Chapter 6
‘Thanks, Mummy,’ Lila says as I tuck her up into bed after we strolled home with Joe and Sid. It turns out we live in the same neighbourhood and the kids made us promise to all hang out again when we said our goodbyes.
‘What for?’
‘I had fun eating pizza with Sid. He’s great but the thing I liked best was your happy face, like a big smiley moon.’
Now there’s a compliment, I think with a grin, kissing Lila on the forehead. Her happiness makes my whole mad day completely worthwhile. Sure, I’ve randomly agreed to what is quite possibly a madcap plan with Joe, but one look from my content little girl is enough to tell me that I’m doing the right thing.
It’s not long before I climb into bed myself, my phone buzzing with a message from Poppy.
Kenny seems cute. Who doesn’t love Harry Potter?
My sister’s message is alluding to Kenny from the app, which sounds like a really, really crap version of Jenny from the block. What in the hell kind of app allows her to get notifications as well as me? Mild annoyance that she’s all up in my grill again is soon replaced with delight. I finally have an out! I start typing back.
Kenny seems like a serial killer.
Also stop logging onto Date My Sibling!
It’s bad enough that I have to have it.
You’re not engaging
She’s not wrong there. A red bubble with three new notifications hovers over the matchmaking icon, which is testing my patience to the limit. But I also refuse to be drawn into it. Besides, now that Joe has come up with a brilliant plan I don’t even need to pretend to look at my matches.
I have a (fake) boyfriend of my very own!
Poppy sends me some pointed emojis to remind me that she’s still waiting for me to reply. Mad face. Angry devil. Clown.
Now’s the perfect chance to let her know, I realise, buzzing with all the positives of the plan. Helping out Joe, making friends with the school mums … this fauxmance could be the start of a brand new chapter. Although it’s also quite mad, right? I’m suddenly gripped by the worry that I’m being ridiculous. This kind of thing is not me. This is definitely, categorically not me at all. I scroll through to my camera app. The latest picture is one I took of Joe and me at dinner. I’d hopped over to Joe’s side of the table where we’d posed for a slightly awkward, extremely smiley photo for evidence of our ‘first date’. Now that I’m looking at it again, I notice that it has just the right vibe to it. Joe and I look unused to being in such close proximity to one another, but also very happy to be there. You wouldn’t know that the smiles on our faces come from the promise of a stress-free future rather than a budding romance.
I realise that I’m smiling as I look at the photo. In spite of my initial reservations, and Joe’s dubious personality, I did have a good time tonight. I felt at ease and we had a laugh. It’s a good thing, I decide. It will all work out. And I will tell Poppy once I’ve got some rest.
After a hectic few days, I still haven’t got around to telling Poppy. But it’s the weekend and she’s on her way over now to babysit while I’ve lost track of time. I try to highlight my cheekbones while running Lila a bath, the highlighter falls into it, water splashes on my clothes and it all feels like a timely lesson that you cannot always multitask, I think wryly as I fish the make-up out and hope it isn’t ruined.
My phone won’t stop chirruping, either. Joe and I swapped numbers which means we’re messaging a fair bit. His profile pic is a photo of him at Halloween dressed as a beekeeper with a chubby bumble bee in his arms, which turns out to be a much younger Sid – even I can admit it’s quite cute. Joe also had a word with Celeste and I’ve had an invite to join the parent volunteer group on WhatsApp called Barnaby’s Babes, which is both thrilling (I’m in!) and worrying (surely not an appropriate title for parent volunteers?!).
He’s just sent me a screenshot of the group name along with a skull emoji. I’m still chuckling at this when Poppy lets herself in and bounds up the stairs to find us.
‘What’s up?’ she asks, cocking an ear in the direction of Lila’s bedroom, from where we can both hear (perhaps everyone in Bristol can) the wails of my daughter. I had the sheer audacity to serve peas with her dinner and she and the teddies have been holding an ear-shattering protest ever since. Poppy doesn’t wait for me to answer, bowling into Lila’s room while I hold my breath. When I tried to go in a few minutes ago she threw a pair of dirty socks at me.
‘P-p-peas,’ I hear Lila saying between gulps of tears.
Poppy stomps back down the corridor, arms folded.
‘Peas.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘You hated those things when we were little, too. How could you, Soph?’
‘It’s peas, Poppy. Not ruddy cyanide. She’s been raging for a full twenty minutes!’ I rub my forehead. ‘I’ve tried all the techniques. Empathy. Listening. Just being there. Nothing’s working! I almost want to go in and apologise for trying to nourish my child but that’s obviously ridiculous. So instead I’m running her a bath.’
