Poppy's Seed, page 14
“Why don’t you sign your name?” Emily had asked her.
“Oh, it’s just a gimmick,” Poppy shrugged. “To keep people guessing. Add to the mystery. Get me known. That sort of thing.”
Peter knows they’re waiting for his reaction. “It’s lovely,” he says, hoping he’s injected the right sort of appreciation into it. Artistically, it is good. But it’s not the Emily he knows. This Emily is much prettier, her nose straighter, her cheekbones higher, her mouth smaller. “Really lovely,” he goes on quickly, “Thank you, Poppy. Emily.”
He turns to Emily first, holds her, kisses her. Then Poppy. It was only going to be an air kiss, a hand on each shoulder, but she moves in, envelops him in a hug, presses her lips to his face, holds her cheek against his. She’s bigger than he expected. Warm, soft flesh presses against him. Emily is firm and hard in his arms. He can feel every bone in her body, her ribs under his fingers, her shoulder blades against his chest. Poppy feels like a downy pillow, her body melts into his. He has a sudden vision of her generous breasts, her round hips, her ample bottom. He springs away from her like he’s been stung. Emily and Poppy both laugh.
The exhibition is in Taunton. “Somerset Arts Week,” Poppy says. “I think Si Blackwood is exhibiting too.”
“Bit parochial for him, isn’t it?” Peter asks.
“I thought so too. But apparently his agent thinks he should broaden his appeal or something…”
Jasmine rings up the week before. “Si said he’d book the Castle Hotel!” she wails. “But he forgot! He’s so useless! And I’m not going to some downmarket dump! Can we stay with you?”
They arrive on the Friday evening in a battered old VW camper van, two hours later than expected. “It took ages to unload the paintings,” Jasmine explains. “Then we had to stay for a drink…”
“Are you hungry?” Emily asks. “I did a casserole. There’s enough left over…”
“No, it’s fine, thanks. We grabbed something just now.”
Jasmine has thrown herself out first, enfolding first Peter then Emily in a perfume and wine and silk-scarved embrace, chattering non-stop at the top of her voice. Emily glances nervously to the blinded upstairs window of the next-door house, where she knows Alicia will have just got settled for the night. She peeks curiously over Jasmine’s shoulder to get a look at Simeon as he clambers carefully out. He conforms exactly to her mental image of him: bigger built maybe, towering over Peter, at least six foot, and strongly built with it, wide shoulders, broad arms that grip her strongly as he kisses her theatrically on both cheeks, flicking back the long, grey, straggly hair that falls over his shoulders. There’s a long, grey beard to match and an old, lined face, and he’s scruffily dressed in a frayed checked shirt and grimy jeans.
Jasmine steps back, grabs his arm. “Si. My step-mum Emily. Emily, Simon. Simeon Blackwood. ”
Emily reels inwardly at being called ‘Step-mum’. She’s only ever been ‘Dad’s wife’. It must be the current expression to use.
“Simon, please,” Simeon is saying. “Or Si. Everyone calls me Si. Simeon’s just an affectation my agent dreamed up and now I’m stuck with it.”
Emily feels him examining her face in the streetlight. In the glare of the kitchen she feels his eyes on her again.
“Poppy,” he says. “Poppy Jamieson. She’s done a portrait of you.”
“James,” Emily corrects him. He can’t know Poppy very well if he doesn’t even know her right name. “How did you…?”
“Yeh, yeh, whatever she calls herself nowadays,” Simeon is saying, but Jasmine speaks over him. “We’ve just seen it!” she laughs. “At the exhibition.”
“I didn’t know it was up already.” Emily’s suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of other people, strangers, seeing her picture. But she did agree to it. And Poppy was so pleased.
“They don’t open till tomorrow,” Jasmine is saying. “We can go first thing if you like. Si always likes to get there early. Don’t you, darling?”
She cuddles up to him, and he kisses her long and full on the lips. Peter reddens and Emily can almost feel him shudder. “Cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” Peter asks to cover his embarrassment.
