Chapter 12
Poppy strokes her tobacco tin, the one she filched from her mother over two decades ago, tempted to smoke for the first time in years.
Instead, she puts it away and slides the desk drawer closed.
She picks up her phone, and messages Kristin to say she will definitely be late, and might not make it at all.
Feeling strangely calm, she sends the email from Lewis to her ‘incredibly clever TV’, as her mum always called it, steadfastly refusing to attach the word ‘smart’ to any kind of technology.
‘Smart means a well-tailored suit and some polished brogues, darling, not a few buttons on a silly device,’ she’d always said.
Lewis had answered every question Poppy had thrown at him, as she worked her way through some kind of scarily efficient checklist that had sprung up in her brain during their brief conversation.
She has no idea where it came from – it’s not like she had planned for this, or been prepared in any way.
But she was used to holding meetings, and being in charge, and she supposes that’s what kicked in – her lizard brain was helping her process this new information by turning it into action points.
She could practically turn her mother’s death into a PowerPoint presentation now.
She had died that evening, in the nearest big hospital.
She had stomach cancer. She’d planned her funeral in advance; the arrangements were all made, and there was nothing she needed to do.
Lewis, as Andrea’s friend and as her solicitor, was taking care of her affairs, and needed to see both her and Rose after the service.
Both of them. Together. In the same room.
Jesus. That was almost as much of a shock as the fact that her mother was dead, which didn’t exactly make her feel good about herself. Andrea was gone, and she was beginning to freak out about seeing her own sister again – how selfish could one person be?
The gin-infused haze has cleared completely now, and Poldark has finished. Her legs are still damp from spilling her drink, and she can smell her own body odour. She needs to shower, inside and out, to scrub her brain clean of all the conflicting emotions she is starting to feel.
Keep calm, she tells herself, tapping away on the controls. Keep calm and carry on. There is nothing to be gained here by having a nervous breakdown. It won’t bring your mother back, and it won’t help you.
She moves to the sleek leather-and-chrome sofa in front of the television, and presses play with one long, perfectly shellacked nail.