‘I know, from what she told me, that this will not be especially straightforward – but I would ask you to respect her wishes. If, after seeing the materials she has left, you decide you cannot go ahead, then simply let me know and I’ll arrange for it all to be collected. And destroyed.’
He sees Rose wince at his use of the word ‘destroyed’, and feels a smidgeon of guilt. He only said it for effect. He wouldn’t be capable of destroying anything Andrea had left behind – he’d even kept her combs and her lipstick and the last crumpled tissue she’d used to wipe the tears from her eyes after she had finished the video.
‘Now, unless there is anything else I can help you with, I suggest we adjourn for now. I, for one, quite frankly feel bloody awful, and I’m sure you two have a lot to think about. Please feel free to contact me if you have any further questions, and I will be in touch with regard to the estate in due course.’
He stands – using his six-foot-four height to full advantage – and waits until they follow suit. He can tell that Poppy wants to argue, but can’t find anything to argue about.
Eventually, both of them stand, and he passes a set of keys into Rose’s shaking hands. He admits to himself that this is childish, and he did it because he knew it would annoy Poppy. But, as Andrea would say, small pleasures, darling, soon mount up.
They both mutter their thank yous, and start to leave, Rose lingering slightly so there is no danger of making any accidental physical contact with her sister. He shakes his head as they go, not at all sure from this initial encounter whether even the warmth of Andrea’s legacy will be enough to melt this kind of permafrost.
As she reaches the door, Rose hesitates, and turns back to face him.
‘Can I ask you something, Lewis?’ she says, voice small and apologetic.
‘Of course,’ he replies.
‘You and my mum … you seem to have been so close. You’ve obviously been a huge help to her. Can I ask – were you more than friends?’
There is a hopeful note to her question, as though she desperately wants him to say yes. Perhaps it would make her feel less guilty about her mother’s final few weeks if she thinks she had a lover by her side, instead of a boring old fart of a solicitor.
‘I loved your mother dearly,’ he says, fighting to keep his own voice from cracking, ‘but no, we weren’t more than friends. She wasn’t my type, beautiful creature though she was. I’m more of a Jason Statham man myself.’
He enjoys the look of shock on both their faces – he doesn’t get to shock people anywhere near enough these days – and finds himself smiling as they leave.
Smiling, and wondering. Wondering what went wrong, all those years ago, to cause such an apparently uncrossable divide?
And wondering if there is any way that a trip through Andrea’s sometimes psychedelic alphabet will be able to bridge it.
PART TWO
The Curtain Opens:
The A–Z Begins
Chapter 20
Poppy
Iam sitting in my car, outside the childhood home I’ve not seen for over a decade, waiting for them to get here.
Waiting for my sister, who I haven’t properly talked to for seventeen years, and my nephew, who I hadn’t even met until the day of the funeral. I have been avoiding thinking, and feeling, and crying, for so long now, I’m not sure I even exist any more.
I am just a blob of a human being, melting on a hot summer’s day, confronting a past that makes me cringe and a future I can’t even imagine. I’ve coped until now by keeping busy. By out-bitching myself in the office, and by using up every spare moment of every day drinking or working or sometimes both at the same time. Because that’s what hip flasks were invented for.
Everything’s been building up to this – to this A–Z madness – and now, I feel like I’ve been here for hours. My blouse is sticking to the sweat under my armpits, and I have no clue why I still have my leather jacket over my shoulders. Just for show, I suppose, like the stupid high-heeled sandals that are crippling my feet. Heaven forbid I look less than perfect.
I might look it, but I really don’t feel it. I’m a nervous wreck, and every time I hear the distant sound of a car engine, one that might be hers, I try and pull myself back together again.
I’ve planned for this, I tell myself. I’ve practised my neutral face in the mirror, and my calm speaking voice by talking out loud. I am determined not to start us off on the wrong foot, but … well. She’s late. And there’s nothing like being locked out of your dead mother’s house to make you tetchy.
Obviously, I’d arrived early as well, so it’s almost an hour I’ve been waiting now. Walking around the gardens; counting the gnomes; staring through the windows. Thinking about stuff I didn’t want to think about.
It was the window peeking that finally did me in. Shielding my face from the glare of the sun, like you do when you’re at an ATM on a bright day, and gazing inside at the living room. Seeing the chintzy sofa and the matching armchair, and picturing Mum sitting there, watching a movie or reading a book or on the phone to me.
The little side table next to it, where she kept her glasses – both the type she used to read with, and the type she used to drink wine from. The books on the shelves; the now-empty vase she usually had filled with wildflowers. The brand-new flat-screen TV that I’d heard all about – ‘darling, I swear, Richard Burton’s head is bigger on my new telly than it was in real life!’
It all looks the same. Apart from the flat-screen. Just like it did the last time I was here, which is way too many years ago. I almost expect to see her pottering around in there, wearing her yoga pants and a nice pashmina, wandering in from the kitchen with a jug of something cool and alcoholic.