Coffee for Jasmine. Tea for Emily. Whisky for Simeon and Peter. The kettle boils. Teacups. The smell of coffee brewing. Peter getting in Emily’s way with the best cut-glass whisky tumblers and ice. Jasmine flits around, chattering madly. She’s uncomfortable, Emily realises, unsure whether to be Daddy’s girl or Simeon’s woman. There’s the usual little girly voice she reserves for Peter, modified into something with more adult overtones for Simeon. It’s not the first boyfriend she’s brought home, of course. From when she was fourteen a succession of boys has been in tow, all older, all with either cars or motorbikes to bring her down to see Daddy and ferry her around. From acned teenagers to bearded university students to short-haired aspiring bankers, Jasmine has brought them home. But this is the first man. How old is he? Sixty-four, sixty-five? The lines on his face stand out sharply in the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen. He looks years older than Peter. Jasmine, conversely, looks like a teenager: her olive skin smooth and unlined; her shiny, dark hair falling down her back; her young, firm body pressed against his.
Simeon is as interested in Emily as she is in him. “You have a wonderful profile,” he says, suddenly. “I can see why Poppy wanted to paint you.”
The remark falls right into the middle of a conversation about Jasmine’s work and Emily’s thrown, also embarrassed, unused to being talked about like this. Oh, there’s no denying it’s flattering, but she’s not used to such overt compliments.
“You’re embarrassing Emily,” Jasmine says, the use of her full name betraying her jealousy more clearly than the swift black look that crosses her face.
“Have you known Poppy long?” Emily says quickly to cover the awkward moment. Peter cringes inwardly. Poppy and Simeon. They’re bound to have slept together. These Bohemian types think nothing of jumping in and out of each other’s beds as the carnal whim takes them. He jumps up, grabs Simeon’s half-empty glass.
“Another one?” he says.
“Oh. Yes. Great, thanks. Poppy. Known her years.”
Too late, Emily has seen Jasmine falling into one of her sulks. But Simeon has seen it too. “You were saying about your job, darling. We interrupted you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jasmine says, peevishly. “It doesn’t matter…”
“So what time d’you need to be there tomorrow?” Emily says, brightly.
“Oh, around nine, I should think. You can come with us if you like. There’s plenty of room now we’ve unloaded…”
Emily, who noticed the state of the inside of the camper van when the door slid open, says quickly, “Thanks. I’ll check with Peter but we’ll probably pop over later.”
“Would you like anything more, Jasmine? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”
Jasmine shakes her head. “I’ll go up in a mo. I’m whacked.”
“I won’t be long either,” Emily says.
In the silence that follows it seems to Emily that Peter has been gone an age, and she’s just about to jump up and go and find him when he comes in.
Jasmine stands up, gathers her bag, cardigan, magazine and kisses everyone goodnight. Emily’s about to follow when she catches Peter’s eye. Don’t leave me alone with him, the look says, so she waits patiently, making desultory conversation until finally even Simeon runs out of things to say. “I’ll take this on up,” he says, tipping the last of the whisky to one side in his glass. “Early start. See you in the morning.”
Peter can’t sleep. The thought of Jasmine and Simeon just the other side of the thin wall is more than he can bear. That man’s hands on his daughter’s perfect body. The little girl he bathed and washed, dressed and bottle-fed. Her mouth on his. Her lovely hands on that pervert’s dirty, old body. For ages after he’d kissed Emily goodnight, he listened to them moving around next door: their murmured voices, the sounds of them unpacking their stuff, arguing gently about where things were, just like any other couple. The door opened and closed a few times. There’s no en-suite for the spare room and the light on the landing clicked on and off as they both went to the bathroom, doors opened and closed, whispered, furtive exchanges of conversation and then all fell silent. He waited for the sounds of bedsprings, a muffled moan, deep breathing maybe. But all was quiet. Is Si still up to it? he wonders. He’s a few years older than Peter. Married to a woman his own age, he probably wouldn’t bother. But a young woman, that’s a different story, as he knows only too well. Emily’s firm body, her flat stomach, tiny firm breasts, like a schoolgirl. Or Poppy, younger still, that soft yielding flesh he’d felt against his body fleetingly. He feels himself harden, stirs impatiently in bed, considers for one mad moment waking Emily up for a quickie. She seldom refuses, even if to give him relief if she doesn’t feel like it herself. But equally as quickly he rejects the idea, his erection waning as he remembers Jasmine and Simeon next door.
