‘Not a problem,’ he replies, sitting down opposite me on a chair that looks like it’s never been used. ‘How’s it going? With your sister? And your mum’s A–Z – Joe told me about it. Have you been all right?’
‘Sometimes I’m all right,’ I answer, honestly. ‘And sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I just want to die, to be truthful … and, well, it’s complicated, all this stuff with Poppy.’
‘I can imagine. I was surprised to see her here.’
‘I’m surprised sheishere. I think she is too. But what can I say, our dead mother made us! What did you think of her? She’s really pretty, isn’t she?’
I have no idea why I am asking that. It is utterly ridiculous, and makes me sound like an idiot. It’s as though part of me is probing, digging, wanting him to say ‘ooh yes, she’s gorgeous, is she single?’ – so I can say yes, and he can ask her out, and those two can get married, and I can hate Poppy even more.
I remember what Mum said about picking at scabs, and suspect that’s exactly what I’m doing – I want Poppy to behave badly so I can be justified in never seeing her again.
‘I suppose,’ Simon says, not playing to the script, ‘if you like that kind of thing. I prefer a woman with a bit more meat on her bones.’
These, I realise as he says them, are words that are sacred to chubby women the world over, and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t light a tiny fire down below. In a place where the fire has long ago gone out. I stare at him for a moment, unable to think of a response, so he carries on talking.
‘Is this part of your A–Z, then, coming home?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, looking around and not seeing a single photo anywhere in the room. ‘L is for Location, Location, Location. I went to Poppy’s yesterday. Next up is M, for Magical Mystery Tour, which seems to be some kind of treasure hunt. I don’t know – my mother was never lacking in imagination.’
‘It sounds like it. I’m sorry I only ever got to nod at her on the doorstep. So, how are things, with Poppy? Have you sorted out your differences?’
‘Well, that’s a tough question. Maybe we’re trying to, I don’t know. But she shagged Joe’s dad, you see, which is a hard one to get over.’
He’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve over-shared.
‘Right. Well, that’ll do it every time, I suppose. Anyway – if you’re off again, will Joe be staying at home? I don’t mind keeping an eye on him if you need me to. Might even rope him in for some labouring work.’
‘Thanks, but I think, if I can, I’ll take him with me … I know he’s sixteen, but … well. Thanks anyway. I’d better be getting back. Poppy and I need to go over the next one. And I need to stick my head in a bucket of cold water.’
He takes my rejection without a flicker – he is a hard man to read – and sees me to the door. I feel him watching me as I make the thirty-second journey to my own door, and assume he is making sure I don’t get abducted by aliens or trip over a plant pot.
Inside, I find that Joe has gone up to bed, and Poppy is sitting on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, flicking through one of our old photo albums. I notice a sad look on her face, like she’s catching up on everything she’s missed out on, but she seems to shut it down as soon as she sees me.
‘You okay?’ she asks, laying the album aside. I recognise it as one from when Joe was about five, his first year in school and super-cute.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply, collapsing down next to her on the couch. ‘I’m just knackered. Joe being here threw me a bit, and I’m not exactly happy about his dad letting him come home on his own without telling me.’
‘That is a bit off. Does Joe … what does Joe think happened with you two? I mean, I could see the look on your face when he told you why he’d come home, but you didn’t say a word. Don’t you ever want to just scream “your dad’s an arsehole” at him?’
‘Of course I do,’ I say, flicking through the album and smiling at one of Joe dressed as a camel in his first nativity play. ‘But that wouldn’t help Joe, would it? I’ve always just told him that it was one of those things – that it was nobody’s fault, we just grew apart. I didn’t want him growing up hating his dad, no matter how I felt. It’s my job to protect him, not traumatise him. And I think, as he’s getting older … well, he’s seeing stuff for himself, isn’t he? At least that’s always been my hope.’
‘And what did you tell him about me?’ she asks, quietly.
‘Well I didn’t tell him you screwed his father, if that’s what you mean. Again, it’s my job to protect him.’
I feel her tense next to me, and know she’s upset. We’re both upset. We’re tiptoeing around each other, feeling the icebergs melt around us bit by bit, and both worried we might drown in the resulting deluge.
It’s been so intense, all of this – losing our mum the way we did, finding out the way we did, getting through the funeral. We’re dealing with grief, and loss, and a whole A–Z of shitty emotions.
I turn the page in the album, and point out one where Joe is brandishing one of his front baby teeth, looking proud as can be, the fresh gap showing in his grin.
‘See this?’ I say, smiling at the memory. ‘He kept all his teeth in a little jar, every time one fell out. Didn’t want the money from the Tooth Fairy – said he’d rather keep them than get a pound. For all I know he still has them upstairs.’
She smiles, and strokes the photo with one long finger, as though she’s actually stroking a primary-school-aged Joe.
‘I’ve missed so much …’ Poppy says, almost in a whisper. ‘And I know, before you say it, that I deserved to miss it. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just … well, I’m so sad about it. I should have been here, in his life – in your life. I wish I had been. I wish I’d been able to help you, Rose, and come to all these school plays, and see his tooth jar … I know it’s my own fault, but I regret all of this so much. I’m grateful to know him now, but I’ll never catch up. All this precious time, wasted.’
She looks exhausted. Completely drained. And God knows, that’s exactly how I feel too.
