Will You Remember Me? (11 page)

Poppy felt her heart hammering in her chest. Had something happened to Danny? It was a constant unspoken fear for them all. Poppy thanked God that Martin was home. She braced herself, ready to hear Jo’s news.

Jo shook her head. ‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t.’

‘Can’t believe what?’ Poppy coaxed. ‘Have you had a shock?’

‘A bloody shock? I should say so. I keep hearing his voice, telling me over and over, and it won’t sink in, it just won’t. It’s not bloody fair.’

Poppy sighed. ‘Whose voice? What’s not fair, love?’

‘Life! Life’s not bloody fair!’ Jo sounded angry.

Poppy ran her tongue round her dry mouth. ‘Have you heard from Danny?’

‘Yes. This morning, earlier. He phoned, the fucking coward.’

Poppy sat up straight, shocked to hear Jo’s language and sentiment. Maybe it was the shock. ‘He phoned?’ It didn’t make any sense. If he was hurt…

‘Yes, can you believe it, ten years of marriage thrown away with a bloody phone call. He said being away has given him time to think. I could have screamed. All I’ve
got
is time to think, too much time! I could kill him, I could. He’s a fucking coward, couldn’t wait till he got home and pay me the courtesy of a face-to-face conversation. That’s all I got – a muffled phone call, no doubt with half of Bastion listening in. All these years, trying for a baby, it was all I ever wanted and they said it probably wasn’t me and now those years are behind me, what a waste. Too fucking old and he took those years from me!’

All thoughts of her illness flew from her mind. Poor Jo. Her lovely mate did not deserve this. ‘Jo, you need to calm down and tell me exactly what Danny said.’

‘He said he wants a divorce, said he hasn’t been happy for a while and that I should pack up my stuff before he gets back as he’s given up the quarter.’

‘Shit!’ Poppy sat back and rubbed her face.

‘Yes.’ Jo nodded in agreement as she unfurled the remnants of her tissue. ‘Shit.’

Martin skulked out of the kitchen. ‘Think I’ll leave you girls to it.’ He gathered up his jacket and beret and left the house.

Two hours later, Poppy lay in the austere, echoey room in her blue hospital gown. She was on a narrow, white, fixed bed that looked part kitchen counter, part supermarket conveyor belt. Above her hovered a large white machine that reminded her of something you might see at the dentist’s or in one of those vintage episodes of
Star Trek
, like the ones she’d watched in her youth.

‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?’

‘All okay, Mrs Cricket?’ A robotic-like voice floated through the speakers.

Poppy gave the thumbs-up and felt her cheeks flush. She had forgotten there were speakers and a microphone and that a team in the adjacent room could hear her every word. She closed her eyes and thought of Jo, poor Jo. One phrase stuck in her mind: ‘Now those years are behind me, what a waste.’ Poppy felt strangely thankful, knowing that not one second of one day had been wasted in her life with Martin. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, her other half, to whom her heartstrings were joined. She remembered him striding across the playground at school one Valentine’s Day. He had marched across the tarmac, ignoring the taunts and jibes of their classmates, and delivered a huge padded card of a kitten in a wine glass, with the words ‘I Love You’ emblazoned across the top in swirly gold script. She still had it somewhere, probably in the loft gathering dust along with her other treasures. She hoped something similar would soon happen to Jo; hoped she would find someone who would make her feel like the most important person in the world, the way Martin did her. Poppy didn’t need diamonds the size of ice cubes or kidney-shaped pools; she knew what it was to be loved and that gave her riches beyond compare.

The CT scan was finally done and Poppy waited in the reception, feeling a little like she had a chill. She asked the lady behind the desk to call her a taxi; she didn’t feel up to the bus.

The taxi dropped her outside the house. Poppy paid the driver in silence. She was in no mood for small talk. Martin was home and Max was playing in the hallway when she put her key in the door.

‘Where have you been?’ Martin shouted from the kitchen.

‘I lost track of time and then I went for my beautician appointment and felt really awful, bit fluey. So I didn’t stay, I just came home.’ She gave a feeble smile.

‘I’ve been worried sick!’ He dried his hands on a tea towel. ‘You didn’t answer your phone.’

‘Oh God, sorry, love. I’m out of battery. I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘Well you bloody did!’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t look well,’ he noted, his voice softening.

‘Hello, my lovely boy,’ she cooed, reaching down to stroke her son’s head. Suddenly, she bent over and clutched her stomach. ‘Oh God, Mart, I need to get to the loo!’ Her tone was urgent.

