Which is one of the things that has always confused me about what eventually happened. Communication was her thing. She was brilliant at it. And yet, somehow, in the run-up to the New Year that effectively ended our relationship, she lost the ability to talk.
Instead, her actions did all the talking for her – and nobody liked what they had to say.
Chapter 28
Rose: New Year at the Disco 2000, the Lake District
Iam, to put it mildly, a bit drunk. But at least I’m not the only one – the whole house is full of dancing queens and disco divas and snogging couples.
It’s been a brilliant party, completely brilliant. Gareth rented this big old house in the hills above Lake Windermere, totally secluded so we could all see the new millennium in with style.
The music has been awesome all night, and we celebrated the New Year with the perfect song – ‘Disco 2000’ by Pulp.
It’s been so nice to catch up with my old friends – some of whom, I realised as they started to arrive, I’ve not seen for way too long. Plus Poppy, of course. Such a relief that she agreed to come. I’ve not seen much of her this year, and there is a tiny part of my brain that feels bad about that. I was starting to wonder if I’d become That Girl – you know, the one who dumps everyone else once they’ve met a cool boy?
Whenever that part of my brain starts to nag at me, I tell it off. I tell it I’ve made every effort to bring her and Gareth closer, to merge the two halves of my life. Okay, so there was that time I forgot her birthday … that was bad, no getting away from it. But that was almost a year ago now, and so much has happened since then.
A new flat. A new cat. A new everything, really. Mainly a new me – because I’ve never, ever felt like this before. I’m in love, completely in love, and sometimes it’s hard to see beyond that. It’s like the lake down there, beyond the terrace where I am sitting to cool off, breathing in chilly night air and taking in the scenery. It dominates every part of the surrounding landscape; it’s everywhere you look.
It’s kind of the same with Gareth. He’s my Lake Windermere. He dominates everything – but in a less creepy way than it sounds. In a harmonious way, like the lake. Especially now Poppy is here, and everything feels better.
The lake – the real one, not Gareth – is beautiful, and I’m enjoying gazing at it from my perch on the table-scattered terrace. It’s dark and mysterious and shining in the moonlight, surrounded by snow-capped hills and silent forests.
Well, silent apart from the booming music pouring out from the house. The DJ has moved on to some banging house tunes, those ones with the singing bits in the middle. I preferred the Britpop section myself – dancing around with Poppy to the Stone Roses, doing actions to ‘I Am The Resurrection’ and pogoing to that Blur song about the boys who like girls and girls who like boys.
It was the only time in the night, truth be told, that Poppy got up to dance. Because while she has at least come, she seems a bit distracted. Off. Like she’s there in body, but not in spirit. It’s probably just Poppy being Poppy – feeling a bit artistic and tortured, and not really fitting in at a party full of bankers and scientists.
But partly, I suspect, it’s because she actually wanted me to come home for New Year instead. She’d tried to persuade me that a night in the Farmer’s really would be more fun than this. As if!
Anyway, even if I had been tempted, Gareth had already booked this place. He’d sorted the DJ, arranged the catering, ordered the drinks. I hadn’t had to lift a finger – he’d taken complete control, and organised it all. He’d even tried to organise the guest list, but I stepped in at that stage – even I couldn’t face a night with just the bankers.
He hadn’t included my friends on the initial list, but, well, that was fair enough – he didn’t know most of them. And he hadn’t objected at all when I added a few in. He’d even suggested we invite Mum, but Andrea had wisely said no.
‘Thank you so much, darling,’ she’d said on the phone, ‘but I must make my apologies on that one. I have a hot date with a jug of gin and a Jilly Cooper. Such a shame that Rupert Campbell-Black doesn’t drink in the Farmer’s, don’t you think?’
It is almost 3 a.m. now, and the party is still going strong – but in that stripped-down-to-the-hardcore way that the best parties have. There are fewer people on the dance floor, but they’re giving it their all, and the kitchen is packed with people chatting and flirting and stubbing out cigarette butts in half-drunk glasses of wine.
It’s that time of the party where people will start to couple up, or puke up, or come up on the drugs that they might just possibly have consumed.
That doesn’t include me – I’m not beyond the occasional toke on a joint, but the rest simply isn’t my scene. I stick to booze, because I know exactly where I am with that. The others, though?
Well, I’d have to be blind not to realise that at least a few recreational pharmaceuticals are floating around in there. Scientists and bankers are bonding over little white pills and small foil wrappers. I suspect, though I’m not sure, that Gareth has even been responsible for providing some of it – seeing it as part of his party host duties.
Still, there’s no harm, I suppose. Everyone is a consenting adult; it’s not like anybody is being corrupted. Even my little sister is a grown-up these days, although she doesn’t always act like one.
I’m starting to wonder where Poppy is. After the dancing, she disappeared off to get more booze, and the last time I saw her she was coming out of the kitchen with a pint glass full of Bailey’s and a slice of pizza, looking glassy-eyed and slightly unsteady on her long legs. Like Bambi after a night out on the piss with Thumper.
I decide to go and look for her. I’ve drunk enough champagne already, and I’m starting to feel cold, and now it’s occurred to me, I’m a bit worried about Pops.
Setting aside the fact that she’s an alleged grown-up, one who has just in fact bagged a traineeship in marketing with a big publishing company, she seems a bit vulnerable at the moment.
She might have brilliantly ferocious one-liners and appear to be as tough as nails, but she’s still my little sister. I should find her, and tell her I love her. It’s New Year after all – you’re allowed to be sentimental.
I head back inside, and laugh as I see a group of people doing a limbo dance to a remix of ‘I Will Survive’. I check the kitchen, and the second living room.
I see plenty of amusing sights – and some slightly disturbing ones, as people are clearly heading towards an amorous state of mind – but no Poppy.
I chat to people as I go, repeatedly being told what a great party this is, and head up the winding, wooden staircase. The house is old, and magnificent, but slightly past its best – the carpets are a little frayed, the oil paintings a little grimy, the chandeliers a little dusty. It’s a house that’s seen better times, and needs some TLC – which is probably why Gareth was able to persuade the rental company to let it out to a gang of party animal 20-somethings for the New Year.
