The A–Z of Everything: A gorgeously emotional and uplifting book that will make you laugh and cry

The A–Z of Everything: A gorgeously emotional and uplifting book that will make you laugh and cry Debbie Johnson ‘Original and thought-provoking’ Sunday Times bestseller Katie Fforde‘Simply gorgeous’ Sunday Times bestseller Milly JohnsonP is for Paris where it all began. J is for Jealousy where it all came undone. But the most important letter is F. F is for Forgiveness, the hardest of all.Sisters Poppy and Rose used to be as close as two sisters could be, but it’s been over a decade since they last spoke. Until they both receive a call that tells them their mother has gone – without ever having the chance to see her daughters reunited.Andrea, though, wasn’t the kind of woman to let a little thing like death stand in the way of her plans. Knowing her daughters better than they know themselves, she has left behind one very special last gift – the A-Z of Everything.‘Moving and uplifting all at once, I devoured this book about mothers, daughters, sisters and – ultimately – love’ Sunday Times bestseller Jane Costello‘Funny and poignant – a celebration of life and the enduring power of love’ – Carys Bray, bestselling author of A Song for Issy Bradley Copyright (#ulink_fc8749da-fbef-57d2-a3bd-71dbaf6fec64) Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Harper 2017 Copyright © Debbie Johnson 2017 Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017 Cover images © iStock.com (http://iStock.com) (stairs and street light); Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) (all other images) Debbie Johnson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008150198 Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008150204 Version: 2018-02-15 Dedication (#ulink_65bd10de-677a-5187-9297-6152e1fa0887) For my mother – five years gone, and part of me still expects it to be her when the phone rings late at night. Contents Cover (#u4f54fb40-3eee-5c3e-b3f8-b9169f713426) Title Page (#ue0f95b12-24e0-5294-826b-adfb657409df) Copyright (#u13a28956-7bcf-5be4-a2c8-315e36ccae2b) Dedication (#uf4e87a4d-891d-5810-93e1-9cfb7b8f5c89) Part One: The Stage Is Set (#u156d1c16-438f-5323-b827-5f3f63729f53) Prologue (#u1054129d-1c72-5602-adce-8f1e916c1b96) Chapter 1 (#u468ee276-dc56-57d2-93d1-d31fd757523f) Chapter 2 (#u40753600-7823-5674-82eb-858d5acf0cb3) Chapter 3 (#u8c7c3ac0-f747-58cf-b9bf-f221f91be1d1) Chapter 4 (#u6e7fe3fc-c181-5a86-842f-8deb7dceda3c) Chapter 5 (#udc4cf838-840a-5775-b943-85aa8c968106) Chapter 6 (#u9c761cfc-3822-5b5a-ad60-1928b70b5ac9) Chapter 7 (#ub6bab0a4-273b-5b1b-a462-69562182e404) Chapter 8 (#ufcb767f3-d739-5a42-ba12-d6c94a10a8b0) Chapter 9 (#u6aa05407-07f1-5880-acff-b57bd4f4c836) Chapter 10 (#uc9a39c24-7dd5-502e-83dd-67022506d38e) Chapter 11 (#ua8b92742-985e-5913-b59a-d253bbec009c) Chapter 12 (#u10deff4f-6562-5d0d-a730-ee5c7d1a818f) Chapter 13 (#uf0d45838-645d-5794-9811-3a522cc453e0) Chapter 14 (#ue1ae5331-1a4b-51fe-8b17-b6344f03f344) Chapter 15 (#uc71fbb1f-6a25-54e2-9ee6-bf4039692470) Chapter 16 (#ue3e36a0e-4b86-5794-ad5b-19d313ff8dad) Chapter 17 (#ud47dc0a0-b412-5862-8576-df39691d1989) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Two: The Curtain Opens: The A–Z Begins (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Three: The Final Curtain (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Debbie Johnson (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PART ONE (#ulink_b656a2cd-d50c-57c5-a750-1446800433c1) Prologue (#ulink_cafc0147-49d5-5878-a32b-3687c09d1f21) Andrea Forty years have passed since my own mother died, and yet I can still remember it like it was yesterday. I can still recall the sounds and the smells and the way her tiny hand felt in mine as she finally gave up the fight, as the light faded from her eyes. I can remember the hollow feeling inside me as I made my way home to my own children, crying on the bus and ignoring the kindness of strangers as the double-decker trundled across London. Walking through the door to our flat, overwhelmed with the need to bundle them up and keep them safe and love them so much that no harm would ever come to them. Protect them from the cruel torments of the world. Four whole decades later, it is still so vivid. When it comes to the people you love, and the people you lose, the passage of time is irrelevant – some