‘Number 1,’ I start, keeping my voice firm so she’s not tempted to interrupt again, ‘I was always jealous of Joan Collins. She had the most perfect bone structure I’ve ever seen, and it always made me want to give up.
‘Number 2 – when Judi Dench was cast as M, I had an absolute fit, because it was one of my dream roles.
‘Number 3 – I was always desperately covetous of Ian McShane – such a handsome man, brought out the beast in me! – and sickeningly jealous of all the actresses who got to appear inLovejoywith him.
‘Number 4 – I was secretly jealous of every perfect little couple in the village, especially when I had to see them at school events. Single mothers weren’t as common then as they are now, and although I was happy with my choices in life, seeing their lovely little family units always made me want to scream.
‘Number 5 – I was a tiny bit jealous of you two when you were teenagers, so young and perfect and with the whole world at your feet, just as my life felt like it was narrowing down to nothing.
‘Number 6 – I was extremely jealous of people with money, and used to have fantasies about suddenly becoming rich, and being able to give you both everything in the entire world – plus have lovely shopping sprees in Harrods.
‘Number 7 – my skin would practically turn a vivid shade of emerald every year when I stayed up late and watched the Oscars, knowing that I’d missed my boat on that front. I consoled myself by bitching about the dresses. Lewis helped with this one in later years, and is even more of a bitch than me.
‘Number 8 – sometimes, and this is a nasty one, I was jealous of single people with no children, who could go out whenever they wanted and take exciting city breaks to Marrakesh.’
I finish reading the list, which ends abruptly – I suspect there was more, but perhaps she didn’t want to admit to them, or perhaps she was just too tired to bother.
I’m glad that Rose let me get through it all without interruptions, and I sit back on my heels, waiting for her response. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and I really can’t begrudge Mum any of it. Much as we think parents are superheroes when we’re kids – annoyingly bossy superheroes – she was only human.
‘Is that it?’ says Rose, looking at me expectantly. ‘That’s not so long, is it? And I still don’t get the Ian McShane thing, do you? Anyway, what are we supposed to do now – discuss ourfeelingsagain?’
The gin is all gone from her glass, and her eyes are blinking rapidly, as though she’s trying to get rid of her double vision. She is way too drunk for this.
‘Yes, but we could do it tomorrow if you like …’
‘No! I’ll go first. I was always jealous of your legs. They just go on forever, and you always made me feel like Stumpy McShortarse when I stood next to you.’
Hmmm. Fair enough, I think, deciding to reciprocate in kind.
‘I was always jealous of your boobs. I didn’t get any until I was sixteen, and even then they weren’t the stuff of centrefolds. You were always so curvy, and you had perfect skin when I was covered in spots the size of power stations.’
‘Yeah … you really did suffer with that, didn’t you? Poor little Spotty Poppy. Well, I was jealous of your hair as well – yours has always been straight and shiny and easy, and mine is a nightmare.’
‘Back at you. I always wanted your curls – it gave you this earth-goddess thing. And your eyes. You got Mum’s eyes, and I, presumably, got lumbered with our absent dad’s.’
She nods, bites her lip, and is clearly thinking of what else to add to the list.
‘I hated the way you were so clever with words. You could do little rhymes, and make up limericks, and do improvised raps. All I could do was use Bunsen burners.’
I’m not so sure I’m pleased with the way this has slipped into ‘hate’, but there isn’t much I can do about it. Rose is on a roll.
‘Well, I was jealous of all your friends. People liked you much more than they liked me, even if I could rap,’ I say. Which is true – she was always much more popular.
‘And you were jealous of Gareth,’ she adds, pointing one unsteady finger at what she thinks is me, but is actually a few inches off to my left.
‘Yes. I hated Gareth,’ I admit.
‘Well I,’ she says, leaning so far forward I am worried she is going to topple off the sofa and land in a heap of wobbly Rose on the floor, ‘hate your fucking face. The End!’
Right, I think, downing my gin in one. That went well.
Chapter 42
Rose
K, as it turns out, is for Karaoke. Poppy delved into the magical box to find that it was just a gaudy A4 flyer for a weekly night at the Farmer’s, which I could tell deeply offended the marketing guru my sister had become.
‘The apostrophes are in the wrong place,’ she said, looking at it in disgust. ‘Friday Night’s are Singalong Night’s. Uggh.’
