Clara continued scribbling. Brigita returned to the sink. More than ever, Poppy felt like a stranger in her own home.

'Was that your boyfriend you were talking to?' she asked.

Brigita turned round, flicking a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. 'Sorry, Mummy. Usually I don't make personal calls during work time but it was an emergency, he...'

235.

Poppy waved her excuses away. 'What's his name?'

Brigita smiled and her usually puddingy face was suddenly transformed. 'Phil,' she said lovingly.

'What does he do?'

'He's a roofer.'

'How long have you been together?'

'Two years. Our dream is to make enough money to go back to Yorkshire, buy a house, then I can continue to study for my PhD.'

Don't go home too soon, thought Poppy, appalled at the idea of Brigita abandoning her now she had this new opportunity. But she said, 'Oh, how lovely.'

'Dinner's is ready, Clah-Clah. Wash your hands, please, angel.'

Obediently, Clara jumped up and padded over to the sink. Poppy watched in astonishment. How come it took her hours to persuade her daughter to do something as simple as sit in her high chair? An unexpected wave of inadequacy crashed over her. On paper, she was so much more fortunate than Brigita: far prettier and with a handsome, rich husband, gorgeous daughter and lovely flat. But she and Luke never spoke on the phone in the way Brigita had to Phil. And it had been a long, long time since mentioning Luke's name had made her light up like a firework display.

But she wasn't going to think like that any more. She'd been offered a job. An exciting job. She would be going to parties and earning money again. As soon as Luke got home from work, she'd run it past him, but she didn't see how he could say no. She'd prepare him a lovely dinner and open a bottle of wine and they'd make love, which they hadn't done for quite a while. Just then her phone beeped.

Having dinner with a minister. Back midnight-ish. Big kiss to C, L x Oh. Well, never mind. She'd talk to him when he got back. Or no, she had a better idea.

'Brigita, I know it's a long shot but you're not free to babysit tomorrow night, are you?'

'No worries!' Brigita said instantly.

'Great. I'm going to book Orrery. It's where Luke and I had our wedding lunch. I'll take him out for a romantic dinner and tell him some news I have.'

'You are up t'duff again?' Brigita's hand flew up to her mouth. ''Appen as I think your tummy is getting a little porky, but I don't like to say.'

'No, no. Nothing like that.' Quite the opposite, Poppy thought, as she picked up her phone and scrolled down contacts for Orrery's number. But her phone bleeped again.

Change of plan. Off to Paris now to cover riots. Hope to be back Sunday depends how story develops. Will call from Eurostar if I get chance. x Poppy stared at the phone in disbelief. Another lonely weekend with just her and Clara. She turned to Brigita to tell her babysitting was off. But then she thought again.

237.

Tomorrow was the Murder Police Murder Police party. To which she had two invitations. She might as well go. What did she have to lose? All she needed was a date, and Poppy knew someone who'd be delighted to come. party. To which she had two invitations. She might as well go. What did she have to lose? All she needed was a date, and Poppy knew someone who'd be delighted to come.

She scrolled down her address book and pressed Meena's number.

24.

Naturally, Meena was thrilled.

'A film premiere? Yay, Poppy! I'll take the day off work.'

'You don't need to do that. It starts at seven thirty.'

'But we've got to get ready. That's gonna take hours. I'll be round yours at three.'

True to her word, Meena was on the doorstep the following afternoon as punctual as a j.a.panese bullet train.

'Ta-dah!' she cried, flicking her long black hair over her shoulders and gesturing to the vast Samsonite suitcase she was wheeling behind her. 'I've bought outfits! Where's Clara? I have a fairy number for her.'

'She's with her nanny.'

'Oh yeah, I forgot. You're a proper trophy wife now. Staff and everything. Well...' She produced a bottle of cava from a plastic bag. 'With no child to keep up appearances for, let's get ourselves in the mood.'

They turned the radio dial from Luke's Radio 4 4 to Kiss FM and Meena set to work with her tools. It was just like old times. to Kiss FM and Meena set to work with her tools. It was just like old times.

'Though really we should have got in a make-up artist and hair stylist,' Meena declared, mouth gaping as she applied her fourth layer of mascara.

Poppy laughed. 'Don't be silly. That would cost a fortune.'

239.

'Yeah, but you're a professional It-girl or whatever now. You need to dress up properly for these things. Paparazzi will be taking your photo.' Meena hugged herself in excitement. 'Oh my G.o.d, do you think Prince William will be there tonight?'

'I doubt it.'

'Brad Pitt? He's the star, isn't he?'

'He's married.'

'No, he isn't. He and Ange won't tie the knot until American law changes so gays can get married too.' Meena's knowledge of such things was encyclopedic.

'I'm still not sure I fancy getting into a fight with Angelina. You can imagine her getting nasty down a dark alleyway.'

'Whatever. There'll be plenty of chances now to meet famous guys. Because if you do this column, you'll get invites like this all the time.'

'If I do the column,' Poppy said cautiously. I do the column,' Poppy said cautiously.

Meena placed both hands on her hips and glared ferociously at her.

'What do you mean if if ? It's a no-brainer. You're getting paid to attend parties every night. And you'll be ? It's a no-brainer. You're getting paid to attend parties every night. And you'll be famous famous. I mean properly, glamorously famous, not like your boring husband sitting behind a desk reading an autocue. G.o.d, if you weren't my best friend I'd want to kill you I'd be so jealous.'

'I need to check with Luke first.'

Meena snorted just like one of the ponies all the other Brettenden girls had been brought up with. 'Luke wanted you to get a job and you have one. So what's the deal? He's off swanning round Paris. Why can't you have fun?'

