Everyone is always so busy, either with work or family, battered by commuting and finances and, in the case of the few people she knows with kids, trying to move to an area with a Good School. It had all felt like a lot more fun when she was younger – but these days, as she chats and laughs with people ten years her junior, it feels a bit more … desperate.
God knows what will happen when Kristin gets married. It’ll happen, one day, she knows – she’s already lost most of her party animal pals to the sacrificial altar. They’re never the same again once they’ve tied the knot.
She uses the remote to pass on a Bollywood movie, ignores the news (which always depresses her), and is only marginally tempted by a Steven Seagal film. It’s always fun watching a fat man do karate kicks, but she’s not quite in the right mood tonight. She finally settles onPoldark– something she’d very much like to do in real life. Right on top of him.
Letting out a dirty laugh that echoes around her empty flat, she puts the almost-coffee down in disgust. Maybe she’ll go for a nice G&T instead. It’s the freaking weekend, baby, and it’s never too early to start drinking.
She’s not stupid, and appreciates the irony of her lifestyle: going to the gym every day, banning cake, drinking enough water to fill a flotation tank, and then polluting her temple-like body with booze at the weekend.
Well, she thinks, pouring herself a hefty glass, nobody’s perfect, are they? And some habits are harder to break than others. She just wishes being a party girl still felt as exciting and fun as it used to, in the Olden Days back in the last century.
Back when she still had a sister.
Chapter 8
Glastonbury Festival, Somerset, 1995
‘Okay, that’s settled then,’ says Rose, lying on top of her sleeping bag because it’s too hot to get inside it, ‘you can have Liam, and I’ll have Noel.’
‘That’s fine by me. Liam is way sexier. You only want Noel because he writes the songs, and you’re an intellectual snob so you think that means he’s cleverer.’
‘I have to be honest, Pops, I don’t think you could call any of Oasis clever … If I wanted clever, I’d have to go for Jarvis Cocker.’
‘Even though he’s so skinny?’
‘Even though. There was something foxy about him tonight, don’t you think? All those shapes he pulled, and the way he held the microphone? Or is that the marijuana speaking?’
‘If the marijuana is actually speaking to you,’ says Poppy, passing her sister the item under discussion, ‘then I’m going to suggest you drank some of that special mushroom tea the hippy dudes were offering us earlier.’
‘No! I didn’t, honest!’ says Rose, giggling. Everything seems very, very funny, for some reason. Even earlier, when there was a wasp trapped in the tent with them – and she is terrified of wasps – she couldn’t stop laughing as Poppy batted it out again with a rolled-up festival programme. Fearless wasp warrior.
‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t …’ replies Poppy, also giggling. ‘Hey, I just had a thought. It’s a funny one.’
‘Go for it. I’m a very receptive audience right now.’
‘Okay,’ says Poppy, ‘you know how the Stone Roses were supposed to be playing, and they dropped out?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, we’re lying here smoking up a storm, and instead of the Stone Roses, we have the … Stoned Rose!Rose!Your name! You get it?’
Rose does get it, and frankly it is the most hilarious thing she has ever heard. She laughs so much she fears she might have some kind of calamitous event going on in her cerebral cortex.
It’s Poppy’s fault, she decides, with a grin. That she’s a Stoned Rose, and that she’s almost laughing herself to death. She might be two years younger, but she’s a bad influence. Leading her astray.
Rose is in her first year at Liverpool University, studying Biology, with a nice sideline in cheap lager. Poppy is at college doing her A-levels.
They don’t see as much of each other now, for obvious reasons, and this has been a glorious weekend. They’ve watched fine bands, and eaten less fine veggie burgers, and had henna tattoos done on their hands, and witnessed one of the amateur flame-jugglers get taken away to hospital. They’ve danced and drunk and been hoisted on random men’s shoulders and lain out in the sun, listening to the sounds of bongo drums and acid trips wafting past their ears.
It’s late now, and they’re enjoying their last night together. Even in the early hours, in their tent, they can hear the sounds of festival life going on around them: music and laughter and yet more bongos and guitars strumming and the very occasional vomit.
‘Was Andy disappointed you weren’t sharing with him?’ asks Poppy from out of the blue. Andy is Rose’s boyfriend, and he’s here too, with a gang of his friends. Poppy doesn’t have a boyfriend, just a few lads she snogs when she’s been in the Tennyson’s Arms on a Friday night.
‘I don’t think so,’ answers Rose, passing back the joint and twisting on to her side so she is facing her sister. Poppy is still long and lean and lovely, and the spots have cleared up now. She’s a bit of a babe, but doesn’t seem to realise it. Bambi’s all grown up, at least in body.
‘I think he’s happy enough with his mates,’ she adds. ‘And anyway, even if he wasn’t, so what? This is our weekend. We’ve been planning it for ages. I can see Andy whenever I want – but spending quality time with my adorable little sister is far more precious.’
Poppy laughs, and stubs the cigarette out on the lid of the little tobacco tin she carries everywhere with her. Rose glances at it – it’s what they call ‘vintage’ these days, and the lid is decorated with a naval design. It looks suspiciously like one that used to live in a glass cabinet back in the cottage.
