‘All the time,’ I reply, smiling gently. ‘Because I rampage around the kitchen like it’s an episode ofMan v. Food, and eat it all. Apart from the quinoa salad. That always ends up in the bin because it’s past its sell-by date.’
She taps the side of the glass with her fingernail, and the sound echoes around the sterile room. I hate this place too, but I’m not about to say it. I don’t think Mum brought us here so I could put the boot in. Poppy seems to be doing a good enough job of that herself.
‘I don’t know, Rose. I felt different in the cottage … happier, even though we were there under bloody awful circumstances, and even though Mum was making us jump through all kinds of evil flaming hoops … it felt like home. This feels like … like a hotel.
‘Like somewhere I should stay for a few nights while I’m at some business meeting, not a place where a grown-up woman should live. Not that I spend that much time in here – I’m usually at work. And when I’m not at work, I’m at that desk, doing more work. It’s literally all I have in my life, apart from Mum … and, well. She’s gone, isn’t she?
‘And I know you’re trying to be nice – thank you – but I think perhaps I’m seeing this through your eyes. And it looks empty, doesn’t it?’
‘Well,’ I say, not totally sure how to handle this one. ‘It’s tidy. My place is a dump, as you’ll see. But perhaps you could just put a few more photos up? Buy some more books? Make a bit of … mess? You used to love a bit of mess.’
‘I know I did,’ she answers, managing a small smile. ‘I was an absolute pig! But after I got sacked from that first job, and then decided to try again in London, I made myself change. I needed to be organised, and focused, and work hard. I couldn’t let myself carry on being the way I was – mooning around after you, wallowing in my own filth, so chaotic I forgot to brush my own teeth half the time. I had to be different – and this is what I ended up with. It’s definitely different. I’m just not sure if it’s better.’
‘Well, come on, it’s not that bad, is it? I mean, you must have friends? Go out a lot?’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ she replies, not looking too enthused about it. ‘There’s this girl Kristin I go drinking with. And this guy called Josh I met in the gym … but he’s just a fuck buddy.’
I recoil at the phrase, and of course she notices.
‘It’s true, sorry if it offends your delicate sensibilities. We don’t all live like nuns.’
I wave it away – it’s none of my business what she does with her vagina – and ask: ‘What else? Do you have any more nice photos we could frame up?’
She thinks about it, chewing on the skin around her finger, and pulls an uncertain face.
‘Well, I have some of Mum. And … well, there are the pictures of the kids.’
‘What kids?’
‘I’ll show you.’
She jumps up and dashes around to the other side of her desk, apparently filled with a new enthusiasm. She comes back bearing a black vinyl photo album, which she hands to me, hovering by my side as I open it.
The whole album is filled with smiling little faces – some obviously African, some Asian, all shiny teeth and big eyes. Page after page after page of them.
‘Whoarethese children?’ I ask, confused.
‘They’re my sponsor kids. You know, like in those adverts on the telly, where you pay X amount a month so little Jimmy can drink clean water, that kind of thing?’
‘But there are loads of them!’
‘There are … twenty-seven, I think. I get little letters from them, and photos, and updates about how they’re doing, and I send them Christmas presents … it’s nice.’
I flip through the pages, looking at brightly coloured scenes from the rural Third World, and shake my head.
‘You sponsor twenty-seven children?’
She nods, not seeming to think it’s weird at all, and I realise that this is one of her many coping mechanisms. The guilt, the pain, of the last seventeen years has taken its toll on both of us. I’ve dealt with it by eating, and throwing my whole energy into Joe’s life at the expense of my own. She’s been tidying up, working, finding fuck buddies and sponsoring children. It’s absolutely insane.
I close the album, and stand up.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’re going out. We both need a drink. I’m going to have a quinoa salad, and you’re going to have pasta, and we’re going to at least try and enjoy ourselves, okay? Then we’ll come back, and I’ll spend the night pretending I’m in a posh hotel, and tomorrow we can go to Liverpool and I’ll show you my humble hovel. How does that sound?’
‘You had me at pasta,’ she says, finding her smile again.
Chapter 46
Poppy
