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  She frowned, and the effect was so pretty he wondered if he was going mad. Why did he find this cranky, kooky woman so damned appealing? He knew for a fact he could go out tonight and drag home some hot, willing chick who would stroke his ego and never argue with him about anything. He closed his eyes and remembered just how good that felt. Willing women; god bless them. Then he opened them and realised he was a goner. She was blowing him a kiss and he wanted to blow the whole thing off, stand his band-mates up yet again and get back into bed with her. But there was the other thing. He needed to go tonight. And he needed to get a move on.

  Before he left, he tuned back in to what Poppy was frowning about. ‘You don’t think that’s kind of inappropriate?’ she asked, sitting up and looking like a fallen angel with the buzz cut highlighting her delicate features and the purple pyjamas hanging off one shoulder. ‘Calling her at that hour of night?’

  Quentin made a show of considering the question. ‘We-ell,’ he answered finally, rubbing his chin. ‘I think the whole deal is kinda mad, really. I’m not sure the time of day changes that much either way.’

  One of his groupies might take that as a sign that he disagreed with a proposed course of action, and take steps to remedy the situation. Steps to make him happy; make him approve. Poppy just nodded. ‘Excellent,’ she said, lying back down and flapping a hand at him. ‘If it makes no real difference to the outcome, let’s do it tonight.’ She yawned loudly and snuggled back under her covers. ‘It’s a date.’

  Quentin grinned and strode from the room, finding Scarlett plucking his guitar in one of the recliners in front of Madam Curie.

  Shit. He’d never been good with mothers, and earth mothers were proving to be no exception.

  ‘I didn’t know you played,’ he said, wondering how he could quickly extract Jerry Hall from her without seeming too rude. He had other guitars, but tonight was a big gig, and Jerry was his best girl. And truth to tell, Scarlett’s plucking was pretty horrible, at least to his well-trained ears. It seemed to be some kind of childish version of ‘By the Rivers of Babylon’.

  ‘Oh, just a little,’ Scarlett said, staring into Madam Curie’s cage. ‘Magnificent creature, isn’t she?’

  For a millisecond, Quentin had a horrible feeling that Scarlett was referring to her daughter, and wondered if she knew the indecent things he had done to that magnificent creature since he’d met her. But then he realised she was talking about the snake. ‘Never much went in for reptiles,’ he said, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around Jerry’s delicate neck.

  Scarlett eyeballed him, and he was disconcerted by how much she looked like Poppy. An older, taller, more buxom version.

  ‘She isn’t talking to me much,’ Scarlett said sadly.

  Uh-oh. Just because Quentin was dating a girl with cancer, it didn’t mean he was comfortable getting into some screwy family situation. And he knew, from the snippets Poppy had given him, that things with her ma were pretty darned screwy indeed.

  He was still a bloke, for fuck’s sake. So he decided to feign ignorance. He was pretty sure they all thought he was stupid anyway. ‘Must be the cold blood,’ he said, motioning to the snake and hoping she might believe he thought she had been referring to Madame Curie. ‘Doesn’t make them very conversational.’

  Scarlett nodded, and for a fleeting moment he caught a glimmer of Poppy’s shrewdness in those familiar brown eyes. ‘Very well, Quentin,’ she said, passing him the guitar. ‘I understand.’

  He got it; she knew he was obfuscating. And he was pretty sure her pointed message was his cue to ask some more about how Scarlett was feeling regarding her strained relationship with Poppy, and ’fess up that he had got her drift the first time. On the other hand, it also gave him just enough of an out to allow him to make some polite noises, grab hold of Jerry Hall like he was eloping, and scoot out of there.

  It was no competition.

  With any luck, he might still be able to do what he needed to before the gig.

  * * *

  ‘What the fuck time do you call this?’ Spike was young, hot, an unbelievable drummer, and bad in a punk kind of way. But he wasn’t known for his subtlety.

  Quentin was tired, and he needed to get this over with quickly so he could still conduct his business before the gig started. So he pressed a rock-star smile onto his face and punched the air. ‘Time to rock’n’roll,’ he yelled, to a chorus of agreement from the other two band members, sculling last drinks in the sticky green room.

