Chapter 19 #2
‘That won’t be possible,’ interrupts Poppy, quickly, ‘not right now, I’m afraid. Can this be done later?’
Rose gasps audibly, and Lewis gives Poppy a look that, he hopes, might literally turn her to stone. Then he could smash her to tiny pieces with a hammer.
‘I see,’ he says slowly, gazing at her over his specs.
‘Is there some kind of dog food advertising emergency that you need to sort out? A cat collar campaign that needs overseeing? Heaven forbid that your mother should dare to die at such an inconvenient time. You really should have sent the cancer a memo, then perhaps it could have been rearranged.’
Poppy tries to meet this look with defiance, and Rose stays quiet and shuffles, and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is that of his antique carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece. It is a battle of wills, and one which he knows he will win – because he is right.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Poppy eventually replies, redeeming herself slightly by looking suddenly and unexpectedly tearful. She’s just a child, he tells himself – a damaged child. A child that Andrea loved.
‘Splendid. I’d suggest you meet back at the cottage in two days’ time – can I say midday, to give you both enough time to make it here from your respective dwellings, and me enough time to give everything a final check-over?
‘There are several packages, and the information you have includes all the instruction you’ll need, pass codes, that kind of thing. I hope you’ll find it illuminating. I know I did – or at least as much as I was allowed to see.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Poppy, frowning as she drags the papers towards her with long, painted fingernails. ‘I assumed you’d been the one helping her put all of this together? Surely she wasn’t well enough to do it on her own?’
There is a slightly accusing note in her voice, and he shrugs it off. It’s not him she’s angry with, it’s herself. And quite right too.
‘I helped her with much of it, but some things, she said, were meant only for your eyes – so I respected that. She only had one proviso – that you do this together, or not at all. One of you can’t take possession of the items without the other’s permission, and all of the various tasks and scenarios that she has laid out for you must be completed in each other’s company.
‘I know, from what she told me, that this will not be especially straightforward – but I would ask you to respect her wishes. If, after seeing the materials she has left, you decide you cannot go ahead, then simply let me know and I’ll arrange for it all to be collected. And destroyed.’
He sees Rose wince at his use of the word ‘destroyed’, and feels a smidgeon of guilt.
He only said it for effect. He wouldn’t be capable of destroying anything Andrea had left behind – he’d even kept her combs and her lipstick and the last crumpled tissue she’d used to wipe the tears from her eyes after she had finished the video.
‘Now, unless there is anything else I can help you with, I suggest we adjourn for now. I, for one, quite frankly feel bloody awful, and I’m sure you two have a lot to think about.
Please feel free to contact me if you have any further questions, and I will be in touch with regard to the estate in due course. ’
He stands – using his six-foot-four height to full advantage – and waits until they follow suit. He can tell that Poppy wants to argue, but can’t find anything to argue about.
Eventually, both of them stand, and he passes a set of keys into Rose’s shaking hands. He admits to himself that this is childish, and he did it because he knew it would annoy Poppy. But, as Andrea would say, small pleasures, darling, soon mount up.
They both mutter their thank yous, and start to leave, Rose lingering slightly so there is no danger of making any accidental physical contact with her sister.
He shakes his head as they go, not at all sure from this initial encounter whether even the warmth of Andrea’s legacy will be enough to melt this kind of permafrost.
As she reaches the door, Rose hesitates, and turns back to face him.
‘Can I ask you something, Lewis?’ she says, voice small and apologetic.
‘Of course,’ he replies.
‘You and my mum … you seem to have been so close. You’ve obviously been a huge help to her. Can I ask – were you more than friends?’
There is a hopeful note to her question, as though she desperately wants him to say yes. Perhaps it would make her feel less guilty about her mother’s final few weeks if she thinks she had a lover by her side, instead of a boring old fart of a solicitor.
‘I loved your mother dearly,’ he says, fighting to keep his own voice from cracking, ‘but no, we weren’t more than friends. She wasn’t my type, beautiful creature though she was. I’m more of a Jason Statham man myself.’
He enjoys the look of shock on both their faces – he doesn’t get to shock people anywhere near enough these days – and finds himself smiling as they leave.
Smiling, and wondering. Wondering what went wrong, all those years ago, to cause such an apparently uncrossable divide?
And wondering if there is any way that a trip through Andrea’s sometimes psychedelic alphabet will be able to bridge it.