B004D4Y20I EBOK (25 page)

She would go in, she decided. A few quiet minutes wouldn’t hurt and she felt the need to gather herself. Besides, what else did she have to look forward to? Another quiet evening in on her own?

Friends were leaving her to herself at the moment, she noticed. No doubt they were trying to be respectful of the fact that her mother had died and assuming she needed time on her own and not to be bothered with frivolous invitations to dinners and parties.

She found the key to the garden gate in her vintage Kelly bag and opened it. Stepping inside, she felt herself relax a little. She walked over to one of the weathered wooden benches and sat down, looking out into the garden. It was hard to believe she was in the centre of London: the trees and hedges shut out the road almost completely and muffled the sounds of the traffic, not that there was much in this square. Tiredness bent her shoulders and she sighed.

I’ve never worked this hard in my life
, she thought.
And it’s not even been two weeks!

Even at college she hadn’t been required to arrive at nine o’clock and stay for the entire day. It was a new experience, and she couldn’t work out if she liked it or not.

But I’m not myself
, she thought.
I know that. The others don’t seem to have noticed. I feel as though I’ve been through so much. Losing Mother
. She felt herself slump a little at the thought. Jemima’s hatred for their mother was so overpowering that it seemed to infect Poppy and Tara as well. Poppy felt as though somehow she wasn’t allowed to say that, actually, she had loved her mother, in her way. Yolanda Trevellyan had not been a very loveable woman, but she had tried to show affection in the only way she knew. And at the crisis in Poppy’s young life, when she had fallen so ill with meningitis that the doctors had warned she would not survive, her mother had been there, spending every minute at her daughter’s bedside. Then she had bequeathed her everything she owned – Loxton and everything inside it.

But we’re going to lose that too
, Poppy thought. Why did the idea fill her with such despair? After all, she hadn’t wanted it. In fact, she’d dreaded being given it. But knowing now that it would be taken away, along with so much else, depressed her. Then there was all the administration that would have to be dealt with. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs were in the process of assessing her mother’s estate for taxation. Probate had already been applied for, and soon Poppy would be receiving the kind of bill that most people only read about in the business pages of the newspapers. It was terrifying.

That’s why Loxton has to go, I suppose. There’s no way we could keep it
.

She picked at a piece of lichen on the arm of the wooden bench, admiring its silvery grey colour.
Tara could keep it for us, if she wanted. She’s got the money and so has Gerald. But she won’t. Why not?
She felt angry for a moment, then was astonished at herself.
I sound like Jemima! I’m the one who’s wanted to get rid of my money all these years. And now I can. Now I can really begin to work, and I have a proper goal. To save Trevellyan
.

She could see that Tara didn’t want Loxton and there was no reason why she should have to spend millions of her own money just to keep it for Poppy. Besides, if they wanted to save the company and make a go of it, the house had to be sold. It was as simple as that.

Life had turned so quickly into something full of loss and uncertainty. How could they save the company from ruin? It was obvious that none of them
knew
the first thing about their family business. Five minutes with Mademoiselle Deroulier had been enough to show them all the vast gap in their knowledge. When Tara had asked how much it would cost to launch a new scent, the woman had looked at them and said, ‘You mean a new fragrance to challenge the great perfumes on the market? To rival the big houses?’

Tara had said yes, and Mademoiselle Deroulier had snorted and said briefly, ‘Millions! Millions.’

There was just no way they could do it. The money simply wasn’t there.

‘Hello,’ said a warm voice. ‘Looks like we’ve had the same idea.’

Poppy looked up, startled, and saw the young man she had met in the hall a week or so ago. He was standing by the bench, wearing dark trousers and an open-necked checked shirt and a green jumper. Under one arm he had a book. He was smiling in a friendly way and she was struck by how boyish he looked, with his soft brown hair falling over one eye and his open expression.

‘Oh. Yes. Hello.’

‘Do you remember me? I’m George. I’m living downstairs from you in my aunt’s flat.’

‘Yes, of course I do. How are you?’ She wished he would go away and leave her alone. After all, she’d come here for some peace and quiet, not for social chit-chat.