Suddenly a loud sniff comes from just outside the bathroom door. Then a toe, a knee and eventually Lila’s sullen face appear.
‘Here she is!’ Poppy enthuses.
Lila pads over to me and clings to my knees. ‘I’m sorry for calling you a stupid cheese face, Mummy,’ she says and I scoop her up in my arms even though she’s getting so big now.
‘I didn’t know that you did call me that, sweetheart.’
‘Maybe I didn’t,’ she pontificates before jumping back down and pirouetting down the stairs. And just like that, the tantrum is over. ‘Auntie Poppy’s taking me to Sainsbury’s!’
Supermarkets hold the same kind of wonder for Lila as a winning lottery ticket might the rest of us. She loves them. Fruit and veg section? A dream come true. Snack aisle? Don’t even. She once broke out into song in the bakery lane of our local Morrisons.
‘Yup,’ says Poppy. ‘We’re going to get a treat for pudding.’
‘Shall we do your bath first?’ I suggest.
‘Can I go to Sainsbury’s in my pyjamas?’
‘Sure, why not, if Auntie Poppy doesn’t mind?’
‘I think that’s an amazing idea. Might put my PJs on too,’ Poppy says.
We get Lila through the bath and she’s all wrapped up and in her pyjamas, when Poppy cocks her head and studies me. ‘You look like you’re off to chair a board meeting on a Saturday. Where are you going, by the way?’
Right. Now is the time to tell Poppy about Joe. Yikes, I think, feeling surprisingly nervous. Will I pull it off? I distract my daughter with some TV time and motion for Poppy – who is still looking decidedly displeased about my cropped trousers and plain black T-shirt combo – to join me in my bedroom.
‘I’m going on a date,’ I whisper.
Poppy, wide-eyed, has taken hold of my shoulders in excitement.
‘I’ve, um, actually started seeing someone,’ I continue, heart racing. I hope this sounds genuine. Mark and I got together at a time when a diamanté-encrusted BlackBerry was the height of sophistication and the entire dating landscape seems to have changed so much since then. I’ve watched LoveIsland and I can confirm that I am a dating dinosaur.
‘SOPHIEEEEEE,’ Poppy’s booming voice reverberates around the room. ‘W. T. F? This is huge. Is it Kenny? I need information.’
‘Of course it’s not Kenny!’ I tut. ‘I’m still mad at you for setting me up on that app.’
‘Oh cut the bollocks, sis,’ Poppy says impatiently. ‘Sophie’s happy as she is, Sophie doesn’t need a man, et cetera. Only it turns out I was right, doesn’t it? Because one day after I got you on Date My Sibling and you’ve met someone!’
She’s going to be impossible after this.
‘Okay, calm down, Cupid.’
‘I need details immediately,’ Poppy demands.
‘His name’s Joe and we met at school pick-up,’ I say in one quick exhale.
‘You picked up at pick-up? That’s adorable. Hang on … Joe? The hot Irish widower?’
‘Poppy!’ I scold. ‘You’re being extremely reductive there. Joe is a good-looking father of Irish decent and, um, yes, his wife died. He also has a son in Lila’s year at school and …’ I cast around for things I know about Joe, ‘he likes pizza, the theatre and Benedict Cumberbatch so he’s much more than just a “hot Irish widower” thank you.’
There’s a long pause as my sister folds her arms.
‘Pop? I take it you’ve met him?’
‘Yes, a few times at the school gates.’ She frowns. ‘I’ve always thought he came across as a bit aloof? The mums flirt with him a lot and I can’t tell if he loves it or hates it. He’s sort of unreadable?’
I cover a snort at the accuracy of this. ‘He’s actually very amiable.’
Amiable?Note to self: use more sexy language next time you’re discussing Joe.
Poppy now appears to be weighing up my fake boyfriend on my behalf because, in her mind, I am utterly incapable in the love department. ‘He dresses well …’ she muses. ‘Oh, and I remember once at pick-up Lila fell over and he handed me a plaster from his rucksack and waited with me until she’d calmed down. That was sweet. It made me wonder about whether you two should hook up, actually.’
‘Right, and?’
‘And then I ruled him out.’
I’m baffled and find myself strangely keen to defend the excellence of my pretend boyfriend. ‘Poppy, in what world is it a no to attractive-and-kind-single-father Joe and a yes to gym-bro-with-a-penis-tattoo Paul?’
‘Sad dad,’ Poppy sums up. ‘Is it a good idea to get into a relationship with a man who has a ton of baggage?’
‘For goodness sake!’ I huff. ‘Everyone has baggage, it’s what we do with it that counts. And for the record, Joe is not sad. I mean, of course he is sad about losing his wife but he’s also ready to move on. Pop, I thought you’d be happy about this.’