  Spike narrowed his eyes at Quentin and adjusted his black singlet top to better show off the dragon tattoo that climbed his neck and decorated most of one shoulder. ‘Fifteen minutes till go, Q,’ he said, his British accent still discernible, even after seven years in the land of sun. ‘We need to tune up. You know that, bruvva.’

  ‘Fair cop,’ Quentin placated, starting the process with his strings. He smiled at his best mate. ‘But y’think we could do it quickly?’

  Spike rolled his eyes. ‘Got somewhere else to be?’ He picked up his drumsticks and rapped them on Quentin’s head. ‘Yoko calling?’

  It was Quentin’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘That’s not even clever,’ he said darkly.

  Spike dragged Quentin into the corner, one arm around his neck in a semi-joking headlock. ‘Look, my darlin’,’ he crooned, releasing Quentin from the lock but turning to face him, his hands on his shoulders. ‘I know shit’s going on for you, but I’m worried about ya. You gettin’ in over yer head?’

  Quentin tried not to think about the answer to that. Instead, he winked. ‘No pain, no gain, baby.’

  Spike hesitated, then grinned at him. ‘She must be some fuckin’ girl,’ he said, smacking Quentin hard in the middle of the back. Then he frowned. ‘So wotcha got going down then, before the show?’

  ‘Mate,’ Quentin said, reaching out and squeezing his friend’s shoulder. ‘I gotta meet someone, real quick.’

  Spike’s eyes lit up, and Quentin knew what he was thinking: That’s more like our Quentin, reliably slutty.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he said quickly. ‘I gotta do a deal. And it’s special. I gotta meet them before the show.’

  Spike frowned and swore. ‘I didn’t know you were using, you daft—’

  Quentin interrupted him. ‘It’s okay, mate,’ he assured him, leading him back to the others. ‘Just trust me. You guys get ready. I’ll be back in five.’

  * * *

  The girl was exactly the kind he loved. Young, blonde and built like a swimsuit model. She kept pressing up against him in the alley, despite the fact that there was plenty of room for both of them.

  He was straight to the point. Spike was going to kill him if he was late for the gig. ‘Have you got it?’

  The girl pouted prettily. ‘Of course, baby,’ she said, running a finger along his arm. ‘But you need to say please.’

  ‘Please, sweetie,’ he cajoled, trying for the old Q winning grin but feeling like a terrible fraud. He just needed what she had. He didn’t want whatever else she was selling.

  ‘Okay, then,’ she agreed, reaching into her handbag and extracting a small alfoil package. ‘But this is serious shit. You sure you up for this?’

  ‘Is it good?’ Quentin fixed her with his eyes. ‘The guys swore that you’re the one to go to; you wouldn’t steer me wrong, would you?’

  ‘I told you,’ the girl said, rolling her eyes and suddenly seeming older and harder. ‘For what you want, mushrooms are the best bet. Anything chemical and you could get tricky interactions.’

  ‘Great.’ Quentin tried smiling at her again as he handed over the hundred-dollar bill.

  She tucked it into her bra, at the front, drawing his eyes again to her impressive cleavage.

  She clocked him noticing. ‘You want something else, baby?’ she asked breathily, pressing closer once more. ‘I saw you guys perform two weeks ago, and you were a-mazing!’

  She grinned, showing big white teeth. Somehow, everything about her seemed too big –
her teeth, her smile, even her boobs. And nothing about her seemed real, including (he’d be almost willing to bet) those gorgeous boobs.

  ‘Ta, darlin’,’ he said, winking at her. ‘That sure is nice to hear.’

  Her face closed down as she realised she was being blown off. ‘Fuck you,’ she snapped, walking off down the alley.

  ‘No thanks,’ Quentin breathed to himself, following her at a run so he could make the gig.

  * * *

  ‘How was it?’ Poppy felt small and warm as he crawled back into bed with her six hours later. She smelled like peaches and pure heaven after the heaving mass of rock’n’roll-fuelled bodies he had needed to push his way through to make it back to her after the gig finished.

  ‘Loud,’ he said, relishing the silence of her soft breathing.

