Chapter 46
Poppy
My self-pity party has well and truly ended by the time we pull up in the driveway of Rose’s house on the north side of Liverpool.
I’ve been given a commentary on the way there, and seen the Liver Birds, and the river, and the beach.
She’s chattering away furiously, because, I think, she’s a bit freaked out by all of this.
By bringing the enemy into home territory – letting the sniper through the gates.
I don’t know if she’ll ever feel any different, but I do know that Mum was well and truly an evil genius – she must have understood that this, this swapping of life experiences, confronting the realities we’d built without each other, was one of the biggest tests we would face. Bravo, Mommie dearest.
Rose switches off the mix tape as we arrive – Lisa Stansfield was at number one with ‘All Around the World’ – and we both sit and look at the house.
It’s quite small, with a patch of garden in the front, and it’s in a nice neighbourhood of similar properties, all neatly lined up like Stepford homes.
The cul-de-sac is quiet, and there are small kids out and about riding on their bikes, playing football, and chasing each other up and down the street.
There are grown-ups out gardening, and every driveway seems to have a mumsy-looking car parked in it, and grey wheelie bins waiting to be collected are lined up like plastic soldiers.
‘Right,’ she says, sounding determined. ‘We’d better go in. I warn you, it’s not like a hotel. Or if it is a hotel, it would have terrible reviews on TripAdvisor.’
She carries her bags up the path, and I follow her, staying silent.
She unlocks the door, and walks through.
Within seconds, she is looking around, sniffing, her face screwed up.
The curtains are closed, just enough sunlight creeping through to show a hallway with stairs leading to the bedrooms, and she seems slightly off balance as she leads me through to the lounge.
‘What’s up?’ I say, looking around curiously. ‘Have you been broken into or something?’
‘Not unless the burglars decided to order a Domino’s and get the beers in,’ she says, pointing to an empty pizza box and scattered Heineken cans. ‘I mean, I’m not the world’s best housekeeper, but I didn’t leave it like this …’
She stands, hands on hips, and frowns, trying to piece it all together, before walking back into the hallway and bellowing at the top of her voice: ‘Joe! Are you up there?’
It’s an impressively loud bellow, and done in that certain tone that only mothers seem able to pull off. Even I feel automatically like I’ve done something wrong.
‘I thought he was at his dad’s?’ I say, opening the curtains so we don’t feel like we’re in a funeral parlour. The living room is small, and cosy, and not at all the hovel I was expecting, apart from the rubble on the floor.
‘He’s supposed to be,’ she replies, stomping into the kitchen and automatically putting the kettle on. ‘But my spider senses are tingling.’
She goes through the motions of making us a cuppa – and, predictably enough, she’s not run out of coffee – while I mooch around. It’s a lovely room, facing the back garden, with exactly the same levels of lived-in mess that our own mother used to surround herself with.
School letters are held up on the fridge door with magnets; a calendar on the wall shows all of Joe’s various football matches and guitar lessons; the fold-out dining table is covered with a green polka-dot cloth.
‘You’re overdue for your smear test,’ I say, pointing at the calendar.
‘Ha! My one exciting social engagement for the month,’ she replies, opening the fridge to look for milk. I notice some wilted quinoa salad alone on the shelf, and know it has a date with the bin.
‘He’s definitely here,’ she says, pulling out a big semi-skimmed bottle, ‘because there are five cartons of milk in the fridge. I forgot to cancel the milkman, obviously.’
‘Is he hot?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood as she hands me my coffee.
‘About as hot as Fred,’ she replies. She pauses, then lets out another one of those tremendous bellows, shouting Joe’s name. My eyes go wide, and I am fairly certain one of my eardrums has just exploded.
She leans her head on one side, listening out, and within seconds we both hear the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs.
My nephew staggers into the room, ricocheting off the walls in a way that implies that at least part of his brain is still asleep.
His long brown hair is tufting all over the place, and he’s bare-chested, wearing fleecy pyjama pants with orange footballs on them.
He appears to be even taller than the last time I saw him, super-skinny, and disconcertingly like his father.
‘Mum!’ he says, wiping sleep from his eyes. ‘I didn’t expect you back!’
