She simply nods, and I’m not sure what she’s thinking. She’s putting her Face on – the one that says nothing bothers her. The one that says I Am Fine, Screw You Very Much. The one she used to wear all the time when we started this adventure; the one I always wanted to punch.
Now, though, I know better. I know it means she’s upset, and trying not to show it. Because showing it – around anyone, but perhaps especially me – makes Poppy vulnerable, and she hates being vulnerable.
Ironically, the Face now makes me want to hug her instead of punch her, and for once I don’t fight the realisation. Not so long ago, every time I had kind thoughts about Poppy, I’d replay sins past, and shore up all my anger and bitterness to keep them at bay. Now – after all of this – I simply don’t have it in me.
My mum is dead, and my dad is a sad clown with a drug addiction and a wasted life. They are both proof that everything passes by far too quickly – and that there are more than enough sad moments to go round without seeking them out.
‘But you can come if you want …’ I say, pushing the issue, even though I can tell from her body language that she doesn’t want me to.
‘Maybe. Probably. Look, I don’t know, okay? I just … well, I’m not thinking especially kind thoughts, not right now. I keep thinking I wish he’d died and Mum was still alive. I know it’s not his fault, but it’s the way I feel. I know I’m a horrible person, and I’m trying to be better, but … I don’t want to lie and go all gooey-eyed about the thought of meeting our long-last dad, all right?’
‘All right. I get it. I suppose I just feel … sorry for him, to be honest. It doesn’t look as if his life’s been a laugh a minute, does it?’
‘And I know I should feel sorry for him, too. More than I do, anyway – but I keep thinking about Mum, and the way her voice was cracking on that cassette tape, like she was trying not to cry, listening to everything she’d gone through. Everything he’d put her through. It feels somehow like I’m betraying her if I forget all that and start playing happy families.’
‘Mum said she’d forgiven him,’ I respond, frowning at the ceiling. ‘And she’d want us to as well, I think.’
‘Well, Mum wanted us to forgive each other too, didn’t she – that’s what F was all about – and I’m not sure that’s happening … anyway. Ignore me. I’m being snipey because I’m tired, and I’ve had too much coffee. It’s best not to pay me any attention when I’m in a mood like this – I try not to. Right. I have R here. It says R is for Rhonda, and it’s a photo with a note on the back.’
Poppy holds the picture up, and it’s of a chubby, smiley-faced blonde woman wearing a blue medical uniform.
‘It says this is Rhonda, and she was Mum’s Macmillan nurse …’ Poppy mutters, frowning as she tries to decipher our mother’s increasingly scrawled handwriting. ‘She wants us to buy her a bunch of flowers, and “pop a few bob in the collection box”, it says here. Yet another person who did more for Mum while she was dying than we did.’
She throws the picture down on the floor, and collapses on the bed in a pile of long limbs and tangled dark hair, her arms folded across her face. She’s struggling, I can see, and kicks her shoes off so hard they bang against the wall.
I reach out from my bed to hers, and take hold of one of her hands. She responds tentatively at first, but then twines her fingers into mine and holds on tight. I suspect she’s crying beneath her shield, and I let her have a few moments.
‘It’ll all be okay,’ I say, quietly. ‘We’re almost done now. The A–Z will be finished, and we can get on with normal life.’
This seems to make her even worse, and I hear a heaving sob get stifled.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of!’ Poppy says, eventually, her voice jagged and raw with pain. ‘I don’t want to go back to my normal life. I hate my normal life. You’ll tootle off to Liverpool and I’ll probably never see you and Joe again, and I’ll be supervising jingles for scratching posts, and our dad will be collecting coins in a bucket on the bloody pier in Blackpool … and Mum will still be dead. It’s all so messed up.’
She used to get like this when we were kids; all inconsolable drama and tears. She has a lot more justification for it now, but it still half amuses me. I do what I always did back then – make comforting sounds and wait for the storm to pass.
