Partly I made those choices because they allowed me to go on living the life with Gareth that I thought I wanted. But partly, it was because the bigger hurt of the whole sordid affair was my sister’s betrayal, not Gareth’s. I could forgive him because he hadn’t caused as much damage.
Poppy was my best friend, my ally in life, my little sis – Poppy was everything, and she’d destroyed me.
Knowing now, all these years later, that things weren’t quite how he portrayed them isn’t actually as much of a revelation as she might expect. Deep down, I think I always suspected something like that had happened, especially with hindsight and a clearer picture of the way my ex-husband operates. I just chose not to engage with it, because it was easier to shut her out.
I suspect one of the reasons that I returned all her letters and refused all her calls was to avoid exactly this feeling – it was simpler to heap all the blame on her. It felt as if she’d gouged out my heart at the time, and there was no way I was going to listen to mitigating circumstances. Nobody could blame me for reacting like I did, even her – it was completely justified, and I wasn’t prepared to listen to her version of events.
I’m still not sure I am now. Because it’s too big, and too nasty, and too difficult. I carved out a huge chunk of my life when I blanked Poppy, and admitting I might have been wrong means I’d have to face up to the fact that for all this time, I’ve been alone for no good reason. That we broke our mother’s heart for no good reason.
I’m not ready for that, and I’m not sure I ever will be – because ultimately, no matter how much I can understand the truth of a lot of what she is saying, and how much I now see she was right about Gareth, it’s still not much of an excuse for shagging your sister’s boyfriend, is it?
We’ve all been drunk. We’ve all done stupid things. But this isn’t on the same level as bringing home a traffic bollard, or doing a runner from an Indian restaurant, or tipping the cabbie with a snog. This is a world away from any of that, and it’s not so easily forgiven.
I put the padded envelope aside, and decide I need to go downstairs. I’ve been up here for hours, and would quite like to stay here forever.
I pause in the doorway of my bedroom, go back, and tear that bloody Boyzone poster down from the wall.
When I emerge into the living room, Poppy is curled up on the sofa under one of Mum’s vast collection of tartan blankets. She is pretending to be asleep, but I know better. She looks terrible – the worst I’ve seen her since this whole thing started. Her hair is greasy and flat to her head, her skin is taut and pale and dry, and I can see that she’s been gnawing away at her usually flawless nails. It must be some kind of osmosis: a few days with me and even the most glamorous of women start turning into a frump.
‘I know you’re awake,’ I say, sitting down on Mum’s armchair. ‘I can tell from the way you’re breathing.’
She makes a pretence of waking up, yawning and stretching, and it almost makes me laugh, it’s such a juvenile thing to do.
‘Oh …’ she says, wiping her eyes as though they are still full of sleep. ‘Did you read the letters?’
‘I did,’ I reply, nodding. ‘Although your handwriting was awful, and you clearly kept blubbing so much that loads of the ink was smudged.’
‘And?’ she asks, trying to sound tough but falling well short.
‘And you were right about one thing you kept saying – none of it lets you off the hook. This isn’t a film, is it, Poppy? It’s not like we’re inBeachesorSteel Magnoliasor something, where I have some sudden rush of emotion and everything’s immediately fine. This is real life, and it’s a lot messier than that, and I’m just not ready to deal with F at the moment. In fact it can F right off. I’m not saying I won’t be, ever, but … not right now. Even if mum’s shaking her fists at me and doing her “we are not amused” face, it’s not that straightforward.
‘The best I can do is say that I’m sorry you went through all of that. It was your own fault, but I’m sorry – and I can see it’s not as clear cut as I wanted it to be. I really don’t want to talk about it any more, all right?’
Poppy scrabbles upright, the blanket falling to the floor as she moves, and refuses to meet my eyes. I don’t know what she’s thinking right now.
Maybe she secretly hoped I’d read those letters and rush downstairs and hug her. Maybe she’s thinking I’m a nasty old cow. Maybe she’s thinking none of those things – because this Poppy, the new Poppy, has become much better at hiding her feelings than the old one. Which suits me just fine right now – I can’t deal with any more bloody feelings. I am already drowning in feelings, and it’s making my eyeballs ache.
‘Okay,’ she says simply. ‘Fair enough. Shall we move on with the A–Z? The quicker we do it, the quicker we can both get back to normal.’
I recognise her neutral tone as a classic self-defence posture, and go with it. Because she’s right – we need to get through this, and both survive it. I know our late, great mother meant well, but at the moment, it feels as if it’s doing more harm than good. It’s opening up old wounds that might not stop bleeding, no matter how many plasters she tries to stick on from her celestial first-aid kit.
‘Yep. Fine. What’s next?’ I ask.
She reaches for the index, which is now starting to tear where it’s been folded and unfolded.
‘Do you have a copy of that?’ I say, frowning.
‘Yes, Lewis sent a digital copy, plus I took photos of it, just in case. Anyway … G is an easy one. G is for “My Gorgeous Grandson”, and there’s one line next to it – it says “this is for Joe, and is none of your beeswax.” I saw it earlier – it’s in the roses box. Looks like it’s another one of those British mammal cards. Maybe a darling deer or a beautiful badger. H is the next one for us, though. It’s a theatre programme, and a note, and a … a DVD. Plus what she describes as “a load of odds and sods”. I say “she” because I can’t imagine Lewis saying anything like that. Do you want to do it now?’
‘Might as well,’ I answer, ‘seeing as we’re here. I’ll go and make us some coffee.’
Poppy starts to rummage in the box while I walk through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I realise as I do that I haven’t eaten all day, and don’t even feel hungry – for possibly the first time in about fifteen years.
Emotional trauma, it seems, has at least some side benefits.
Chapter 40
Andrea: H is for Hamming it Up