‘Course I am,’ she says, softening. ‘Just a bit concerned, too. I don’t want you to get hurt again.’
‘I can literally promise you that won’t happen,’ I say with the utmost confidence. ‘To be clear, it’s very early days and who knows how this will end up but he made me laugh when we went out for pizza and we’re going out tonight which is why you’re here being the best sister on the planet.’
‘You should have that put on a mug for me.’ She grins. ‘You know, the more I think about this, the better it seems. I’m totally over my lack of enthusiasm. Joe knows what it’s like to raise a child by himself. Your kids are at the same school which will be ideal for organising playdates. Joe’s a good name. Solid, dependable. Actually, I am getting great energy from this, Soph. Joe and Sophie. It’s got a ring to it.’
‘It has, hasn’t it?’ I say excitedly. How Poppy managed to move from zero to a hundred in such a short space of time is testament to her gloriously joyful personality. She always, always sees the positive side of things.
‘And thank fuck I brought clothes,’ she adds, nodding towards the heaving suitcase she’s wheeled into my bedroom. ‘Call it sisterly intuition but I had a hunch you might be doing something fun tonight. And your wardrobe is a fun free zone. I mean, look at you right now. You’re going on a date, not to a funeral,’ she says, one side of her mouth curled up in displeasure as she flicks through my wardrobe. ‘Everything you own is black, navy or this hideous grey colour. You’re not a recovering Goth.’
‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘All of these things are stylish.’
‘Yeah, in a city banker sort of way.’
‘You know I like to look professional, now stop making a scene.’
‘And what about when you’re not at work?’ She eyes me again. ‘You’ve got good taste in yoga leggings, I’ll give you that. But where’s the middle ground? Where’s the off-duty style? Look at you. Smart trousers and a T-shirt. It doesn’t exactly scream exciting or, heaven forbid, fun. You know what your problem is, don’t you?’
‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.’
‘Your wardrobe is deeply boring.’
‘Don’t pull back the punches, sis.’
Poppy puts her hand on her hip. ‘You’ve been dressing like this for years and frankly, Soph, it’s a vibe kill.’
‘You’re a vibe kill,’ I retort.
Although to be fair, she’s right. I used to have way more fun with my outfits but when I set up on my own, I wanted to make sure I came across as unquestioningly professional.
‘And what even is this?’ Poppy asks, holding up the khaki boilersuit I bought at the start of the school year after spotting Tally in something similar. I’ve never actually had the balls to wear it of course.
‘Boilersuits are all the rage. Tally has an entire highlight section on her Instagram about them.’
‘This one is the colour of pea soup. Do you wear it when you’re working on a steam locomotive?’
‘Piss off.’
Poppy bites her lip. ‘I’ve brought options,’ she says, unzipping the suitcase with reverence. She has a LOT of clothes. Clothes and bags were two things she’d happily splurge on when she was working for the bank and now it looks like Net-a-Porter just delivered their entire warehouse straight into my bedroom. Apart from the fact that my hips seem to have got wider since I had Lila, Poppy and I are still roughly the same dress size, and for the next fifteen minutes she maintains a monologue revolved around what to wear for a drinks date. Smart casual … Cool and sophisticated … Tiny hint of sexy … Leather pants …
‘LEATHER PANTS? I am not wearing leather underwear, Poppy. It’s a drinks date. What is wrong with you?!’
‘Oh, sorry, I meant trousers, Soph. I’ve been doing some engagement shots for Alexis today. Remember her? The one from our village? From school? She’s getting married to an American called Chase who genuinely dresses in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren. It was like meeting an extra from GossipGirl. I must have picked up some of his Americanisms during their photoshoot.’
Relieved, I sit down on my bed but Poppy pulls me right back up again, handing me a white shirt and some wide-legged jeans. I wriggle out of my trousers obediently. When I’m fully dressed (she has French-tucked the shirt into the jeans and added a chunky gold necklace), she spins me around to look in the mirror, standing back in admiration.
‘Hot. Damn,’ she says. ‘White suits you, sis. I knew it would. It accentuates that Nordic skin of ours.’
I roll my eyes. Poppy loves to wax lyrical about our ‘Nordic genes’ even though we have literally one Norwegian grandmother. Everyone else hails from Wolverhampton. To be fair, we did both inherit Grandma’s Scandinavian looks. Long limbs, ice-blond hair and skin prone to freckles in the summer time.
‘Excellent.’ Poppy nods. ‘The jeans make your legs look a mile long. There’s a tiny hint of boob but nothing more, which is perfect.’
I pause over my reflection. ‘It does feel nice to step away from the black.’
‘Now go have fun!’