When it finally does, she emerges from her nest of hair with damp eyes, and an embarrassed expression.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, sheepishly. ‘Just being a twat. You want to do S? We’re here for the night anyway, and it looks like a good one. It’s another video. We could watch it on my phone.’
‘What is it?’ I ask, hoping it’s not another heavy task, and suspecting from the smirk on Poppy’s now-calm face that it’s not.
‘S,’ she announces, grandly, ‘is for Sex.’
Chapter 58
Andrea: S is for Sex
‘Let’s talk about sex, baby! Ha ha, remember when that song came out, girls, and I thought it was a bit rude? I used to make you sing “six” instead!
‘Well, you’re both a lot older now, and there’s no need to be embarrassed – though I secretly hope you are. I’m feeling pretty poorly now, truth be told, and when I’m not woozy and drugged up to my eyeballs, I’m in pain. It’s not pleasant, and anything that gives me a giggle – such as the thought of you two wincing while you watch this, wondering if I’ve left you a dog-eared copy of the Kama Sutra – is very welcome, thank you.
‘Poppy, thankfully you have never confided in me on affairs of the heart – or other body parts – but I suspect that you don’t live like Mother Teresa. I’m not an idiot, I’ve seen the way you behave around men, you slattern! So, well done you – just try and remember that there is more to a relationship than what fits where and how fast you move it. Life would be a poor thing without love, and it’s never too late to find it, sweetheart.
‘Rose, you’re a different matter entirely. I know you had that disastrous online dating thing a few years ago, with the chap who said he was a detective inspector and turned out to be a lollipop man, but I don’t think you’ve had many escapades since.
‘This is a shame on many levels, as you are a woman in your prime – much as you like to pretend you’re some dried-up post-menopausal crone. Your forties are a wonderful time for your sex life – I shan’t go into details for fear of giving you a heart attack, but mine were splendid!
‘So – this is your mission, should you choose to accept it. I’d like to add that this message will self-destruct, but I fear that would be too much for even the resourceful Lewis to arrange. Girls, go out on the pull – doll yourselves up, drink a few glasses of vino, and let the world know you exist!
‘I don’t know, at this stage, if you chose to go on a foreign adventure to seek out your father – or whether you found him, and how that went for you both. Well, I hope – please think as kindly of him as you can. He’s a flawed human being, but I have moved on from those old wounds, and hope that you can too. Either way, I thought you might need cheering up – and what better way than a night on the town with a little gentle flirting thrown in for fun?
‘Happy hunting – and, as ever, much love, Mum.’
Chapter 59
Poppy
Rose couldn’t look more nervous if she tried. She also looks great – I’ve seen to that – but her hands are shaking and her breath is coming in panicky little wheezes. It’s so sweet; she’s like a teenager on her first night out.
‘It’s easy,’ I say, leading her into the crowded bar, the noise levels so high I have to shout. ‘We’ll just give fake names, and make up fake jobs. I do it all the time. I usually pretend I’m a nurse – men go nuts for nurses. Just listen to what I do, and play along.’
She glares at me, her made-up eyes sparkling, and I suspect that if she had biblical powers, I would just have been turned into a pillar of salt.
We decided, after laughing and cringing our way through Mum’s last video, that she was right
– we did need cheering up. We’d travelled the world, made steps towards meeting our estranged father, and I’d had a mini-meltdown. Then, after all that, we’d had to watch as our visibly wasting-away mother pretended to be jolly for our sake. This was bloody hard going, and we both needed to take the Alcohol Cure.
The bar is dark and hot and throbbing with life. The music is R&B with occasional French hip-hop beats thrown in, and I smile as we are enveloped in the warmth and potential. These places are my natural environment – but poor Rose looks terrified.
‘I don’t speak French,’ she’d said, lamely, as we were getting ready. ‘Apart from stuff I know from song titles.’
‘That’s fine. In fact, that’s even better – nobody will expect much of you. Anyway, these are French men, Rose. They’re genetically hard-wired to flirt with any woman they encounter.’
