It’s just after 7 p.m., and the place is packed. A few lonely drunks are staggering around asking for change, and one man is playing a rousing rendition of ‘Let It Be’ on a guitar made of cardboard with drawn-on strings.
She was supposed to meet me here just after six, but she never showed. Since then I’ve been drinking expensive coffee, people-watching, and listening to muffled announcements about platform alterations and the delayed 18.43 service to London Euston.
I’ve texted Rose so many times I barely have thumbs left, and so far three separate, disgustingly cheerful, middle-aged Scouse men have told me to ‘cheer up, girl, it might never happen.’
I give up, and head to the nearest pub. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for ages. Ever since that trip to Dublin, barely a sentence has come out of Rose’s mouth that doesn’t contain the word ‘Gareth’, and I’d planned my visit to coincide with him being away.
It wasn’t easy, as they now live together. He’s been down to the cottage to meet Mum, and they’ve even adopted a cat from the local rescue centre. They’ve been on mini-breaks and been to Ikea and been to dinner with his parents. Bleeeugh. I’m sick of hearing about him.
This weekend, he’s away at some kind of poncey team-building event in the Lake District. I’ve got no idea what that means – presumably learning to make better financial decisions about other people’s money by bungee jumping off Helvellyn or something. I don’t really care. I just care that he’s gone, and that I might get my sister back for a few days.
Mum’s been all philosophical about it, obviously. When I asked her what she thought about him, she’d just shrugged and said: ‘What I think doesn’t matter – he’s not my boyfriend, is he? Or yours. He seems to make Rosehip happy, and that’s all that counts.’
She’s probably right, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something …offabout Gareth. Which I know covers a multitude of sins, but I suspect he’s committed them all.
I cross the road, dodging black cabs and buskers, and slam the door to the pub open so hard it bangs against the plasterwork. It’s an old place, near a theatre, dimly lit and decorated with old programmes and portraits of the stars who have played there. It’s also empty enough for me to be able to sit, but full enough for me to be left alone.
I stand at the bar, waiting to get served, and ponder it all. It’s not Rose being in love that’s bothering me. Or even the fact that I don’t especially like Gareth. It’s the way she’s somehow becoming less and less like Rose as the months go by.
She doesn’t seem to ever mention her old friends any more – the university buddies who used to visit for raucous nights out on the town. And she seems to have stopped socialising with the people from the lab where she works, even though she used to adore them in all their geeky wonder. She’s given up on the tutoring work she was doing, and seems noncommittal about the PhD idea, and hasn’t even been going to the homeless shelter where she used to volunteer.
Running a soup kitchen for people who live out of cardboard boxes was never my idea of a good time, but Rose loved it. And now, she ‘doesn’t have the time’ – not now she has Gareth, and the Cat, and is busy being one half of a couple.
I’ve never had a serious relationship – just a lot of silly ones – but it just feels wrong that being one half of a couple means that you have to chop off one half of yourself.
I take my Foster’s back to a table, and get out a copy ofHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkabanto put anyone off trying to talk to me. I probably look as welcoming as Severus Snape, and set about doing some serious drinking.
I’m on my third pint by the time my phone beeps with a text from Rose:Where R U?
Feeling a bit angry and a lot relieved, I tell her, and she replies saying she’ll be there in two minutes. I fold the corner of the book over, and concentrate on the relief. So, she’s late – it’s no big deal. What’s a few hours between sisters?
There might have been a traffic jam on her bus route, or an emergency plant-cell situation to sort out, or she might have fallen asleep on the sofa and woken up in a panic. She’s coming. That’s all that matters.
Every time the door opens, I look up expectantly, grin ready – until, finally, it is her, a whirlwind of crazy curls and flustered apologies. It’s her, and then it’s Gareth, right on her tail.
I stare at him, open-mouthed, not quite believing what I’m seeing. He’s handsome enough, so I can see why Rose fancies him. Tall, broad, dark hair, blue eyes, perfect clothes. But no matter how hot he looks, he might as well have cloven hoofs and horns.
‘I thought you were away?’ I say.
‘I got out of it,’ he replies, giving me a wink and sitting down on the stool opposite. ‘Threw a sicky, in fact – didn’t want to miss the chance of spending some quality time with the famous Poppy.’
‘You really shouldn’t have,’ I reply, gripping my pint glass so hard my knuckles go white. He laughs, like I’m joking, but I mean every word.
‘Isn’t it brilliant, Pops?’ says Rose, still hovering above us. ‘Gareth says he can get us into this new club that’s just opened, and you can meet the cat, and you two can get to know each other better. My two favourite people in the world. Do you want another drink?’
I notice, as Rose speaks, that her hair is even wilder than usual. That she is blushing. That the buttons on her shirt are fastened up wrong. I deduce from this that the reason my sister was late – the reason I was left fending off drunks and feeling like such a loser at Lime Street Station – is because she was too busy shagging. For. Fuck’s. Sake.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, biting back the sniping words that I actually want to use. ‘In fact, get me two. I think I’m on a bit of a roll tonight.’
Chapter 25
Poppy: The Present Day
Ileave Joe to his nap, and I walk down the stairs – still rickety, still made of old floorboards that seem to wheeze beneath your feet – and into the living room. The ceiling is low and criss-crossed with dark wooden beams, and Joe will undoubtedly spend his whole time here having to duck, or rubbing the bumps on his head.
One of the walls, which used to be covered in family photos, is now strangely bare, the outlines of old frames and the vivid patches of colour where they used to be hanging there like ghostly reminders.
I find Rose staring at the flat-screen telly, even though it’s not on. She is lugging two boxes down from the table, and has tied her hair up into a huge ponytail. I recognise the look on her face – it is the one that means business.