‘God, are you okay?’ Martin rushed forward.

Poppy shook her head.

‘It’s okay, love, up you go.’ He picked up Max and stepped away from the bottom of the stairs. Poppy did her best to make it to the bathroom, moving as fast as her aching bones would allow.

She shoved open the bathroom door with her elbow as she pulled her coat up and tore at the buttons on her jeans. ‘Christ, no!’ She nearly made it.

Martin ventured upstairs ten minutes later, to find his wife sitting on the bathroom floor, her back against the radiator. She was naked and wrapped in a large towel, and she was crying. She had used the showerhead to hose herself down in the bath and her clothes were in a heap in the corner.

‘Can you throw them away please, Mart?’ She prodded the pile with her foot.

‘Throw them away? Can’t I just wash them for you? I don’t mind.’

‘I mind. Please throw them away.’

‘Okay, love, will do.’ Martin bent down and retrieved the sodden pile. He fought his gag reflex. ‘I’ll be back in a sec to get you into bed. What on earth do you think it is? Should I call the doctor?’

‘No!’ She was adamant, shaking her head through her tears. ‘It’s just that horrible bug still. I don’t want to give it to the kids.’ She retched once more as though she was going to be sick, but nothing came.

True to his word, Martin came straight back to the bathroom. ‘Come on, let’s get you into bed and get you toasty.’ He hooked his arms around her back and lifted her until she could lean on him.

‘Mart?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Poppy took a step outside of the bathroom and then turned, aghast. ‘Oh God, no. Mart, I need to go back on the loo, now, right now!’

‘Okay, okay!’ He tried to calm her panic while guiding her onto the loo and for the second time in the short while she had been home, she nearly made it.

Spent, Poppy lay under the duvet shivering and wondering how she was ever going to find the strength to tell him. There was the quake of fear in her stomach. She didn’t feel like a person in a million, didn’t feel like she was winning. If anything, she felt the exact opposite.

The bell rang at a little before one. Peg ran at the front door, skidding along the hall floor in her socks and smacking into it. She slid onto the ground then jumped up and opened the door to a man standing with black boxes of equipment around his feet and what looked like folded-up umbrellas under his arm.

‘Are you okay?’ He looked concerned, having heard the bump from the other side of the door.

‘Yep, I always do it, I’m not very good at stopping.’ Peg studied the man in his boots, jeans, white T-shirt and sunglasses. ‘You’ve got a lot of perfume on,’ she commented.

‘It’s aftershave.’ He smiled at her.

She wrinkled her nose. Same difference.

Poppy came down the stairs and stared at the man on the doorstep. Jo was right: drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Poppy?’ He removed his glasses and stepped forward.

‘No, I mean yes… Come in, or get your things… whatever…’ She was surprisingly flustered.

Paul strode into the hall and grasped Poppy’s hand in a firm handshake; she tried not to stare at his tanned, muscled arms. She felt a little weak and wasn’t sure she could blame that entirely on the bastard pedalos.

‘Knock knock!’ Jo shouted through the open door. ‘Thought I’d come and help, or watch, or whatever…’ Jo too went a little gaga.

‘I’ll just grab my stuff.’ Paul smiled and motioned to his car, which was parked with the tailgate lifted.

The moment he left the house, the two women collapsed on each other in a fit of giggles.

‘Blimey, Poppy, who cares what the photos are like. This will be the best afternoon we’ve had in a long time!’

Martin came down the stairs carrying Max. The two were in their best clothes, Martin wearing a suit with a stiff white shirt underneath. Max’s hair had been brushed into a side parting; he had proper shoes on, and the collar of his shirt, which was just like his dad’s, was poking over the top of his navy jersey.

Peg had spent the best part of the morning painting her nails for the occasion, a concession by Poppy in exchange for Peg agreeing to wear her navy and white dotty dress that was saved for best. Her hair hung in a glorious red-brown curtain, with her newly trimmed fringe looking just right.

Poppy had thought long and hard about what to wear. She finally settled on her dusky blue cotton top, which had a layer of silk in a slightly darker shade over the top. It was floaty and flattering and she loved the colour. Two long strands of multi-coloured beads completed the look. She’d put her hair up, leaving tendrils hanging loose around her face. She wanted to appear sophisticated and older, so that when Peg and Max looked at these pictures in later years, there might be less of a sense of her having been marooned in time. Poppy swallowed the sob that threatened. Determined that today of all days she would remain cheerful.