*
They’re all up early the next morning. Emily squints at the clock beside the bed in disbelief as she hears the shower.
“What time is it?” Peter groans as he feels her moving.
“Six. My God. She could’ve waited a bit longer, couldn’t she?”
“It might be Simeon.”
“God. Don’t. Simeon naked.” She shudders. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
Peter can’t help laughing with her.
“He doesn’t look like he’s ever seen hot water anyway,” she goes on. “It’s Jasmine. She’ll want to look her best. ‘The artist’s muse’.”
Breakfast is hectic. Used to just the two of them and their leisurely routine, Emily dodges Jasmine as she opens the fridge and cupboards, groaning at whatever she finds: “Don’t you have any honey? God, only brown bread… isn’t there any butter?”
“You know we only have marg,” Emily says as politely as she can. This isn’t a hotel, for God’s sake! she mutters inwardly. No point in saying anything though: Jasmine’s been the same since she was thirteen years old and basically she’s in a good mood, brimming over with excitement at the thought of the day ahead; the attention she will undoubtedly get on the arm of the famous London artist.
Simeon appears wearing the same filthy clothes he wore yesterday, greeting Peter with the same hearty bonhomie that irks him beyond reason.
“How’s the old lady?” he asks, his mouth full of toast.
Peter glances across at Emily, confused. Then reddens. “Anusia, you mean? We’ve been divorced for years, you know that.”
“Sorry, old chap. No offence, Em.”
Emily only just stops herself saying, “Emily”. She hates her name shortened. Jasmine’s the only one who does it and she’s never corrected her for fear of spoiling their fragile relationship.
“So, Anusia,” he goes on. “How is the old thing?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Peter says, tersely. “You’ve seen her more recently than I have. Wasn’t she there last Christmas, Jasmine said.”
“Yeh, yeh. I just thought…”
“Si, don’t!” Jasmine hits him playfully. “He’s doing it on purpose, Em. Ignore him. He loves stirring things up.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter to me,” Emily says as lightly as possible. “Peter was already divorced when I met him. It wasn’t as if…”
But Simeon seems to have lost interest anyway. He and Jasmine are having a mock fight over the last piece of toast. Emily sees the flash of the gold cap in his teeth as he laughs and tussles with her. How can Jasmine bear to kiss him? Peter stares steadfastly at his bowl of cereal, longing for them to be gone.
Suddenly, Jasmine leaps up. “My God, look at the time!”
She grabs the coffee she had made such a fuss about making, (“Si likes it really strong!”) and thunders upstairs. In the small house they can hear every footstep overhead as she patters from bedroom to bathroom and back again, slamming each door as she goes. An awkward silence seems to have fallen, though Simeon seems totally unconcerned by it, finishing his coffee unhurriedly and in silence. When the cup is empty he stands up, looming large in the tiny kitchen behind Peter, who moves his chair in slightly to let him by. He stands by the sink rinsing his cup.
“Don’t worry about that,” Emily says. “I’ll put it in the dishwasher.”
He carries on rinsing it anyway, craning his neck to read the paper over Peter’s shoulder, until Peter, annoyed, passes the paper back to him.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” He waves it away, laughing. “I s’pose I’d better go and…”
“We don’t need to go yet, do we?” Emily whispers the moment he’s gone.
“God, no. It’ll be deadly dull. We can go later…”
Emily clears the table and stacks the dishwasher to the accompaniment of doors opening and closing as Jasmine dashes up and downstairs again several times, shouting, “Oh God, I’ve forgotten my…”
Finally, they leave and the house falls silent.
Peter has disappeared to the study. Emily sticks her head around the door. “What time d’you want to go over?”
“Don’t mind.”
“Poppy says no one turns up till mid-morning.”
“Okay. Around ten then?”
The exhibition is in the theatre in the centre of Taunton. The car park is also used for shoppers, and the queue this Saturday morning stretches into the next street.
“No point in even trying, is there?” Peter says, driving past the turning.
