I burst into sudden and unwelcome tears, partly at that image, and partly at Tasmin’s unexpected kindness. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to grips with this emotional rollercoaster – one minute I’m coping, and the next I’m drowning in loss and regret.
Tasmin immediately produces a tissue from her cleavage, which I accept with a snotty gurgle, and says: ‘It’s all right, love, don’t worry – I’ve been where you are, and I know it hurts like buggery. It’ll get better, I promise. Just don’t try and control it too much. Let it have its way with you and it passes quicker. Like sex when you’re drunk.’
‘Your mum died?’ I ask, frowning as I try and remember if I’d been told. I remember Tasmin’s mother well – she was big and brassy and managed a team of macho men at the chicken plant. She was what my mother always called a for midable lady, one of her highest compliments, usually reserved for Dame Joan Plowright and Queen Victoria.
Tasmin nods, making both her blonde curls and her chins wobble, and replies: ‘About eight years ago. Breast cancer. They’ve told me I should think about getting mine lopped off as a precaution, but I’m still not sure I can bear to part with them.’
She gazes down at her glistening cleavage with adoration, and I find myself following her eyes and staring at her chest.
‘Anyway. Losing your mum is a killer, no matter how old you are. Still stings. I still get those fits of tears like you’re having now, only they come less and less often. Still miss her, always will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber, her gentle words only serving to make me cry more. ‘I’m sorry your mum died. I’m sorry I’m crying. And I’m sorry I never visited you when you got pregnant.’
‘Oh lord!’ she says, throwing her head back and laughing. ‘Don’t worry about that one! You were only a kid yourself, and you weren’t the only one – it was like everyone thought it was catching! Worked out all right, though, see – that’s my Jake there, working the bar. Assistant manager, he is, la-di-da.’
I follow her finger, and see that she is pointing towards the good-looking guy Poppy is flicking her hair at. Jesus. He must be, what, 26, 27? Unbelievable.
‘Are you still with … what was his name, Sean?’
‘Miraculously I am, yes. Few ups and downs. The odd divorce, and the occasional death threat. But yes, still together, against all the odds – we have two younger ones as well, but obviously they’re over at the Tennyson’s. Is that your Poppy over there, talking to Jake, by the way?’
‘I think “talking” is a kind word for what she’s doing,’ I reply, feeling my face flame up on my sister’s behalf. ‘She looks as if she’s about to eat him for dinner. I’m sorry for that as well.’
‘Again, there’s no need to be sorry – do you ever do anything but apologise? Jake is a grown man, and I gave up worrying about his sex life a long time ago, once I’d drummed it into him that we didn’t want any repeats of my circumstances. He lives in a soundproofed flat over the garage, and what I don’t hear doesn’t hurt me. What about you? You have a lad, don’t you? Joe, isn’t it? Your mum was so proud of him.’
‘Yes. Joe. He’s sixteen – so I suppose I’ll need to start worrying about his sex life soon. And … thank you. For being so nice.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asks, looking confused.
‘Because we’ve not been back here for so long. Because I thought you’d all … I don’t know, think we were cows for not seeing enough of our mum.’
Tasmin puffs out a long, befuddled breath, giving Poppy a little wave as she finally starts to make her way back towards us.
‘Don’t be daft. Life gets complicated, we all know that. Your mum was happy here, and she never had a bad word to say about either of you. She was always full of her weekends away and her trips to see you, honest.’
I know she’s trying to be kind, but I can’t help being struck by the sadness of that – the thought of my mum sitting here, telling stories about her wonderful daughters and how well they looked after her, when the reality was so different.
Maybe she was trying to fool them, or maybe she was trying to fool herself, who knows? But the truth of the matter is that we broke her heart, no matter how many spa breaks Poppy took her on or how many roast dinners I cooked for her in Liverpool. She was forced to lead two lives – three in fact: one for me, one for Poppy, and one for herself – because of our stubborn refusal to put the past behind us. It is unbelievably sad, and I am feeling less like doing karaoke than ever.
I look around and see all the familiar faces from my childhood, laughing and chatting in The Pub That Time Forgot, and know that this was a big part of Mum’s life – and I chose not to share it with her. All that time, wasted.
Poppy places the drinks down on the table, and makes mindless small talk with Tasmin until she leaves, making me promise to stay in touch.
‘I’m BigTas99 on Instagram,’ she says, waggling her eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’
Poppy has finished half her wine while she was at the bar cradle-snatching, and has also managed to get hold of a karaoke book that lists all the songs. She pores over it, apparently oblivious to everything around us that is making me feel so bad. Which I suppose is a good thing – life will be easier if we can alternate our nervous breakdowns.
‘That was Tasmin’s son you were chatting up,’ I say, gulping my Diet Coke and wishing it had Jack Daniel’s in it. ‘He’s only twenty-seven.’
She looks up at me, frowning.
‘Well, that’s a perfectly respectable age then, isn’t it? He’s nice. Got some good ideas about marketing this place, and he was also annoyed about the apostrophe issue. Plus he’s fit as fuck. What are you going to sing?’
‘“Big Spender”,’ I say, without even thinking about it.
‘Cool. I can see that. Give it loads. I think I’m going to go for a bit of Girls Aloud. I love that “Sound of the Underground” song. You okay? You look a bit … soggy.’
I use Tasmin’s boob tissue to wipe my cheeks, and try to pull myself together.