‘Fine. Lovely evening, isn’t it? Do you mind if I join you?’

Poppy forced a smile. ‘Of course not. You’re very welcome.’

‘Thanks.’ He sat down on the bench next to her. Taking the book out from under his arm, he showed it to her. ‘Bit of light reading. It’s the latest Booker Prize winner.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy glanced at it, not recognising the name of the author. ‘You must be very clever.’

George looked amused. ‘No, no. Not really. It’s work, I suppose. I work in a bookshop near the British Museum, a really charming place. Our customers are rather heavyweight, keen on poetry, politics and the latest literary fiction. So I need to be able to talk intelligently about whatever’s new.’ He looked at her a little more closely. ‘Hey, are you all right?’

‘No,’ Poppy said in a shaky voice. ‘No, I’m not.’ And she burst into tears.

‘I’m terribly sorry about that,’ Poppy said, handing George a cup of tea. She felt very embarrassed, even though he’d been unfalteringly kind and understanding as he’d comforted her. ‘I really don’t go about sobbing my eyes out all the time.’

George took the mug she was offering. ‘Thanks. Please, don’t worry. I didn’t mind – in fact, I rather liked it. Apart from the fact that you’re obviously unhappy,’ he added quickly. ‘Your mother’s just died. It’s no wonder you’re feeling miserable.’

‘I suppose I am. I’m not used to it. I’m such a happy soul usually, you see, and very self-reliant.’ It had felt unforgivably girly to be crying in front of a stranger,
especially
when he’d pulled her into his chest and hugged her – even more so because she’d actually enjoyed being hugged by him. His warmth and sweet masculine smell had enveloped her and comforted her, and yet, it had made her cry even harder.

‘I tell you what,’ he said, putting down his mug of tea. ‘Why don’t we go out tonight and you can tell me all about it?’

‘Well … I don’t know.’ She was doubtful. She’d already planned her quiet evening alone, recovering from all the emotions that were engulfing her days. The last thing she wanted to do was go out on the town.

‘Have you got something else to do?’

‘No, but –’

‘Nor have I. And I saw that a little Italian place has opened not far from my work. It looks great. Let’s go there together and have a bite to eat.’

Poppy thought for a moment. Why the hell not? George was charming, and so easy to talk to. ‘All right, let’s.’

He smiled at her. ‘Perfect. I’ll finish my tea and then leave you to it. I’ll call for you at eight.’

Poppy smiled back. ‘It’s a deal.’

George was as good as his word. At eight o’clock precisely there was a knock on the door, and he was standing outside. He’d changed his shirt and put on a brown moleskin jacket, and run a comb through his hair, but otherwise he looked exactly the same: ordinary but comfortable and cheerful.

Poppy had quickly showered to refresh her tear-stained face, and then dressed for a casual evening out in wide-legged jeans and a white embroidered top, both of which she’d picked up in an offbeat little boutique in Islington. Over her top she wore a bright yellow cashmere wrap cardigan, and she’d tied her hair back.

‘Gosh, you look ever so pretty,’ George said as soon as he saw her, and she laughed because he sounded so old-fashioned.

‘Gosh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who says
gosh?
’

‘Just me and my chums these days,’ George joked. ‘Careful, or you’ll have me saying crikey next.’

They walked casually through Bloomsbury, passing tourists, students, office workers and every other type of city dweller. Chatting easily together, they strolled past the British Museum and through the small streets that led them down towards Oxford Street.

They found the restaurant after a few wrong turns. It was exactly what Poppy had hoped for: small and intimate, with red-checked table cloths and candles in Chianti bottles. They sat down and George impressed her by talking a few words of Italian with the pretty waitress (‘Just your basic GCSE stuff, I’m afraid,’ he said modestly). Then, as they ordered and waited for their food, they carried on telling stories about themselves. Poppy talked about her time at art school, and ended up telling him all about Tom and the break-up and Tom’s subsequent engagement.

‘Oh dear, you must think I’m quite a sad case,’ she said. They had finished their antipasti and were waiting for their next course. ‘One sob story after another.’

‘I think it sounds as though you’ve been through a lot recently.’ George poured a generous slug of red wine into her glass. ‘When did you break up with this bloke?’

