Mum has covered each numbered side with glued-on paper, and each face of the dice shows a different film beginning with the letter X. The whole thing is covered in multi-coloured rainbow glitter, bits of it falling off constantly, leaving the table and everyone who comes into contact with it sparkling like a contestant onStrictly Come Dancing.
Lewis nods, and reaches out to stroke the dice, almost without seeming to notice his own actions. It’s a familiar gesture, and one I’ve seen in Poppy and myself as well – the urge to touch objects that she touched, as though she may have left some magic in them, a trace of all she meant to us.
‘She was struggling a little, by this stage,’ he says, taking off his tweed jacket to reveal a tweed waistcoat and a tweed tie. Even on a night off, he looks every inch the respectable lawyer. I wonder, idly, if he has to get all his clothes tailor-made, just to accommodate the sheer size of his bear-like body. He wipes his hands down his sides, and his waistcoat immediately starts to shimmer.
‘She had considered making X for exes – as in former partners,’ he says. ‘But eventually she decided against it. I think I remember her exact words: “we’ve already given over too much of our lives to romantic disasters – it’s time to put those behind us.” And then she started to get creative with the craft materials – nothing seemed to make her happier than a glue stick and some glitter … horrible stuff, that. I spent several days looking as if I’d been to a Disney Princess party. Anyway. Something smells good?’
‘Well, it’ll probably taste terrible, so make the most of it,’ says Poppy, who, I notice, is also looking a little bit Disney Princess with her sparkle-smeared cheeks. ‘We’ve set up in the Posh Room – we thought perhaps we could eat, and then see what the Dice of Fate hands out for us to watch?’
‘Wonderful,’ replies Lewis, following us through. ‘I so hope we getX-Men. I’m quite an admirer of that Wolverine chap. I did try and talk her into thatMagic Mike XXLfilm about the male strippers, and suggested we watch it purely for research, but she said it was too much for my old ticker …’
I bite back a giggle as we settle around the table, Betty taking up an alert position beneath it, obviously hoping for some scraps. Poppy serves up the meal – slightly over-cooked roast lamb, slightly under-cooked carrots, and perfect roast spuds, which we bought frozen and just warmed up. Even we couldn’t ruin those.
I pour the wine, and Lewis, the perfectly polite guest, proclaims himself delighted with every single morsel of what is, in all truthfulness, a decidedly under-par meal. We chat about the A–Z, and tiptoe tenderly around each other, all scared of breaking the magical spell of civility and provoking tears – because it happens so easily, and often so unexpectedly.
I find I can sit and think about my mum, remembering our last conversation and doing that thing she warned us against, picking at wounds, deliberately trying to make myself suffer, and still I remain dry-eyed and in control.
Yet the smallest of things – like being in the queue at the Post Office and seeing a postcard of the village that she once sent to me; or going into the Hideous Extension and seeing that ridiculous ab-crunching device she bought and never used, or remembering her rehearsing her Penny Peabody lines down the phone to me – can set me off into spasms of incoherent sobbing.
When it happens, it’s not pretty – I need to find a private place, and wail like a wounded animal, and am completely unable to move or speak or function, the pain is so raw.
I don’t want to do that tonight, and I’m pretty sure nobody else does either. So we are polite, and Poppy is sharp and sarcastic but in a funny way, not a mean-girl way, and Lewis tells us stories about village life, and asks questions about Joe, and together – with some effort – we all get through the dinner without stabbing ourselves with a butter knife.
Of course, the evening would have been a lot more fun with my mother there, and I am full of regret that we never did this while she was alive. I’d have loved to have seen those two sparking off each other – it would have been all aboard the banter bus, as Joe would say.
As we finish our dessert – which may be over-stretching it for a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey – Lewis leans back in his chair, his magnificent belly stretching the buttons of his waistcoat, and dabs delicately at his jowls with a napkin, looking like a Roman emperor who’s just enjoyed a fifty-course banquet.
‘So,’ he says, after a small pause. ‘Have you discussed what you might do with the cottage at all? Obviously, there’s no rush, and the only reason I ask is that … well, if you do decide to sell, I would appreciate first refusal. I find that I simply can’t bear the thought of strangers living here, which I know is ridiculously sentimental.
‘I have the funds, and I can’t think of anything better to spend it on now; I was planning on asking your mother to accompany me on a round-the-world cruise as soon as I was fully retired, but … well, that wasn’t meant to be. It would be a kindness if you would consider me as the new owner. If you do want to sell, that is.’
Poppy is chewing her lip, her glittery face a little twisted up in the candlelight. She gives her ice-cream spoon one last lick – she seems to have completely overcome her aversion to carbs and sugar – and lays it down in her bowl with a small clatter.
‘Lewis, that’s a lovely thing to suggest,’ she says, and I am relieved to hear a gentle tone of voice emerge from her mouth, ‘but I don’t think we’ll be selling.’
Both Lewis and I look at her and raise our eyebrows. I knew she’d been considering changing her lifestyle, but we’ve not properly discussed it. I feel a sudden niggle of uncertainty, and realise that, as far as we have come, I still don’t 100 per cent trust her. Perhaps we will always be works-in-progress, who knows?
‘I know we’ve not talked about it much, Rose,’ she says, obviously sensing my hesitation, ‘but if it’s all right with you, I want to stay. Work has been harassing me to death even though they know why I’m on leave, so I don’t think I’ll have any problems making a case for some kind of severance package, and I have a lot of cash tied up in the flat, and … well, I can do it. I’ll pay you your half, you won’t be left out of pocket, honest. I just … I want to stay.
‘I know it sounds weird, and I probably shouldn’t be making big decisions like this when my head is all messed up, but it feels right. I want to stay here, and write, and learn how to cook properly, and look after the blue tits, and … justbe. Does that make sense?’
She sounds desperate, pleading, almost exactly like she used to as a little girl when she wanted me to play Monopoly with her, or was begging to tag along on one of my big-sister adventures. I could rarely resist it then, and I find I can’t now.
I nod, and smile, and reply: ‘That would be good, Poppy. I think Mum would like it if one of us was still here. And then Lewis can visit as often as he likes.’
‘And you,’ she says hastily, reaching out to grab my hand. The sudden movement alerts Betty, who stands up and sniffs in search of food. I notice that the dog is also looking a little bit sparkly – one of us must have stroked her after touching the glitter dice.
‘You and Joe,’ she continues. ‘I’d like you two to visit as well.’
Lewis is silent throughout our exchange, but I swear I see a glassy sheen in his eyes as he watches us.
‘We will. I promise.’
Poppy nods, and puffs out a long breath, as though a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.
‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ says Lewis, pouring us all another glass of wine. ‘And she would indeed be delighted.’
He looks pleased, even though we’ve just rejected his offer to buy us out, and I suddenly decide that right now would be the best time to ask him a question I’ve been dying to ask – but have been too scared to until now. I don’t think I could have handled the answer any earlier.