I’m not sure whether my pep talk helped, but the three glasses of wine she’d downed certainly had. I hand over an extortionate amount of euros in return for some more, and look around until I spot a table. There’s one that’s almost full of men, men who have clearly come here straight from the office and are letting off steam. There are two chairs free at the end, and I stride towards them.
I don’t bother asking if the seats are taken – that’s a very English tradition – and instead simply sit down, smiling widely at the group. There’s a mix of ages, from early 20s through to mid-50s, and they’re all pretty drunk. Perfect.
‘Salut, tout le monde!’ I say, greeting them. ‘Je m’appelle Millie.’
It’s a fake name I’ve used before – Millie is a nurse on the paediatric unit – and one I feel comfy with. I look at Rose expectantly, raising my eyebrows at her in a prompt. She visibly jumps, as though she’s just remembered that she has to talk, and says: ‘Je m’appelle … er … Vanilli!’
I blink my eyes, and try not to laugh. Which is more than can be said for our new pals, who clearly think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Even Rose, once she realises what’s she’s done, starts to giggle.
It turns out to be perfect, and breaks the ice in a way that no amount of stories about my imaginary time on the children’s A&E ward could have done.
Within seconds, we are all chatting. Well, to be precise, I’m chatting. Rose is grinning like my simpleton sister, and drinking. A lot.
One man in particular seems very taken with her. Or at least certain parts of her. He’s probably in his later thirties, and has chocolate-drop eyes and deep-brown hair and a borderline weird goatee. Truth be told, he looks a bit like an off-duty magician – stick a cape on him and hey presto.
His name is Patrice, and he can’t take his eyes off Rose’s chest. He’s definitely much more drunk than we are, and tells me in French that she has beautiful boobs.
‘What did he say?’ asks Rose, whispering in my ear. ‘I heard “beautiful”. Was it my eyes? Does he think I have beautiful eyes?’
I giggle, then bite it back. She sounds so excited.
‘Yeah, let’s go with that, shall we? Anyway … look around. This place is full of potential S partners. Maybe it’s time to use some of your French?’
‘But I’ll sound stupid!’
‘No, they’ll appreciate the effort. And Mum is watching. Come on, finish that glass, then go and get us some more. Make it a bottle. And on the way, talk to some men, all right?’
She downs almost a whole glass of wine in one go, and gets to her feet. She’s slightly unsteady, but looks determined as she makes her way through the crowds. I keep my eye on her, ready to leap to her aid if necessary, and grin as she encounters a large gaggle of guys.
I can’t hear what she’s saying over the din of the music, but the group lets out a huge whoop of delight, and cheers as she goes past. One of them accompanies her to the bar, and I suspect that she is not paying for her own drinks.
By the time she gets back to us, she is flushed bright red, but looking slightly triumphant. The men are waving at her and she is waving back.
‘What on earth did you say?’ I ask, genuinely intrigued.
‘Well … you know how I said I only know French from song titles?’
‘Yes.’
‘I used one of them.’
‘Which one?’ I say, not able to keep the grin off my face at her shocked expression. I’m not sure if she’s shocked at their reaction, or her own behaviour.
‘I said … voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir.’
That’s it for me. I’m out for the next five minutes, laughing so hard I have tears streaming down my face and feel on the verge of some kind of stroke. Absolutely perfect.
‘God Rose,’ I finally manage to mutter, ‘that’s … brilliant. Where have you been hiding your inner slapper for the last few weeks?’
‘The last few years, to be honest. And that was fun, I have to say. Plus they all said yes, apart from one who looked like he might not be keen on lady parts in general. So, what next?’
‘Try it on him,’ I say, gesturing to Patrice, who is now chatting to his friends – probably about the crazy English girls pretending to be a 1980s boy band.
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ she whispers, glugging down another half-glass of vin rouge. ‘He looks a bit like Dynamo’s Dad.’
‘Well you don’t have to actually coucher with him, do you? It’s just for fun!’
She nods, and tucks her curls behind her ears, and sticks out her boobs. She taps Patrice on the shoulder, and he immediately turns round. She leans in, and murmurs to him, and the response is instant. He stands to his feet, and offers her his hand in a ‘let’s go’ gesture that leaves her utterly terrified.
