Perfect Timing by Jill Mansell Page B

time do you expect him home?’
    â€˜Well, nine-ish. He’s gone to scouts.’ The woman began to sound nervous. ‘Is this about Ben’s birthday party last week? Oh dear, you aren’t Lucy-Anne’s mother are you?’
    Another ten minutes and she was finished. Not only a crushing disappointment, Poppy thought mournfully, but a waste of an awful lot of twenty pences.
    How stupid to think finding her father would be that simple.
    The next morning, bright and early, Poppy arrived on the doorstep of 15 Cornwallis Crescent.
    â€˜Please, it’s only ten o’clock,’ groaned Claudia, opening the door in her blue and white terry cloth dressing gown.
    Poppy looked hurt. ‘Caspar said any time I liked.’
    â€˜Caspar would.’ Claudia was gazing askance at the two modest suitcases on the top step. ‘He doesn’t even hear doorbells before noon. That can’t really be all you’ve got.’
    â€˜I do what the glossy magazines say to do,’ said Poppy. ‘I may not have many clothes, but I always buy the best.’
    They both knew this was a big lie. For lunch at The Marigold, Poppy had turned up in cut-off black jeans and a Rocky Horror tee-shirt.
    Claudia said gloomily, ‘God, I hope Caspar knows what he’s doing.’
    â€˜Oh look, I’m here now.’ Poppy picked up her suitcases. ‘And whether you like it or not I’m moving in. We may as well be friends.’
    â€˜Real friends,’ Claudia pointed out, ‘don’t wake you up at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.’ Carrying her cases through to the kitchen, Poppy heaved the smaller of the two up onto the counter and began unzipping it.
    Next moment a multi-colored explosion of tights and tee-shirts hurtled out. It was like one of those trick cans full of snakes.
    â€˜What—’ began Claudia.
    â€˜Come on, cheer up and grab a couple of bowls.’ Having at last found what she was searching for, Poppy held them up. ‘This one’s to celebrate me moving in and this one’s your belated birthday present.’
    Claudia gazed at the two tubs of rapidly melting Ben & Jerry’s. Other people celebrated with champagne, she thought. Poppy Dunbar had to do it with Chunky Monkey ice cream.

Chapter 8
    Three weeks later, on a wet Wednesday afternoon, the weather was so depressing that Caspar decided he couldn’t possibly work. This was the trouble with skylights and broad attic windows. When the rain came down, you knew about it.
    To cheer himself up—and take his mind off the fact that the painting he was supposed to be working on should have been finished a week ago—Caspar watched a bit of lunchtime Coronation Street and polished off the bowl of cherry tomatoes he’d spotted earlier in the fridge. Then he helped himself to a cappuccino mousse with whipped cream on top.
    By now, Coronation Street had finished and been replaced by one of those audience participation talk shows. This one was about shoplifting. A skinny woman in an orange wig stood up to announce that she was a professional shoplifter. Another boasted about having once shoplifted a three-piece suit. The talk show host said this almost deserved a round of applause and the audience, unsure whether or not they were supposed to clap, looked nervous and fidgeted in their seats. The host then introduced this week’s expert, a woman psychiatrist with a face like a bulldog, and Caspar fell asleep.
    He was woken up an hour or so later by the doorbell. Opening the front door, he found Claudia’s mother shivering on the top step. It was still pouring with rain.
    â€˜Come in, you’re drenched.’ Caspar pulled her inside and ushered her into the sitting room. ‘Sorry, I was asleep.’ He switched off the television and made a token effort to plump up the squashed sofa cushions. ‘Claudia isn’t home