“Where d’you think’s best?”
Every car park is the same and they edge nose to tail through the streets.
“Maybe there’s some sense in going in early,” Peter grumbles.
“Yes…” Emily agrees mechanically, though privately she knows there would have been no point in hanging around with no one else there. Part of the reason to go is to see other people there, hear them admire Poppy’s work.
“We don’t need to rush,” Emily reminds Peter as he runs his fingers through his hair, swears at another driver who stops to let a pedestrian cross the road.
“I hate being late.”
“It doesn’t matter what time we get there. No one’s expecting us.”
But Peter hates traffic, hates queues, hates being held up.
It’s raining hard by the time they find somewhere, and Peter, searching for an umbrella in the boot of the car, raindrops trickling down the back of his neck, has fallen into a foul mood and Emily’s beginning to wish they’d never agreed to go.
The foyer of the Brewhouse is crowded: people shaking wet umbrellas, taking off coats and raincoats, flicking raindrops from their hair, wives searching for the Ladies so they can sort out their dampened hair, men searching their pockets for combs to do the same. There’s a smell of damp coats.
“I’ll just go and find the loo,” Emily says, falling in with the rest of the crowd. “D’you want to go on in?”
“No, I’ll go too. Meet you here.”
There’s the usual long queue and reappearing much, much later she half-expects him not to be there, but he’s waiting dutifully, his face lighting up expectantly as the door opens.
In the first crush to see the paintings she doesn’t see Poppy, but then suddenly, there she is, talking earnestly to a wispily balding man. She catches sight of Emily at the same time. “Here she is!” she carols gaily.
Emily reddens. Behind Poppy’s head she suddenly sees her portrait, neatly labelled ‘NFS’.
“This gentleman…”
“Richard Broom,” he supplies.
“Mr Broom,” Poppy says, deferentially, “was enquiring who the mystery lady was. And here she is. Emily Stanchester. Richard Broom.”
Emily shakes hands mechanically, thanks Richard Broom for his compliments, tries to ignore the crowd that begins to gather around her, people nudging as they recognise her.
Peter swells with pride: his lovely wife, the beautiful and successful artist: both his women. Then with a whoop of pleasure Jasmine is there as well. “Daddy!” People turn and stare. Jasmine, used to the attention, basking in it, clings on to his arm. “Can I drag him away in a mo, Poppy, my love? He must come and see Si’s work!”
“Be my guest!” Poppy laughs. “As long as you leave Emily with me! She’s my star turn!”
Peter follows Jasmine through the crowds. Then suddenly she stops. “Oh, Daddy, I forgot. There’s a picture of me…”
Peter freezes. “What?” he says, peremptorily.
“Don’t be silly, Daddy,” she says, but there’s an edge of fear in her voice.
“Where are these pictures?” Peter knows he’s sounding like a cross old man but he can’t help it.
She gestures to a separate room. “In here.”
Of course, they’ve put Simeon’s pictures in a separate room. Some people consider them pornographic. Peter hesitates. He’s just about to go in when Emily appears like magic by his side. “I managed to escape!” she says. “Oh my God!”
The room is full of pictures of nudes. Not just women, but men. Painted in fleshy tones, they’re as real as photographs. Some of the men are old, some young and muscular. The women are all young, all beautiful. Peter doesn’t see it at first. In fact, he’s looking around relieved. If he doesn’t recognise Jasmine then no one will. He won’t even have to tell Emily. She and Jasmine are chatting together, heads bent. There’s too much noise to hear what they’re saying, but Emily’s laughing and smiling. Clearly, she doesn’t know about the portrait. Then, suddenly, she stops, glances quickly at Peter, and he knows this is it. He follows her gaze. It’s a small painting. Arresting. Powerful. Jasmine sits on a chair facing the viewer. Her eyes look straight ahead. Challenging. Proud. Her coffee-coloured skin glows. She’s leaning forward slightly. Her breasts hang down. Dark, big, erect nipples. Her legs are slightly open, her vulva clearly visible. She’s shaved. Like the little girl he remembers bathing and dressing. Peter feels sick. Below the waist, she’s his little girl. Above it, a woman he could take to bed.