‘Clearly,’ she says, leaning back against the sink, her arms crossed over her chest in a classic pissed-off mama bear pose. ‘Why aren’t you at your dad’s? And did you drink all that beer?’
He looks a bit guilty, so I suspect he did drink at least some of the beer, but he stands up tall and tries to appear tough. Epic fail – the football PJs ruin it.
‘It all got a bit messy at Dad’s,’ he says.
‘Sylvie wouldn’t let Amber and Ariel come – said they had chicken pox, but I suspect not.
Plus him and Heather are … well, they’re not exactly getting on.
Heather’s up all night with Charlie, and Dad just seemed really fed up and knackered, and …
well, I decided to come home. He put me on the train from London yesterday. I was going to call you.’
‘Why didn’t you, then?’ she prompts, her eyes flickering over him as though she’s checking for damage.
‘Lost my phone charger.’
‘You could have used the landline.’
‘Your number was in my phone, and I didn’t know it off by heart, and I don’t know Gran’s landline number, and Dad said he was going to text you anyway.’
‘Wow,’ she says, trying to keep the smile off her face, ‘you have an answer for everything, don’t you?’
‘No,’ he says, grinning at her, knowing she’ll forgive him anything, ‘I don’t know the capital of Uruguay.’
Rose walks over and gives him a gentle cuff across the head, followed by a hug.
It’s a long hug, and I can see him squirming slightly in her embrace.
I stay quiet – this isn’t my drama to intrude on, plus I have no idea who Sylvie and Amber and Ariel and Heather and Charlie are.
Joe gives me a friendly nod over his mother’s shoulder before he manages to escape.
‘Sylvie is Gareth’s second wife,’ Rose explains, as though reading my mind. ‘Amber and Ariel are their kids. Heather is the third wife, and Charlie is their two-year-old daughter.’
She turns her scrutiny back to Joe, who is sidling towards a cupboard full of chocolate cereal.
‘What about the beer?’ she snaps.
‘Oh … well. That wasn’t me, honest. Well, not all me, anyway.
Simon saw the lights on last night and came round to check.
He had a baseball bat and he scared the shit out of me – you know how hard he looks, even though he’s dead nice.
When he saw I was here on my own, we got the pizza, and the beer. And I only had one. Maybe two.’
He pours himself the world’s biggest-known bowl of Coco Pops, and splashes on half a gallon of milk.
‘He kept all the milk in his house as well – I think you forgot to cancel it … you look nice, by the way, Mum. Your hair’s different.’
She half scowls, half laughs at his attempt to change the subject, and looks set to give him another telling off when there is a firm knock at the door. We all jump a little at the sound, but Joe recovers first.
‘That’ll be him now,’ he says, wandering through into the living room and collapsing on a sofa that’s seen better days, propping his bare feet up on the coffee table.
Rose looks slightly flustered, and does a thing with her boobs she probably doesn’t even notice she’s doing. She practically runs to the front door, and in comes the famous Simon – super neighbour and fine-assed lawn-mower.
He’s a big man, dressed in working clothes, his hair shaved short and his face a little on the battered side. His eyes, though, are a vivid shade of blue, and look kind. The type of kind that would save your milk and look after your kid for you.
They walk through, and Rose introduces us.
She looks flustered, her eyes constantly darting between me and Simon, as though waiting for something to happen.
I realise with absolute horror that she is expecting me to flirt with him.
Possibly screw him on the kitchen table.
Because, after all, he’s male – and that’s what I do.
I can’t say that I blame her for having some suspicions, but it still upsets me, the way she seems to automatically assume the worst. I know I don’t have a good track record – the absolute worst, in fact – but I would never, ever do that.
Not in a million years. I’m a different person now, and it cuts deep that she doesn’t know that yet.
‘Nice to meet you, Simon,’ I say, politely shaking his hand. ‘I’m just going to pop upstairs and freshen up. Then maybe Joe can give me a guided tour.’
Joe gives me a small salute in agreement, Coco Pops dribbling down his chin, and I disappear off towards the hallway. I need to get out of view, and quickly, because I suspect I am about to do some very ugly crying.