pushing the buggy laden with shopping with one hand, while under her other arm a thrashing Clara screamed at a volume that could have been put to good use in Guantanamo Bay. A passing man in a suit averted his eyes in horror. Not so long ago he’d have scanned Poppy admiringly. But now Poppy was another victim of buggy blindness syndrome, which made all women pushing children completely invisible, except to dotty old ladies and other women pushing children. Poppy sometimes thought she should offer her services to MI6 as an undercover agent. So long as she had the Maclaren with her, she could infiltrate meetings to nuke London without anybody being the wiser.
Her phone rang again. Luke. Probably warning her not to read the Post. She’d promise him she wouldn’t, then had to remember to hide her copy carefully at the bottom of the recycling.
‘Hello, darling?’ she said, adding to Clara, ‘It’s Daddy.’
‘Down, Mummeeeee!’
‘Is she OK?’ Luke asked, then without waiting for a reply, ‘Listen, can Glenda babysit on Friday?’
Poppy’s heart soared like a lark. He’d remembered their anniversary.
‘I don’t know. I expect so. I’ll ask her right now.’
‘I bloody hope so, because there’s a work do we have to go to.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy might once have begged to go to Luke’s work gatherings but now she was regretting it. As soon as they arrived he would disappear into the crowd, leaving his shy wife to move from group to group, smiling nervously. But everyone simply carried on talking vociferously and even though, here and there, people moved aside to let her pass, nobody interrupted conversations for her. She looked pretty, but she didn’t look important enough to actually talk to. And when she did finally find Luke and attach herself to him, the men would lech at her, while the women greeted her with the same enthusiasm they’d reserve for a dose of chlamydia.
‘It’s non-negotiable. Chris Stevens has been sacked and his replacement Dean’s having a small dinner.’ There was a pause. ‘You do know who Chris Stevens is, don’t you?’
‘Of course!’ Poppy tried very hard to keep abreast of all Luke’s work matters; it was what a good wife should do. ‘Your editor. That’s terrible.’
‘It is. It’s the end of an era. But now we’ve got to schmooze Dean. Mightily. It’s very important I show up with my wife.’
Poppy stalled. ‘Now I think about it Glenda might be busy on Friday.’
‘Glenda seems to be busy a lot these days,’ Luke said sharply.
‘She babysits for a lot of people,’ Poppy lied, feeling guilty because she knew Glenda would love the cash. Maybe she’d just slip her some extra.
‘If Glenda can’t do it, you’d better find someone else. I’ve told you, Poppy, it’s really important you accompany me to this party. It’s the kind of thing good wives do for their husbands.’
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m recording an interview with the head of the TUC. But call Glenda. You need to get over this fear of going out before we become more of a laughing stock than we already are.’
So he’d seen the Daily Post . ‘I’m not frightened—’ Poppy tried, but Luke said, ‘Gotta go. See you later,’ and the phone went dead.
6
The paper boy, in the village of Dumberley, Surrey, made his way up the crazy-paving path of ‘Stumpers’ and pushed the Mackharvens’ copy of the Daily Post through the brass letter box.
‘Paper’s here, Dad!’ cried Jan Mackharven, gasping slightly from the effort of bending over in her floral dressing gown to retrieve it from the doormat.
Sitting at the pine kitchen table, cradling her coffee, Thea Mackharven winced slightly. She loved her mother, but the way she addressed Thea’s step-father, Trevor, as ‘Dad’ still made Thea cringe, just as she shuddered at their extensive collection of Phil Collins and Level 42 CDs, their painting-by-numbers of a little boy with a hand over his mouth
Her phone rang again. Luke. Probably warning her not to read the Post. She’d promise him she wouldn’t, then had to remember to hide her copy carefully at the bottom of the recycling.
‘Hello, darling?’ she said, adding to Clara, ‘It’s Daddy.’
‘Down, Mummeeeee!’
‘Is she OK?’ Luke asked, then without waiting for a reply, ‘Listen, can Glenda babysit on Friday?’
Poppy’s heart soared like a lark. He’d remembered their anniversary.
‘I don’t know. I expect so. I’ll ask her right now.’
‘I bloody hope so, because there’s a work do we have to go to.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy might once have begged to go to Luke’s work gatherings but now she was regretting it. As soon as they arrived he would disappear into the crowd, leaving his shy wife to move from group to group, smiling nervously. But everyone simply carried on talking vociferously and even though, here and there, people moved aside to let her pass, nobody interrupted conversations for her. She looked pretty, but she didn’t look important enough to actually talk to. And when she did finally find Luke and attach herself to him, the men would lech at her, while the women greeted her with the same enthusiasm they’d reserve for a dose of chlamydia.
‘It’s non-negotiable. Chris Stevens has been sacked and his replacement Dean’s having a small dinner.’ There was a pause. ‘You do know who Chris Stevens is, don’t you?’
‘Of course!’ Poppy tried very hard to keep abreast of all Luke’s work matters; it was what a good wife should do. ‘Your editor. That’s terrible.’
‘It is. It’s the end of an era. But now we’ve got to schmooze Dean. Mightily. It’s very important I show up with my wife.’
Poppy stalled. ‘Now I think about it Glenda might be busy on Friday.’
‘Glenda seems to be busy a lot these days,’ Luke said sharply.
‘She babysits for a lot of people,’ Poppy lied, feeling guilty because she knew Glenda would love the cash. Maybe she’d just slip her some extra.
‘If Glenda can’t do it, you’d better find someone else. I’ve told you, Poppy, it’s really important you accompany me to this party. It’s the kind of thing good wives do for their husbands.’
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m recording an interview with the head of the TUC. But call Glenda. You need to get over this fear of going out before we become more of a laughing stock than we already are.’
So he’d seen the Daily Post . ‘I’m not frightened—’ Poppy tried, but Luke said, ‘Gotta go. See you later,’ and the phone went dead.
6
The paper boy, in the village of Dumberley, Surrey, made his way up the crazy-paving path of ‘Stumpers’ and pushed the Mackharvens’ copy of the Daily Post through the brass letter box.
‘Paper’s here, Dad!’ cried Jan Mackharven, gasping slightly from the effort of bending over in her floral dressing gown to retrieve it from the doormat.
Sitting at the pine kitchen table, cradling her coffee, Thea Mackharven winced slightly. She loved her mother, but the way she addressed Thea’s step-father, Trevor, as ‘Dad’ still made Thea cringe, just as she shuddered at their extensive collection of Phil Collins and Level 42 CDs, their painting-by-numbers of a little boy with a hand over his mouth
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