check of the ring finger to reassure herself it was empty.

‘You are
just
as I remember,’ Kizzy said in a curiously lisping, girlish voice, the accent softest Scottish. This confused Legs on two counts; firstly because she had no recollection of ever meeting
Kizzy, and secondly because she recalled Yolande as a raven-haired import from NW3 complete with flat vowels, married to Howard, a boffish Canadian academic. Their daughter’s Scottish accent seemed totally out of context.

‘Let’s eat lunch!’ Poppy demanded theatrically, and then proceeded to eat practically nothing of the delicious spread of freshly baked bread rolls, smoked fish and salads prepared by Filipina housekeeper, Imee.

Equally, Kizzy pushed a few lettuce leaves around her plate, her eyes barely leaving Legs’ face.

Having not eaten anything for twenty-four hours, Legs was ravenous and tucked in with gusto. Across the table Francis matched her, cheeks bulging.

Their eyes kept catching, like searchlights set in diametric corners of a top security prison wing, crossing one another to create a white-out. And even though felons were gambolling about shooting off high grade gun-power between them, they still beamed blindly.

Poppy did almost all the talking, the first half-hour of which was dedicated to deriding her husband, then Legs’ mother, as though their children were not sitting directly in front of her:
‘How
that dreadful little pudding of a woman could catch the eye of Hector I have no idea, although he’s practically blind these days as well as deaf, which explains something of it, up until the moment he pressed flesh.’

‘Enough, Poppy!’ Francis flashed at last, watching Legs’ ever-reddening face.

‘Hector must be made to see sense,’ Poppy carried on acidly. ‘Once he learns that Francis has forsaken darling Kizzy for Allegra once more, he’ll come straight home.’

Legs stole a glance at Kizzy, but that pretty face remained fixed on Poppy’s, the expression trusting and adoring.

For once Legs was reticent, not exploding in defence of one she loved and heard bad-mouthed. Poppy naturally assumed this was
because she thought the relationship between her mother and Hector as distasteful and shallow as the rest of them did, but in fact Legs’ silence was due to far less noble factors: she had her mouth full of both food and her own heart, knowing Francis was so close. The presence of Kizzy also made her hopelessly tongue-tied. It was all she could do to try to follow the conversation; the heartbeat pounding in her ears meant she was constantly fighting to catch up with what was being said. She found her gaze drawn again and again to Francis, who had no half-smiles, just a look of fear and need, the big blue eyes imploring.

For her part, Kizzy said little, but those soft Scottish bon mots came at precisely at the right time for their ranting hostess and the two exchanged many half-smiles of complete understanding. They obviously adored one another.

The only time she showed any strong reaction was when Poppy mentioned her younger stepchild.

‘You must have a tête-à-tête with Édith when she arrives,’ she told Legs. ‘Hector’s behaviour is making her more cynical than ever. She’ll be so relieved you’re here to sort it all out. It’s such a shame you dropped her when you dropped Francis. She cherished you.’

‘You and Édith were close?’ Kizzy’s green eyes bored into Legs’ face.

‘She and Jax came to lunch quite often when …’ She cleared her throat, not looking at Francis, ‘when we had the flat in Notting Hill.’ Legs had been instrumental in building bridges between Francis and his half-sister.

Édith – pronounced ‘eedit’ – was Hector’s pretty, dark-eyed daughter from a brief second marriage to tempestuous French model and animal rights activist, Inès. Brought up between her mother’s wildlife sanctuary in Corsica and the English boarding school paid for by her father, Édith was a rebellious mix of Mediterranean heat and British cool. After many Masters degrees and much travelling, she had now commandeered the Protheroe
family’s London house, where she devoted herself to running Hector’s charitable trusts between therapy, theatre and holidays. She and Francis had loathed one another until Legs intervened. Their relationship remained difficult, with both sparring for their father’s attention, but these days they were allies more often than rivals. Édith was also a close ally of Poppy, who had supported her earnestly when she came out several years ago and revealed her long-term lover to be a motorcycle courier called Jax (redeemed from the working classes in Poppy’s mind by a whip-thin physique, an appreciation of Allyson Mitchell and a terrific ability to keep quiet and look charismatically blank in company).

‘So Édith is coming down this weekend?’ Legs feigned enthusiasm.

‘Jax can’t resist a ringside seat at any Farcombe drama,’ Kizzy muttered with a flash of anger.

‘They are amongst those in the know,’ Poppy said smoothly, ‘and this crisis calls for many a good nose.’ She laughed at her pun as she tapped her tiny button snout. Among her eccentricities was a love of word play quite at odds with her hatred of all things populist. ‘I spoke with Édith on the telephone this morning and told her that you were back, Allegra. She guessed straight away that you’re after Francis, so we already have our first witness lined up for the “showmance”.’ Her deep voice made the word sound almost paranormal.

‘Édith knows everything?’ Legs was wary of Édith’s habit of playing people off against one another. She had been amongst the first to guess at Legs’ love affair with Conrad a year earlier, and had urged her to leave Francis for him. Yet it was Édith who had dropped their friendship like a stone the moment the engagement was broken. ‘I thought Francis said the fewer who knew the better?’

‘Édith doesn’t know!’ Kizzy’s voice shook, making Legs start back. ‘She thinks Francis is mad about me!’

Francis placed a reassuring hand on Kizzy’s fine-boned
shoulder. ‘What Poppy is saying is that if Édith sees Legs deliberately stealing me back from you, she will believe it to be true.’

‘Only we four know that this is fake.’ Poppy flashed her warm smile across the table at Legs. ‘You are in the Farcombe camarilla again, Allegra. Well done.’

Legs swallowed uncomfortably. An untouched fresh fruit salad was sitting in front of her. She half expected a serpent to sidle out of it and offer her a slice of apple. Her eyes sought out Francis again, but at that moment Poppy clapped her hands together and they both turned to her like musicians to a conductor.

‘Let us embrace the task at hand!’ She harnessed the two ex-lovers in her dark and potent gaze. ‘We all know it’s going to be tough for you two to pretend to be back together, and terribly hard on darling Kizzy here.’ She stretched out a jewelled, bony claw to squeeze the girl’s arm. ‘But it is quite essential for the future of the estate to break this union between Hector and Mrs North as quickly as possible.’ She sounded like an old dowager queen discussing the succession.

At last, Legs felt her tongue let loose from its stays. Unfortunate that she had just put a large spoon of fruit salad into her mouth and spat passion fruit pips everywhere.

‘I can’t do it!’ she cried, earning horrified looks all round.