Paul moved the coffee table from the middle of the room and arranged a series of vast umbrella-like shades and screens. He stood with his camera in one hand and light meter in the other, measuring and clicking at the blank wall.

‘My Aunty Jo said she thought you were really fit, do you think you’re as fit as my dad? He’s a soldier and he can run up and down the hill with his rucksack on his back and he can lift me over his head.’

Paul stopped clicking and stared at Peg. ‘Erm… I’m not sure. I think your dad is fitter than me and definitely a lot braver.’

Peg smiled, more than satisfied with his response. Jo, on the other hand, turned red and decided to nip back next door to cringe in private.

Poppy and Martin sat straight-backed on the sofa with Peg between them and Max on his dad’s lap. Paul began to click, and every time he did, the flash to the right of him fired.

‘I’m going to be a pilot!’ Peg yelled quite suddenly.

Paul stared at the little girl, not quite sure how to respond. He settled on ‘Cool.’ Keen to get back to snapping, he chatted to them all, trying to relax them and get the shot he wanted. ‘Max!’ he called. ‘What have I got?’ He held up one of Max’s diggers in his free hand.

‘Digger!’ Max shouted, and he clapped, beaming. Paul clicked. The whole family laughed, and he clicked again.

‘Relax a minute, folks.’ Paul studied the images stored in his camera.

Freed from their poses, Martin sat back on the sofa and Max climbed up his torso and patted his head like a drum. Poppy reached over and hugged Peg, who threw her arms around her mum’s neck.

Paul looked up and grinned. He snapped, and snapped again. And again.

The Crickets looked wide-eyed at the photographer, who had seemingly caught them unawares.

Paul rested on his haunches and spoke to Poppy and Martin. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

Poppy nodded and peeled Peg from her neck.

‘I want you to almost make as if I’m not here. I want you to relax and chat. Martin, are you comfortable in that suit?’

‘Nah, mate.’ Martin pulled at the sleeves and twisted his head, jutting his chin.

‘Then make yourself comfortable,’ Paul instructed.

Martin jumped up. He didn’t need telling twice. He took his jacket off, undid his top button and rolled up his sleeves. They slumped back down on the sofa and Paul carried on snapping.

‘Glad I bothered ironing that shirt!’ Poppy joked. Martin bent forward and kissed her nose. Click.

‘Yuk!’ Peg shouted and covered her eyes, as was her habit whenever they kissed. Click.

‘Yuk!’ Max echoed as he pulled off his jersey and put it on his head, then threw it on the floor. His hair was mussed and stood up at right angles, as if he had just woken up. Click.

Without warning, Peg leapt from the sofa and ran upstairs, appearing moments later with her neon-green tutu over her frock and her googly-eyed deely boppers on her head. ‘Now I’m comfy!’ she said.

‘Give me strength!’ Poppy laughed as she pulled the band from her own hair, letting it fall in loose waves over her shoulders. They were only vaguely aware of the camera working in the background.

‘Ooooh! We forgot Toffee, he’s a part of our family!’ Peg jumped up again.

Poppy and Martin roared with laughter. Peg dashed to the palatial cage in the corner, plucked Toffee from his sawdust and fussed over him on the floor. After a moment or two, she sat down between her parents, beaming.

‘My Barbie accessories!’ she announced. She held Toffee in the air to reveal her pet dressed in a mini tiara, with a pink plastic handbag held against his paw and four blue plastic stilettos perched on his little claws.

And it was in that second – as Poppy and Martin saw the guinea pig outfit for the first time and looked at each other and laughed, as Max reached up to pet Toffee, as Peg tipped her head back on the verge of giggles, and as Toffee stared straight into the lens with an expression that said ‘Help!’ – that Paul Smith, photographer to the stars, got the shot he wanted.

‘And that, Cricket family, is a rap,’ he said, winking at Poppy.

Having recovered from the hilarity of their photo shoot and all in agreement that it was one of the best days they had ever had,
ever!
, Martin and the kids, with tummies full of crispy bacon sandwiches, rested in front of the television. Poppy nipped upstairs for her shower. She stripped off, still laughing as she flicked the tap on the shower. She removed her make-up in the mirror, watching as the mascara and lipstick slid from her face and onto the tissue paper which she then dropped down the loo. She felt tired. Bracing her arms against the sink, she sighed and hopped into the shower. She reached for her vanilla-scented gel, squeezed a blob into her palms and inhaled the glorious perfume as she worked up some lather against her skin. ‘That bloody guinea pig!’ She chuckled to herself as she pictured again the little blue stilettos.