  ‘You old fogey,’ she chastised, punching him lightly in the darkness. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Are you?’ he asked, lifting her up easily and setting her on top of his chest carefully, lest he hurt her. ‘You don’t need to, you know. Just ’cause you made a damn bucket list, doesn’t mean you gotta stick to it. I told you, remember?’ He grabbed hold of her arse, loving the feeling of her soft skin in his palms. Was there something wrong with him that she turned him on like this all the time?

  He pushed the thought away. Who gave a shit? If he was sick, at least they had that in common, too.

  ‘You only need a bucket list if you’re dying.’

  ‘No,’ Poppy clucked, determination written so large in her voice he didn’t even need to see her face – he could imagine how it looked. Pointy and determined. ‘I need to be prepared. These things can come on you quickly. Anyway.’ She sighed and it was so unlike her that he immediately took notice. ‘Being sick makes you think about things.’ She paused and he listened to her take a few deep breaths in the darkness. ‘It makes you think about how you live. And whether I live or die, I want to do the things on that list.’

  He still wasn’t convinced. ‘I thought you liked your job. You don’t need to do this just because it’s number six.’

  She laughed; god, he loved that sound. ‘I know that, silly,’ she said. ‘And yeah, I like my job well enough. But I don’t love it as much as … say … diving with sharks, or doing a cooking class in Tuscany, or …’

  ‘I get it,’ Quentin said, smiling. No-one ever needed to convince him of the rightness of living for the moment. He thought about his father, half-dead with overwork even though he could buy the world many times over. Quentin had worked out long ago that life was for the taking, and if something didn’t raise your blood pressure, it probably wasn’t worth the trouble. ‘Okay,’ he said, handing her the phone. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she purred, her voice high with excitement.

  ‘You got your lines planned?’

  She hit him with the phone. ‘What do you think, Bozo?’

  Fair point. ‘Then go forth and do the deed, Ms Poppy. In a few minutes you’ll be a free woman.’

  He listened to her tapping the numbers on the touch screen. Whatever happened now, he was glad he was here.

  So. Fucking. Glad.

  ‘Bob? It’s Poppy. No, no I’m fine.’ She paused, and grabbed Quentin’s hand under the covers. He could feel the tremor in hers. ‘Oh you are sweet, but no, honestly, I’m fine.’ She paused again. ‘Okay, yeah, a bit sore still, after the op, but listen I do have to tell you something.’

  Here it goes. Quentin found he was nervous for her. Why the hell was that? He’d never even had a boss, not a real one. Why did he care what she did with hers?

  Problem was, he seemed to care about everything she did.

  ‘You see, Bob, I just don’t think I want to do it anymore.’ A few beats. ‘The job. My job, that is.’ More pause. ‘Well, yeah, sure it’s the cancer, but—’

  Quentin couldn’t believe how frustrated he was by not being able to hear Bob’s side of the conversation. Even worse, he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t thought to insist that Poppy put the phone on speaker.

  ‘You’re kind,’ she went on, starting to sound quite irritated, and raising her voice. ‘You know what, Bob? It’s really not the cancer. It’s just …’ She elbowed Quentin to let him know this bit was important. ‘It’s just like I told a friend. It’s more the clarifying effect of cancer. I don’t really want to work anymore. Not really. I want to …’ She paused, and he swore he could hear her chewing her lip in the soft light of the lamp, or maybe she just did that so often he was projecting. ‘I just want to do exactly what I want to do, every day. For me.’

  He felt like punching the air in a victory salute. Holy shit, was he actually turning into a girl? How was this happening? Was he really identifying so much with Poppy’s feelings, with her pain and needs and triumphs, that he was feeling her nerves and her small victories in this ridiculous conversation with her boss at two am?

  And if he was, what did that mean? Was he going to start being one of those guys who wore those weird man bags and watched The Notebook? And cried?

  He tuned back in. Oh dear, he’d missed something during his rare moment of furious introspection. Poppy was pissed.

  ‘Why thank you, Bob,’ she hissed with sweet sarcasm. ‘I, and all the other cancer victims of the world truly appreciate your largess. But no fucking thank you. You know what?’

