​Chapter Two: A Woman Scorned

“He gave that whore my dress. My favourite dress. The dress he bought for me! No one does that to me!” Poppy screeched at the mirror. Her eyes were stinging from her make - up strewn tears. She hadn’t been able to face William after the incident at The Chateau.

“Snake! Liar!” she screamed at no one in particular, but she couldn’t contain her frustration. Poppy hadn’t heard from Will since that night; and he had never returned home.

“FUCKING BASTARD!” she yelled, hurling her fists at the desk in front of the mirror. She glanced around the claustrophobic dressing room as more tears drowned the skin on her face. She clutched clumsily at the almost empty bottle of Scotch on the desk. In groggy consciousness, she couldn’t remember how she’d ended up at the theatre. The last thing she remembered was hurling glass bottles at the clerk, Frank.

“Poppy open up!” someone was knocking at the door.

“Fuck you!” she yelled to the other side of the door. The knocking came again.

“Flower, it’s me, Mitchell. Come on, let me in honey.”

Mitchell. What was he going to do? Charm her out of the situation and make it seem like it was all ok?

“It is NOT okay!” she cried.

“I know it’s not sweetheart, look… let me in and we can discuss this together. I hate what’s happening, please petal, I need you to open the door,” his voice was quickly losing patience.

Poppy somehow managed to stagger to the door and twist the handle. On her hands and knees she gazed up at the concerned face above her. Mitchell’s warm brown eyes and soft blonde hair were inviting. Like Will.

“Leave me alone,” she wailed.

“That’s the last thing you need right now,” Mitchell tutted and synched himself through the gap between the door way and Poppy’s hands on the floor.

“What have you done to yourself, come on now,” Mitchell pulled her away from the door before closing it. He propped Poppy up against the chair, which sat back against the desk. Steadying her he asked:
“Do you remember how you got here?”

Poppy shook her head meekly.

“Well…”

As she was lead from the bar by hotel security, (hopelessly drunk) many faces stared in bewilderment. Apart from Will, Poppy didn’t recognise the others. Faceless guests, staying at the Chateau and silently judging her. She would never them again in her life, so it didn’t matter. With Will she hadn’t made eye contact in some time. Poppy knew he had betrayed her. The guard took her as far as the foyer, where the clerk handed her coat and keys over the desk. She glimpsed her hands, which were partially blood stained.

“I don’t think you’re in a fit state to drive, Madam,” Frank stated the obvious.

“No,” Poppy hiccupped again.

“Do you have money Madam?”

“What f-or?” Poppy hiccupped and slumped over the desk, resting her chin on her hands and staring blankly up at the clerk.

“A cab. Or the phone box?” the clerk suggested.

“Yes. I do I have a mobile phone-“ but Poppy stopped as she rummaged in her pockets and came up empty-handed. “My purse, my phone,” she whimpered. They were gone.

“What about your phone and purse, Madam?” Frank asked dumbly.

“They’re gone,” and tears began falling from Poppy’s hazy eyes. Frank’s attempts to console her all failed. She dropped each tissue he handed her before she collapsed in front of his desk.

“Should I get Mr Edmon for you, Madam?” Frank asked desperately.

“NO! No that would be the worst thing you could possible do to me right now. No. I need… I need Mitchell. Mitchell. Yes. Mitchell!” Poppy babbled.

She grinned inanely and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. She rescued a tissue from the floor and wiped her stinging eyes. Somehow, in the process, she had completely eradicated all thoughts of what had happened with Will.

A few moments later, Frank reappeared with Will. Poppy could barely hear their conversation as they towered over her (she was still on the floor) and her ears seemed to be filled with some sort of bubbles that prevented her from hearing properly.

“She’s a mess, get her home!” Will demanded.

“She has no money Sir,” Frank replied.

“Here,” a rustling noise in the background roused Poppy, whose head had previously been on her shoulder.

“Thank you Sir. Would you like to talk to the lady?”

“No I would not.” And that was the last time she heard Will’s voice. He had walked away. Frank crouched in front of her and pressed the notes and coins into Poppy’s sweaty palms and spoke:
“I’ll take you as far as the phone box Madam.”

He held out his hand to Poppy, who merely stared at it in confusion. Eventually, the clerk helped her place Will's money safely in her coat pocket, before steadying her arms and helping her to her feet. She stumbled forwards, resting on the clerk as he dragged her through the foyer into the street.

At night, Broodge Street became a different place. The Chateau Rouge was the only reputable place in the area. Everywhere else was rather questionable. A land of violence, assaults and newspaper articles waiting to occur. Poppy only ever ventured there to go to the Rouge; and as she thought of this, it occurred to her that she may never be able to do that again. Or at least, not for some time. All thanks to Will and his whore.

Finally, the clerk had pulled Poppy along to the phone box, in the pouring rain. By the time they reached the shelter of the glass walls they were drowned to their skin.

"You alright now Madam?" he stared at Poppy's dropping eyes.

"Divine. Thank you. I shall make my way from here," she slurred. The clerk nodded.

"I hope what remains of your evening improves, Madam," and with a sort of bow, he left Poppy.

Sheltered and alone Poppy lifted her head from the glass wall, where she had rested and found a sticker adhered to her forehead. Pealing it off, she examined it. An advertisement for a high end escort service. In disgust, she discarded it before slotting the coins from her pocket into the machine and dialling the only number she could think of.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Four, five, six- "What?" a voice growled from the receiver.

"Mitchell!" Poppy wailed.

"Who is this?" the voice snapped. "Oh wait, Poppy, is that you?" the voice asked.