‘About a year ago.’

‘That’s not very long, if you don’t mind me saying. He’s got engaged awfully fast. You were together five years or so, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Poppy sighed. ‘And somehow I seem to have lost a lot of our mutual friends as well. I don’t know what Tom told them but they’ve cut me out of the loop. I’m not as included as I used to be. Margie is the only one I still see. We all had such fun together, they were a great crowd. I feel rather … lonely, I suppose. I only keep up with what they’re all doing through Facebook these days.’

‘Poor old thing.’ George looked at her sympathetically. ‘Then your mother dies. No wonder you’re in a bad way.’

She smiled at him. ‘You’re very comforting, do you know that? You just seem to have an instinctive understanding.’

‘I’m very in touch with my feminine side.’ George grinned and she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. He was quite attractive, she decided, in a boyish and very English way. She liked his height and his soft brown hair and his large, capable hands.

‘That’s enough about me,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

The waitress came and put their main courses down
in
front of them: grilled lemon sole for Poppy and calf’s liver for George.

‘Oh, there’s not much to tell. I’m just your typical eternal student. I was studying at King’s for ages and ages. I stayed on after my first degree to take a masters, and then started a Ph.D., which eventually I rather gave up on. I’ve been living in shared flats and student digs for years. Then my dear auntie told me there was a job going in her friend’s bookshop. Sylvester is as rich as old Midas and only really runs the shop as a hobby, and he needed a manager he could trust. So I took the job on and, you know what, I really love it. I think I’ve found my calling. Only thing is, although he pays me very well, it’s still not much. I mean, no one works in a bookshop in order to get rich, let’s put it that way. Then Auntie told me she was moving out of her place for a while and would I like to flat sit for her while she was away? Of course, I jumped at the chance – cycling in from Nunhead to the middle of London every day wasn’t much fun.’ He saw her expression. ‘It’s a district of London – quite far out. Close to Dulwich. I was lodging with a couple of friends.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Anyway, then I met you, of course. I couldn’t help but notice that a simply ravishing girl was living in the flat upstairs, so I gathered up all my courage and introduced myself. I hope you didn’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’ Poppy smiled at him. She could feel herself blossoming. Ever since Tom, there had been no one special. She’d had a date or two but
nothing
serious.
I’m used to being the one everyone ignores
, she thought.
Jemima is the interesting one – beautiful, glamorous, well connected, titled. And Tara impresses everyone with her incredible career and superwoman lifestyle. And I’m just the young one – fiddling about with paints and not doing anything very impressive
.

Then it suddenly occurred to her that she was the chief executive of a major company, independently rich since she’d inherited Loxton, and part of a crack team saving the family business. Perhaps she wasn’t so pathetic after all.

They talked on in the candlelight, thoroughly absorbed by each other’s stories. Over their espressos, George told her about growing up in the West Country, his happy childhood and large family.

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Poppy said wistfully, attracted by the vision of a warm, boisterous, normal family life.

‘It wasn’t perfect – nothing is. But it was very happy and there’s something to be said for that.’

When the meal was over, Poppy was feeling happier than she had for months. They had slowly worked their way through two bottles of rich Italian wine, and she was full of delicious food and felt distinctly lightheaded.

‘How convenient,’ George said. ‘I can walk you all the way home. I’ve got the perfect excuse.’

‘Mmmn,’ said Poppy, realising that he had slipped his arm around her, and was holding one of her hands with his. It was a delightful feeling, and she revelled in it as they strolled, half drunk, back through the still busy city streets.

When they got home, it seemed completely natural to ask George up to her flat. She made them a coffee each, and when she sat down on the sofa, it also felt like the most normal thing in the world for him to sit close beside her. They got closer and closer until she was snuggling against his chest and his arm was round her, his hand lightly caressing her hair. Her heart was fluttering, her skin tingled and she longed more than anything for him to kiss her. Then he did. What began gently and softly soon became fierce and passionate. It seemed that under George’s boyish exterior and shy demeanour was a man who desired her strongly and properly. She surrendered herself to the delicious sensations.