Chapter 43
Poppy
When I get back to the cottage the next morning, I find Rose already up and about – unsurprising as it is almost midday – pottering in the garden, a duster in her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, walking barefoot towards her, sandals dangling from my fingers. ‘Polishing the geraniums?’
She looks up at me, as though I’ve caught her out doing something sinful, and replies: ‘No. I was dusting the garden gnomes’ heads. You didn’t walk all the way from the village like that, did you?’
‘Nah,’ I reply, collapsing on to the grass and stretching out. The sun is warm on my face, and the blue tits and their friends are tweeting away so much it feels like something out of a Disney cartoon. ‘Jake gave me a lift to the end of the lane.’
I shield my face from the sun, and squint up at her. All I notice is her eyes – those big, beautiful eyes that are so much like my mother’s. That image goes perfectly with her disapproving expression, and her stern voice as she asks: ‘Did you have sex with Tasmin Hughes’s son?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘we stayed up all night listening to music, and just talked and talked and talked … it was so special. It’s like we’re soul mates or something.’
‘Really?’ she asks, sounding half hopeful, half disbelieving.
‘Nope. We shagged each other’s brains out. And just because he’s Tasmin Hughes’s son, it doesn’t mean he’s a child. I can assure you he comes with a fully functioning set of adult male bits.’
‘I don’t want to hear about his male bits, thank you very much.’
‘Are you jealous?’ I say, sitting up so I’m not quite so blinded. ‘Because you sound jealous.’
She gives me a dirty look, and throws the duster at my face.
‘Maybe I am,’ she replies, sitting down next to me. ‘In the spirit of honesty and transparency. It’s been … well, a few years, shall we say. I’m not exactly fending them off with a shitty stick back in Liverpool.’
‘That,’ I say, throwing the duster back at her and hoping I haven’t caught some rare form of gnome disease, ‘is because you send out this incredibly unsexy old lady vibe. It’s nothing to do with the way you look – it’s the way you act. You need to get in touch with your inner Irene Cara.’
‘What? Start working in a welding plant?’
‘No, dummy, I mean you need to start feeling luscious again. Feeling like the world is going to remember your name. Do some sexy dancing through the garden sprinklers the next time your fine-assed neighbour is out mowing his lawn.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Rose says, as she screws up her eyes and tries to imagine the scene. ‘No, I just can’t see that one working. Partly because we don’t have sprinklers, I use a giant watering can I got in Home Bargains.’
‘You’ll have to improvise then,’ I reply. ‘I’ll hold it over your head while you do it.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Anyway. I took a look in the box.’
I feel momentarily taken aback by this, at her intrusion into what I have started to think of as my territory. I remind myself that Mum left those boxes for both of us, and that I can be a deeply unattractive control freak at times.
‘I know we’re on L, and I know that means we’re moving on – but what is it, specifically?’
‘Come on inside. I’ll get us some coffee and you can see for yourself.
Plus you need to pack. I’m already done, and I can’t imagine it’ll take you long to stuff all your lap-dancing thongs in a carrier bag …
it’s two photos, by the way – one of Mum at my house, and one of her in your flat.
With some instructions written on the back. ’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming,’ I groan, as I drag myself back to my now quite sore feet. ‘God, I’m tired … parts of me I never even knew I had are aching …’
‘Don’t. Want. To. Know.’