  Quentin was pretty sure Bob said ‘what?’ at this point, because the pause was briefer than it had been before.

  ‘I’d rather shoot myself in the face than work for you again. Yeah, sure, I loved my job. But you are a patronising, unoriginal bureaucrat who always took credit for everyone else’s work.’ She sucked in a breath, and Quentin could feel she was gathering for a final assault.

  Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

  ‘Your shirts are too small. You chair a bad meeting. I hate how you always pick a hot personal assistant. And …’ Poppy drew out this last word quite dramatically. ‘You need to get some help for your halitosis. Goodbye.’

  Quentin felt her muscles flex as she made to throw the phone across the room and ducked just in time.

  He waited, trying to decide if she was happy or sad or mad.

  She didn’t make him wait long. ‘Woooeeeee,’ she screamed. ‘That felt un-fucking-believable!’

  He hugged her tightly, but oh-so-carefully, worried about hurting her. ‘Just don’t get addicted to that particular brand of honesty,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I really don’t need to know about my halitosis.’

  Poppy jumped up and started bouncing on her bed. Her exhilaration was contagious. Quentin leapt up and bounced right alongside, hoping they didn’t break the bed. He’d meant it when he’d said Julia was the scariest white woman he’d ever met. After a few more bounces, he caught Poppy in his arms. ‘Wanna knock another one off tonight?’ he asked, kissing her neck.

  ‘Off the list?’ She was breathless with the high of number six.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, feeling her smile against his face.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Do you know them by number?’

  She smacked him, hard, in the stomach as she stopped bouncing. ‘Do you really need to ask?’

  He laughed, caught in her exuberance. ‘Number three?’

  ‘Really?’ Her voice was full of wonder. ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Take some form of hallucinogenic drug. Ensuring pre-testing for purity.’

  She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed softly. ‘Really? Are you sure? I thought you said you couldn’t help me with that one.’ She pulled a face so he would remember how disbelieving she had been. ‘’Cause you’re the only rock’n’roller in the whole world who doesn’t do drugs.’

  Was he sure? No, he was scared as hell; he’d seen what drugs did to people. Good people. Talented people. But she had made it very clear what she wanted and he had done his research on this one.

  ‘Wee-ell,’ he said slowly. ‘I got mushrooms. I looked into it. I wanted to pick something that wasn’t m
anufactured in a lab.’

  Poppy kissed him. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have enough of that when I start chemo in a few days.’ She kissed him again, softly, and whispered against his cheek. ‘I like you. I really like you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said as she snuggled against him. ‘I don’t like you at all.’

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, patting his cheek and then sinking back onto the bed. ‘Now, where are they and how do we get this done?’

  * * *

  Four hours later, Quentin was floating in a lovely, blissful ­bubble. The wild hallucinogenic effects had started to abate, and the crazy ride he and Poppy had been on together was subsiding.

  She leaned over and kissed him hard. ‘I will never, ever forget that,’ she whispered against his face.

  ‘And I will never, ever forget you,’ he said, his voice suddenly tight in his throat as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. But he wasn’t quite done.

  He rolled her on top of him, and she sat up, as she liked to do. He touched her pyjama top, with the constraining bra underneath. ‘This is coming off,’ he said, softly lest he scare her. ‘Now.’

  ‘Okay.’ She nodded. And he could hear how afraid she was.

  As he removed it, Poppy covered her chest with her hands.

  ‘Drop them,’ he commanded, and at that moment he wanted her to listen to him more than he ever remembered wanting anything.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest.

  He frowned at her, tugging at her arms in protest. ‘I’m stronger than you,’ he said, begging her with his eyes. ‘Don’t make me get all Tarzan on you.’

  She shook her head again.

  It was his turn to suck in a breath. ‘Poppy,’ he said, stroking her crossed arms lightly. ‘I want to see you. All of you. I want to touch you. All of you.’

  She crunched her face up at him. ‘Is that a lyric? Did you really just use a cheesy lyric on me?’

  He considered the question. Did he?

  ‘Er, maybe,’ he conceded. He did know a lot of lyrics. ‘But it doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it.’