"Y-es, yes. I need your help," she coughed down the phone, feeling bile rise in her throat.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" Mitchell's voice replied. Although she couldn't see him, Poppy was sure he would have rolled his eyes at her. Whenever she had been involved in mischief before, she and Mitchell were always in it together. This time - she hadn't meant to operate alone.

"I need a place to stay for the night. I'm too inebriated to drive," she explained.

"Good lord, my Poppy, a drunkard?" Mitchell laughed airily. "Where are you darling?"

"Broodge Street."

"Sweet Caroline, are you alone?" Poppy nodded dumbly at the phone.

"I'll take that as a yes. Were you at the Rouge?" Mitchell added, sounding concerned.

"Yes, but I was thrown out," Poppy had started to cry again.

"Hush now. I'll be right over. Stay where you are... actually, where are you?"

"A telephone box."

"A tele-I'll ask later, when you're sober." Mitchell corrected himself.

Poppy could hear rustling interference at the other end of the line.

"I'll be there in ten, alright old girl? Stay put." The line went dead.

Its sudden beeping annoyed Poppy and she pushed it away from her ear and slammed it down onto the cradle. She glanced around, through the transparent walls of her glass cage at her surroundings. The dank night made her feel worse. Cold from the rain, and shivering slightly she wondered if would catch pneumonia from the cold.

Why had she done it? How had she done it? At once, all these thoughts became too much. She felt herself falling.

“Do you recall any of that?” Mitchell concluded.

“Where did the blood come from?” Poppy asked drowsily.

“Ah yes, we’ll deal with that later. Poor William is all I have to say. And you’re in the theatre dressing room darling. It was the only place I could get to in such short notice. It’s late and you’re due for a stage call tomorrow. Naturally I told them you were unavailable and they’ve rescheduled the rehearsal for the day after.”

“How did you do that?”

“I have contacts,” he replied incredulously.

“Right,” Poppy nodded; feeling the sudden urge to be sick.

“Do you have a bucket?” she added.

*

Warmth. Poppy woke some time later in a large, double bed. A familiar face appeared over her and clearing her bleary eyes she registered it as Mitchell.

"Welcome to my master bedroom. Good morning." He lifted a tray of food onto the bed and placed it gently in Poppy's unsuspecting lap. The smell of the freshly buttered croissant and the sweet apple juice made her stomach turn.

"Get it away from me," she recoiled, covering her face with her hand and trying not to breathe.

"My, my, we are dramatic this morning. However, I thought a hangover might be the case," Mitchell said, sounding all-knowing. He leant over Poppy to take the tray back and replaced it with a glass of water and a white tablet.

"Dispersible aspirin, the alcoholic's breakfast," Mitchell teased.

"I amnotan alcoholic. Irresponsible yes, a drunken fool no," Poppy rose from the covers and seized the glass in one hand, she dropped the aspirin in and watched it dissolves before taking gentle sips.

"The tabloids would argue the contrary," Mitchell threw something in Poppy's general direction that landed on the bed next to her.

"You made the front page," Mitchell announced, as Poppy unfurled the newspaper and examined the headline:

CRAZED ACTRESS STAGES DRESS REHEAR-BRAWL

"Oh for goodness sake!" Poppy cried.

"What? You don't think your actions were newsworthy?" Mitchell reclined in his winged chair next to the bed, balancing a cocktail glass in one hand and a second copy of the newspaper in the other.

"It's not that," Poppy continued.

Mitchell raised his eyebrows as a gesture for her to continue.

"Why did it have to make the tabloid press? I was exclusively broadsheet with all my previous features," Poppy sighed, throwing the paper aside.

"Ah I see. Tabloids aren't good enough for a woman of your calibre," Mitchell chuckled dryly to himself, whilst sipping at his cocktail.

Poppy noticed how he seemed to be enjoying himself. Then, she supposed it was a change for Mitchell to actually have company - especially of the friendly kind.

"I saw one of your advertisements in the phone box," Poppy remarked.

"Did you really? And what did you think?" he sounded incredulous.

"It's not particularly tasteful."

"Less tasteful than starting a brawl in a bar?" Mitchell looked down his nose at Poppy.

"Touche," she sighed.

"You sound defeated Poppet," Mitchell clucked his teeth at her. Poppet. Mitchell hadn't called her that since they were children. It brought back fond memories. The reminiscence soon passed due to Mitchell's persistent questions.

"So what's your plan now?" he asked.

"I'm going to go home. And see what awaits me there but - oh shit," Poppy gave a resentful look at no one in particular.

"What?"

"I've left my car at the Chateau Rou-"

"No. I asked my driver to collect it for you last night. Took the liberty of giving him your keys. Hope you don't mind. The Jag's round the back," Mitchell grinned.

"How do you do it?" Poppy gazed at him.

"Do what?" Mitchell shrugged. He was also so nonchalant about receiving compliments. She gestured wordlessly with her hands.

"You're just so..."

"Sexy? Charming? Efficient?" Mitchell suggested, winking at her.

"Efficient yes, and there's something else."

"I'm just fabulous, Poppet," Mitchell concluded for her. Poppy smiled at that.

"Thank you for all your help, but I really need to get home," Poppy pulled the covers away and wobbled to her feet.

"One, final question," Mitchell added.

"Yes?"

"What happens if when you get back, that woman is there?"

Arabella. Poppy had tried not to dwell of this eventuality but she couldn't deny the thought had crossed her mind.

"I'll get rid of her," Poppy winked at Mitchell.

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"However I see fit," and Poppy pulled her dress over herself and strode past Mitchell, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Be careful Poppet. Don't want you making the front page for the wrong reasons."