It’s so stupidly funny – the look of delight on his face, the look of horror on hers – that I fear I may never breathe again. Rose, though, is staring at me in desperation, obviously needing a rescue.
‘Un moment, s’il vous plaît,’ I say to Patrice, who is still waiting. His friends are grinning away, and clearly having the French equivalent of a ‘get your coat you’ve pulled’ conversation.
I lead a furiously blushing Rose towards the ladies, where we immediately collapse in giggles, leaning against the sinks and gasping for breath.
‘Oh no!’ she says, once we’ve calmed down. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Well, do you want to shag Patrice? I’m sure he’d be happy to show you his magic wand!’
I touch up my lipstick as I wait for her to think about it. I don’t have to wait long.
‘No!’ she squeaks, looking shocked. ‘Of course not! I’ve only just met him!’
‘Well that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?’ I say, frowning at her in the mirror. ‘Mum wanted us to go out on the pull.’
‘Well, we have pulled. She didn’t say we had to shag them as well. It’s … not me, Poppy. Never has been, probably never will be. It does feel good to think that someone under the age of eighty might actually want to shag me, but … no. Thank you.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, stashing my make-up back in my bag. ‘No problem. It’s not a big deal, either way.’
She looks completely flabbergasted, but I’m not sure why. I am struck again by how different our lives have become – this kind of thing is normal for me. It happens most weekends, although admittedly not usually in Paris. For her, though, it’s all a bit of a revelation. Perhaps, between us, we make one normal human being.
We sneak out of the loos, and hide behind the pulsating crowds of dancers as we edge our way to the door. Rose, who seems to feel maternal even towards grown men, is worried that we will hurt Patrice’s feelings, but I assure her he’ll get over it.
‘So,’ I say, as we emerge back out on to the street. There are people standing around smoking and chatting, and the air is still warm. Summer in Paris. Divine. ‘I’m glad you had a good time. And I’m glad you asked a whole bar-ful of French men to sleep with you. Mum would be proud. Any regrets?’
I’m clearly feeding her a line, and she gets it straight away.
‘Non,’ she warbles, creditably in tune and attracting some strange looks from the smoking crowd, ‘je ne regrette rien!’
I raise my palm to Rose, and she gives me a hefty high-five. We start to stroll along the pavement – going in completely the wrong direction – but enjoying seeing the city at night.
‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ she says, linking her arm into mine. ‘Being out, and not doing something heavy and serious?’
‘I know what you mean,’ I reply, thinking back to my earlier melodrama and feeling a bit embarrassed about it. ‘And I’m really sorry I went all Teenage Angsty Mutant Poppy on you earlier.’
‘It’s all right,’ Rose says, patting my hand. ‘I kind of miss Teenage Angsty Mutant Poppy. She’s more authentic than Perfectly Poised Poppy. And you know what you said, about me going back to Liverpool, and never seeing me and Joe again?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I really hope that’s not true.’
I squeeze her fingers, and say a little prayer that she’s right. That all of this turns out all right in the end.
‘Okay. Good. I hope so too. Do you want to go anywhere else?’
Rose ponders it, then replies: ‘I don’t think so. If I drink any more wine, I’ll be embarrassing myself in the gutters of Gay Paris.’
‘Well, in that case, you know what it’s time for, don’t you?’
She shakes her head, still grinning.
‘It’s time for Joe le Taxi …’
Chapter 60
Rose
We are back at the cottage, which feels like coming home in a way I’d never imagined it could. We’ve been to the village to stock up on supplies, bumping into Tasmin Hughes and Fred the Milkman, and are now fully prepared for a lengthy stint finishing up the rest of the A–Z.
I’ve called Joe to check that he is still alive, and spoken to Simon, who assures me that he is. I’ve even sent a brief email to our father. It’s a tentative first step, and I’ve no idea what will eventually come of it.
The A-Z of Everything Page 26
