‘Really?’ I answer, knowing that I’m looking less than convinced. Because I genuinely don’t understand that aspect of Rose’s life, or my mother’s.
‘Really. I mean, you don’t know, you’ve never had kids … but that’s how it works. I don’t mind being a teaching assistant – it means I’ve been able to spend more time with Joe.’
‘But weren’t you supposed to find a cure for cancer?’
‘To be honest, sis, if I found a cure for cancer, I’d probably lose it down the side of the sofa within minutes. After Gareth left, I could’ve gone back and carried on with my career – but it felt impossible, for all kinds of reasons. I wasn’t exactly swimming in self-confidence, money was tight, and I had Joe to think about. I needed something stable that wasn’t too challenging, and for ages, it worked perfectly. We can’t all be hotshot career girls, you know.’
I bite back a snort at that one – because yes, while I have done well, and get to be the boss of my own particular universe, these days I’m seeing myself less and less as a hot-shot and more as a saddo who’s never done a day’s work I’m actually proud of.
‘What about now?’ I ask, not wanting to throw mid-life career crisis into my current bucket of crap. ‘Now Joe’s older – you could do something else, couldn’t you?’
She pulls a face, and uses her finger to scrape the last few drops of liqueur from her glass, licking it clean before she answers.
‘I could. In fact I should. He’s off to college, and it’s not like I’m ancient or anything. I thought maybe about teacher training, but we could never afford it.’
‘Is that the only reason?’ I ask. ‘Because there is that life-assurance policy Lewis mentioned; plus, well, you know, we might decide to sell this place. Mum would have wanted you to use the money for something like that.’
‘Possibly. Although I can’t think about selling this place right now. It’ll make me cry, and possibly puke up. It’s not just the money … I’m not sure I could do it. You need to be really organised to be a teacher, and really confident, and … well, I’m neither of those things.’
‘That’s bollocks!’ I say, taking the glass out of her hand just as she starts sticking her tongue into it to try and lick a bit from the bottom. ‘You’re dead clever, Rose – you always were. You can do anything you want to do, if you set your mind to it.’
She pulls a face at me, but lets the glass go. I see her eyes drift in the direction of the kitchen, and know she’s wondering what else is in the booze cupboard, the old lush.
‘You sound like something off an American reality TV show, Poppy,’ she replies. ‘Like if I can dream it I can be it, and all that crap … it’s not that simple in real life. Do you think she’s got any gin left? I mean, she said I was for Inebriation, and I don’t want to let her down.’
‘I think you’ve already done her proud on that front. And I think you’re just being a coward. Go to teacher training – you’ll be brilliant at it.’
‘Ha! Says the woman who always intended to write an award-winning book, and now writes advertising slogans for pooper scoopers …’
I stick my tongue out at her, and take the glasses through to the kitchen. She may or may not be right on that front, and now is not the time to discuss it. Now is the time to go to bed.
‘Let’s do J,’ she says, as I walk back into the room, clearly having other ideas. ‘I’m absolutely shitfaced, and won’t remember a thing about it tomorrow – so let’s get another one out of the way. I’ve noticed she’s trying to balance these things out – alternating the excruciatingly painful ones with the funny ones. And as we both almost wet ourselves laughing at that DVD, and we have all these lovely old cuttings to look at, I’m guessing that J will be an absolute bastard. Let’s do it now.’
She’s right, of course – that is what Mum’s doing. Keeping us hooked, playing us perfectly, cranking up the tension and then deflating it. And I already know what J is. J is for Jealousy, and it’s a list of things that made Mum jealous in her life – and our task is to talk about ways we were jealous of each other.
So while we really should go to bed – especially Rose – it’s not an altogether terrible idea to get it out of the way while one of us is mildly tipsy, and the other is hammered.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘if you insist. I’m not going to argue with two-thirds of a bottle of amaretto, that’s for sure. Give me a minute.’
I open up the box, and find the envelope marked with a J. As I do that, Rose shuffles off into the kitchen, and I hear the opening and slamming of doors, and the telltale chinking of glasses before she comes back in with two large gins.
‘J is for Jin,’ she says, grinning as she hands me a glass. ‘If you spell it wrongly. I’d absolutely nail that teacher training, wouldn’t I?’
‘You would. Now, J is actually for Jealousy,’ I reply, waving a laminated card at her while she throws herself back down on to the sofa so hard all the cushions whoosh as she lands. ‘Shall I read it out to you?’
‘You better had,’ she says, sloshing the gin all over her T-shirt.
I flick on a lamp, and peer at the words. I’m not entirely sober myself, and am glad that this one has been typed so I don’t have to decipher Mum’s increasingly loopy scrawl. I know that the messier her handwriting gets, the more she was suffering, and that is an intolerable thing to have figured out. I wish I could un-think it.
‘Okay … here goes …’ I read. ‘Darling girls, today we are going to deal with the dreaded Green-Eyed Monster, in all its many forms. Jealousy, envy, coveting thy neighbour’s ass—’
‘I covet my neighbour Simon’s ass,’ interrupts Rose. ‘It’s a mighty fine ass, let me tell you.’
I stay silent, and stare at her, until she makes an apologetic sound and mimes zipping her mouth up. I read on.
‘Jealousy, envy, coveting thy neighbour’s ass, whatever you like to call it, we’ve all felt it. Another one of the Big Nasties when it comes to our less attractive emotions. I’ve made a list of the things that brought out my green-eyed monster, and after you’ve read it, I’d like you two to discuss your own lists – specifically, the ways you were jealous of each other, both as children and now. That sounds exciting, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ says Rose, her face so sulky she looks like a teenager again. ‘It sounds shit. Sorry … sorry … go on. Read the bloody list then.’