'I'm sure he'll be fine about it. I just think I should check with him first. As soon as he gets back I'll ask him.'

Meena sat down on the bed. 'Poppy, you've never said it in so many words but you've had it hard the past couple of years: you've basically been a single mum; you've hardly gone out, you've missed out on so many laughs and you've never once complained. I'm proud of how you've dealt with things, but I b.l.o.o.d.y think you deserve to have some fun now.'

Poppy felt a lump in her throat. Happily, she was spared from some kind of wind-beneath-my-wings moment by Meena, who'd been teasing her hair into a ponytail, saying, 'What outfit is it going to be then?'

'I'm not sure, I thought maybe my blue dress.'

'No, no, it needs to be much funkier for a premiere.' Meena started briskly leafing through Poppy's wardrobe. 'G.o.d, I can't stand it. Don't you own anything except fleeces and tracksuit bottoms?'

'They wash easily.'

'Oh, listen to you.' She flicked on. 'Right. These jeans. With this jacket.'

The jeans were an old pair of Radcliffes that were too smart for Poppy ever to wear now; the jacket a sequinned silver number she'd been given after a shoot and packed away at the back of the wardrobe because she suspected it made her look like a crooner on a cruise ship.

'I don't know.'

'Well, I do. Put the jeans on.' Poppy obeyed dumbly. 'And now the jacket.'

'But I need a T-shirt or something underneath.'

'No you don't; it'll be far s.e.xier without.'

Dubiously, Poppy followed her orders.

'Perfect. Now... how about this necklace.' Meena fastened a black jet number round her friend's neck. 'And those shoes.' She pointed at a pair of snakeskin stilettos.

'I can't walk in those. I'll break my ankle.'

'Girlfriend, looking like you do, you ain't gonna need to walk anywhere.' She pushed Poppy in front of the cheval mirror. 'Look.'

Poppy looked. As always, she was amazed at what a difference several litres of make-up and a decent hairdo could make.

'Wow! Either I look like a complete t.i.t or I look fantastic.'

'The latter,' Meena said smugly.

'Are you sure? How do you know?' Poppy twisted and turned.

'Mummy pretty,' Clara cooed, toddling in, Brigita behind her.

'Hey! Brigita, this is my friend Meena. What do you think of our outfits?'

Brigita sucked her teeth, like a surgeon about to embark on a coronary bypa.s.s. 'Yes, this jacket is good for you Poppy. It covers the top of your arms.' She turned to Meena. 'With that b.u.m, I think this no skirt. Wear a trousers instead?'

'I can't believe Migsy Remblethorpe is responsible for this,' Meena gasped, as the Bakerloo Line whisked them to the West End. 'She always hated us. Used to call us the chav sisters.'

'That was a long time ago,' Poppy said.

'Still, seems a bit weird to me, her suddenly being so nice to you. But I'm not complaining if it means loads of party invitations.'

'I don't know about loads. We'll have to see how it goes.'

They emerged from the Tube at Piccadilly Circus. Three searchlights were combing the sky. Above Leicester Square floated a huge airship bearing the words Murder Police Murder Police over the pouting features of Brad Pitt. over the pouting features of Brad Pitt.

'Oh my G.o.d!' Meena screamed, linking her arm through Poppy's. They crossed the square, pa.s.sing nutters praising the Lord from soapboxes, cartoonists on fold-out stools doing bad drawings of grinning tourists, Peruvian Pan-pipers and a man selling roast chestnuts, hen-night parties, legs blue from the unseasonably chilly night, to the far corner of the square where a crowd was gathered round a metal gate, guarded by two bouncers. A white limo drew up and disgorged a tall, black girl in a purple taffeta balldress.

'That's Vonzella from Celebrity Love Island Celebrity Love Island,' Meena said. 'That must be the way into the cinema. Quick, get out the invitations.'

Diffidently, Poppy showed them to the bouncers, convinced they'd be rejected as forgeries. They brusquely nodded them through.

'We're on a red carpet!' Meena had always been fond of stating the obvious. It wasn't quite like Poppy had imagined it would be. She'd had the impression you floated up it alone while adoring fans scrutinized your every sartorial decision. But in fact it was as busy as Selfridge's on the first day of the sales with gaggles of sequin-clad women posing for the camera phones on the other side of the barrier. At the northern end a gang of photographers stood like cattle behind a pen, shouting at a small woman who expertly twisted and turned before them.

'Amanda, here! Amanda, this way! Amanda, smile a bit more. Show us some leg, love.'

'That's Amanda Holden,' Meena whispered. 'Do you think we we should pose for them?' should pose for them?'

'Don't be silly,' Poppy said, 'they don't know who we are.'

'They soon will. Oh my G.o.d there's Trinny and Susannah!' She fumbled for her phone. 'Do you think it would be really uncool if I took their photo?'

'Yes,' Poppy said firmly, as a voice said, 'Meena!'

'Hey, Toby!' Meena flung herself on the most handsome man Poppy had seen in a long time. Tall, with bushy brown hair, big eyes and a slightly hooked nose like a Red Indian chief. He was dressed in black jeans and a grey shirt.

'Poppy, this is Toby. He used to work out at the club. What's happened to you? I missed you.'

'I moved to Sh.o.r.editch.' He turned to Poppy and his eyes widened like a five-year-old in front of a cake-shop window. 'Hi, Toby Hastings.'

'Poppy Norton.'

A beaky-faced woman in a black suit wearing a headset hurried over to them.

'Guys, you've got to take your seats now now. The film's beginning in five.'

'Coming to the party afterwards?' Toby said in a low voice to Poppy. 'Oh, yes.' 'Come on on, guys!'

25.