but like a moving picture, with sound. Like one of the pictures I’m trying to make. All the men I saw. All the suffering. The blood and the guts. I’d been prep boy, thinking he was going to Europe to get worldly-wise, thinking he was playing a part in history. I never went back to Harvard. I’d cut that part out of my history. Like an abscess, like poison, something alien, foreign, thinking all those years that was what made me whole.
That night I realised I’d cut a piece of myself out, and I set about putting it back, because that night I realised what was right there under my nose, and had been from the moment I saw her in Bunty’s. Poppy was under my skin, and I wanted to keep her there.
Poppy
He left town. I didn’t see him for nearly a week. I got through the days because that’s what I’d always done. I thought,
the more days I get through, the less painful it will become
. Wrong, Poppy. The more days I got through, the more I realised what I had lost. If only I hadn’t let it happen—but it was too late. I’d fallen in love with Lewis Cartsdyke, and it was the kind of love you just know isn’t going to go away. I don’t know how I knew that, since I’d never been in love before, but I did.
I never read the press so I don’t know what they said, except that it was over, and I knew that because my agent called. After he’d called Lewis, mind you, who had reassured him that the deal was still on.
I’m not the crying type. I worked at my singing. I took classes. I spent a lot of time working on very complicated recipes in my kitchen, which I gave to my maid to take home. It never occurred to me that I could do anything but endure. I’m used to enduring, and putting on a front—I’ve made a career of it. Playing a part was second nature to me. It wasn’t so hard to keep playing it and playing it. Except at night. So I didn’t sleep much.
* * *
I’d been trying my hand at baking bread. I liked the kneading. I’d just put the dough on the window ledge to prove for the second time when Lewis appeared at my kitchen door. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.
Ominous. I didn’t think my heart could sink any lower, but it did. I managed a smile. Sort of a smile. ‘You want to cancel,’ I said.
‘It’s not about work. Can I come in?’
‘I’ll come out. It’s too hot in here with the oven on.’
I sat on my wicker sofa. He sat opposite. Not beside me, the way he used to do. He looked tired. ‘You’ve been working too hard,’ I said inanely.
‘It’s not about work,’ he said again, and I thought,
shut up, Poppy
, but I didn’t. I offered him a drink. He said no. I asked him if he was hungry. No again. He didn’t just look tired, he looked worn-out. Older. That frightened me. Not work, which could only mean—what?
‘I was in France,’ he said.
I put down the glass of orange juice I’d been fiddling with. ‘Last week?’ I asked stupidly.
He shook his head. ‘The war. I was an ambulance driver.’
I didn’t know what to say. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask. It never occurred to me, because you didn’t in England, because everyone had been, and here in Hollywood I hadn’t met a single person who had. And in turn, no one ever asked me if I’d lost someone, because why should they? ‘You never said. Why didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugged, then he shook his head. ‘I thought I’d put it behind me. I thought…’ He paused. Swallowed. Rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought if it was going to mean something, then I had to forget it.’
Which made sense. Which was what I had done. Thought I’d done? ‘What’s changed?’ I asked, pulling myself back from that question.
‘You, I guess. No, not just you. Me. You’ve changed me. Poppy, I—look, I know this is probably too late but I—no, goddammit, it’s not too late. I won’t let it be too late. That’s why I’m here.’
He jumped to his feet and began to pace back and forwards the length of my little pool. He
That night I realised I’d cut a piece of myself out, and I set about putting it back, because that night I realised what was right there under my nose, and had been from the moment I saw her in Bunty’s. Poppy was under my skin, and I wanted to keep her there.
Poppy
He left town. I didn’t see him for nearly a week. I got through the days because that’s what I’d always done. I thought,
the more days I get through, the less painful it will become
. Wrong, Poppy. The more days I got through, the more I realised what I had lost. If only I hadn’t let it happen—but it was too late. I’d fallen in love with Lewis Cartsdyke, and it was the kind of love you just know isn’t going to go away. I don’t know how I knew that, since I’d never been in love before, but I did.
I never read the press so I don’t know what they said, except that it was over, and I knew that because my agent called. After he’d called Lewis, mind you, who had reassured him that the deal was still on.
I’m not the crying type. I worked at my singing. I took classes. I spent a lot of time working on very complicated recipes in my kitchen, which I gave to my maid to take home. It never occurred to me that I could do anything but endure. I’m used to enduring, and putting on a front—I’ve made a career of it. Playing a part was second nature to me. It wasn’t so hard to keep playing it and playing it. Except at night. So I didn’t sleep much.
* * *
I’d been trying my hand at baking bread. I liked the kneading. I’d just put the dough on the window ledge to prove for the second time when Lewis appeared at my kitchen door. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.
Ominous. I didn’t think my heart could sink any lower, but it did. I managed a smile. Sort of a smile. ‘You want to cancel,’ I said.
‘It’s not about work. Can I come in?’
‘I’ll come out. It’s too hot in here with the oven on.’
I sat on my wicker sofa. He sat opposite. Not beside me, the way he used to do. He looked tired. ‘You’ve been working too hard,’ I said inanely.
‘It’s not about work,’ he said again, and I thought,
shut up, Poppy
, but I didn’t. I offered him a drink. He said no. I asked him if he was hungry. No again. He didn’t just look tired, he looked worn-out. Older. That frightened me. Not work, which could only mean—what?
‘I was in France,’ he said.
I put down the glass of orange juice I’d been fiddling with. ‘Last week?’ I asked stupidly.
He shook his head. ‘The war. I was an ambulance driver.’
I didn’t know what to say. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask. It never occurred to me, because you didn’t in England, because everyone had been, and here in Hollywood I hadn’t met a single person who had. And in turn, no one ever asked me if I’d lost someone, because why should they? ‘You never said. Why didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugged, then he shook his head. ‘I thought I’d put it behind me. I thought…’ He paused. Swallowed. Rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought if it was going to mean something, then I had to forget it.’
Which made sense. Which was what I had done. Thought I’d done? ‘What’s changed?’ I asked, pulling myself back from that question.
‘You, I guess. No, not just you. Me. You’ve changed me. Poppy, I—look, I know this is probably too late but I—no, goddammit, it’s not too late. I won’t let it be too late. That’s why I’m here.’
He jumped to his feet and began to pace back and forwards the length of my little pool. He
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