things simply stay with you forever. I’m thinking about this so much more now, because this morning I was told that I am dying. Not in the slow and certain way that we are all dying – but in a two-months-if-you’re-lucky way. The look of practised sympathy on the consultant’s face as he explained was enough to kick-start my stiff upper lip, and I silenced him with a smile. I’ve been an actress for the whole of my life, and I’ve done many a death scene. Now, I’ve got to decide how to play my own – and what good can come out of it. My last diary entry was a reminder to tell my friend Lewis that his ancient dog, Betty, needed a flea treatment, pronto. The one before that seemed to revolve entirely around buying a new hat for our trip to the races. Funny how quickly things can change. Now, I have a few weeks left – and I have to make them count. I have to scheme and work and plan like I’ve never schemed and worked and planned before. In those few weeks, God willing, I will be directing my own play – and performing a minor miracle. Because, of course, I couldn’t actually bundle up my own children for the rest of their lives – no mother can. I couldn’t keep those two girls safe, and I couldn’t protect them from the cruellest torment of all – the way we can hurt the ones we love. If it’s the very last thing I manage, I am determined that I will make the impossible happen. I will bang my daughters’ heads together, and make them whole. I will do as much as I can to heal them, and their future, as I have time to do. Because they’re going to need each other, so very much. One day, very soon, they are going to wake up to a world without their mother – and, like I say, I still remember how that feels. Her tiny hand, holding mine. Chapter 1 (#ulink_da2dfdb2-b7a1-550b-81f6-7ce99540420c) 1984 – Farewell to Templeton Peck Dead goldfish are pretty revolting items, thinks Andrea, as she lovingly wraps up the body of the late, great pet known as Faceman. Once a delightful creature dashing through his fake coral reef and pirate castle, he’s now slippy and cold and far too reminiscent of three-day-old Chinese food that’s starting to disintegrate. Once he’s enveloped in tissue paper, he is placed in a shoebox, which the girls have decorated in the style of the little Corvette that The A-Team character drives around in. It’s a masterwork of red felt-tip pen and blobby white paint that is barely dry, so some of it has smudged pink. Patch, their cross-eyed Jack Russell terrier, is yipping and snapping at her ankles, desperate to get at the box. It’s just food to him, and Andrea shoos him away. He disappears to the side of the garden, and starts digging a hole in the flowerbeds. Poppy is sobbing uncontrollably, her wild dark hair plastered to the tears running down the sides of her cheeks. Seven years old and already a drama queen. Rose is hugging her, making soothing noises to try and calm her down. They’re both barefoot, still in their nighties, and look impossibly small and forlorn as they traipse through the dew-soaked grass of the cottage garden. It’s easier for Rose to be calm, of course. Her fish, B. A. Baracus, is still happily swimming around in the bowl, calling people ‘fool’ and looking tough. Poor Faceman has lasted less than three months. This is their first encounter with death, and emotions are running high, in the way that they do when little girls are involved. There is a small hole, which Andrea dug earlier that morning, and a cassette player next to it, running on batteries. Andrea hands the shoebox to Poppy, who drags herself out of her hysteria long enough to accept it with tiny, shaking hands. Andrea reaches out and strokes her face clear of tears. Her skin is clammy and pale and moist, and although at least some of the performance is for effect, Andrea knows her baby girl is genuinely devastated. Next time, she thinks, I’ll get them a pet with a longer shelf life. Like one of those tortoises that live for a hundred years. ‘Go on, Popcorn,’ she says gently, gesturing to the hole. ‘We need to say goodbye to Faceman now. Would you like to say a little prayer for him?’ ‘I c-c-c-an’t!’ she stutters, trembling so much the box starts to shake as well. Andrea has visions of the goldfish making a bid for freedom, flying through the sky and landing on the head of one of their garden gnomes. This, for some reason, amuses her, and she fights to keep her face straight. She can’t laugh. Not now. This is a big, serious thing. The way she plays this will affect their outlook on the Grim Reaper for the rest of their lives. She has to at least try and get it right. ‘I’ll do it,’ says Rose, who is two years older and already displaying the kind of alarming maternal instincts that make Andrea think she might end up as a grandma by the time she’s 40. She’ll have to lock her in the broom cupboard before long, or make her take a bite from an enchanted apple. Poppy nods, and leans down to place the box in the ground. It tilts as she does it, but luckily no goldfish corpses slosh out and scare them all. Patch is watching them from the hole he’s now sitting in, and Andrea silently says her own prayer: please do not let that stinky little dog gallop over here and run off with the dead fish’s body. They stand back respectfully, and place their hands together in the prayer position they’ve been taught at school. Andrea’s not at all sure she believes in God, or the afterlife, but it’s certainly useful where small children are concerned. Much more comforting than the alternative. ‘Dear Jesus,’ says Rose, bowing her head so her brown curls swing around her chubby face, ‘please take this wonderful fish, Faceman, into heaven. He was a good fish and we all loved him. Please give him a nice bowl to swim in, and lots of other fish to play with, and let him know that we will never forget him. Amen.’ It is a lovely prayer, simple and heartfelt and innocent, and Andrea feels tears filling her eyes. They are so precious, these two beauties. These two grubby angels who have enriched her life beyond belief. In moments like these, she can forget all her worries: the bills, her lacklustre acting career, the sheer exhaustion of being a single mum in a world built for couples. She can ignore it all, and focus on what matters – her Rosehip and her Popcorn. Best girls in the world. Poppy looks up at her big sister, and offers a small, tremulous smile. ‘It’ll be all right, Pop,’ says Rose, reaching out and holding her hand. ‘Heaven is a beautiful and perfect place, and Faceman will be happy there.’ Poppy frowns, and Andrea recognises her Thinking Face. It’s the look that usually goes before a very tricky question – like Where Do Babies Come From? (said very loudly in the park after seeing a lady with a pram), or Why Is That Man Bald? (said very loudly on the bus behind the town’s answer to Kojak), or her particular favourite, Why Don’t I Have A Dad? (said very loudly at Parents’ Evening). ‘Mummy,’ she says, with a voice far firmer than her tearful expression, ‘how does Faceman get to heaven? If he’s buried in a box in a garden? And is there a different part of heaven for everything – you know, like a Sheep Heaven and a People Heaven and a Goldfish Heaven, all in separate bits? Because sheep would need grass, and fish would need water, and people would need the pub …’ Again, Andrea bites down on her lip to stop herself from laughing. The pub? That’s what she thinks people heaven would be like? She’s clearly been on one too many trips to the Farmer’s Arms … ‘Well it’s all a bit of a mystery, my love,’ Andrea replies. ‘Nobody has ever come back from heaven to tell us about it – because they’re just too happy there. Personally I think that angels will come down and fly Faceman up with them tonight, while we’re asleep.’ As she says this, she sees Rose’s face also screw up into a thoughtful frown. Oh no, she thinks. They’re too old for such an outrageous fib. They don’t believe me, and now they’ll want to dig up the bloody box again tomorrow and check if he’s gone. That’s my night sorted – a glass of red wine and an impromptu goldfish exhumation. ‘But do they always fly to heaven?’ asks Rose, her gaze flicking back to the house. ‘Because B. A. Baracus hates to fly, you know that, don’t you?’ It’s actually an easier question than she’d anticipated, which is a relief. This whole thing is a minefield. ‘Well, when B. A.’s time has come, we’ll … flush him down the toilet? And then he can swim to heaven.’ ‘Goldfish heaven?’ asks Poppy again, obviously not letting go of her idea of a compartmentalised afterlife. ‘Exactly. Now,’ says Andrea decisively, keen to avoid any more of the Junior Tag Team Spanish Inquisition. ‘Shall we play the music?’ Both girls nod, and their mum presses the button on the cassette player. The A-Team theme music blares out, echoing around the garden and drowning out the birdsong and the sound of a lawnmower in the distance and the faint rumble of traffic heading into the village. They all stand to attention, singing along and doing the ‘duh-duh-duh-duh’ noises at the right places. It’s their favourite TV show, and is a fittingly rousing end to Faceman’s short, soggy life. With the final ritual completed, Andrea reaches out for both their hands, hoping that they’ll be happy and not too confused by all of this mortality nonsense. The three of them walk together towards the cottage, winding their way through the maze of potted lavender and garden gnomes and buzzing bees. Just as they’re about to go back inside and hopefully settle down for their usual Saturday morning cartoons, Poppy pulls on Andrea’s hand, and comes to a halt. ‘Mum,’ she says, in a tone that means business. ‘What will happen to us when you go to heaven?’ Andrea kneels down on the cracked crazy paving, and takes both girls into her arms. She feels small hands and skinny limbs wrap around her, and squeezes them as hard as she possibly can without popping their ribs. Like she never, ever wants to let them go. ‘Oh, darling – don’t worry about that. There’s a very long time before your mummy goes to heaven.’ She pulls back, still on her knees so she is at eye level with the children, keeping one hand on each of their shoulders. She looks from face to face, and sees the way that Poppy’s hand has already crept into Rose’s; sees their strength and their wonder and their potential. How did she ever create two such perfect creatures? ‘And even when I do,’ she adds, giving them both a reassuring smile, ‘you’ll always have each other.’ Chapter 2 (#ulink_01feae88-27b7-59bb-a8ad-7816e351c73c) The Present Day ‘I know you’re aiming for Scarlett-O’Hara-on-her-deathbed, darling, but with those earrings, you’re landing closer to Pat Butcher leaving the Queen Vic in a black cab.’ Lewis is perched on the end of the bed, trying to ignore the machines and the wires and the dreaded drip stand. He’s feeling a little queasy because of the smell. That unmistakable hospital smell: that hideous combination of death and disinfectant. He can hear the nurses outside, chatting away about their night out at the weekend, and has a deeply uncivilised urge to run through the door and clang their heads together. He realises it’s unfair – God knows, if anybody is entitled to a life-affirming booze-up, it’s people who care for the dying. But still. A little decorum wouldn’t go amiss. Andrea manages to kick him, though it barely registers – she is very weak, and his behind is very well padded. It’s like a gnat biting a T. Rex. He pats her foot beneath the green blanket, and gives her a smile. ‘I hate you,’ she says, ‘with an absolute passion.’ ‘Careful, my sweet,’ he replies, noticing that she is removing the gaudy drop earrings with shaking hands. ‘You could pop your clogs at any moment. Would you really want those to be your last words?’ ‘No,’ she answers, throwing the jewellery down, ignoring the fact that the fake ruby drops skitter across the floor, one disappearing beneath the bed and another taking up residence under the cabinet. ‘If they’re going to be my last words, I’d make it “an absolute fucking passion”. Now, are you ready? How’s the lighting? Honestly, you’d think they’d spare more thought, wouldn’t you? A few gentle spots instead of all this … fluorescence?’ ‘Spare more thought to lighting? In hospital? I suppose they’re concentrating on more important things.’ ‘Ha! I’ve reached the stage where there is no more important thing. Lighting makes all the difference, you know. There was this time, on set, with John Nettles …’ ‘Oh lord!’ Lewis exclaims, standing to his size-12 feet and throwing his arms in the air in a gesture that is half pleading, half surrender, ‘if you tell me another story about bloody Bergerac, I swear to God you won’t get the chance to die naturally – I will take that pillow and smother you with it!’ She manages a smile, but it is a sad thing. Like her skin doesn’t have enough life left in it to give it any conviction. She’s always been slim, as long as he’s known her, but now there is barely anything left. Within the space of six weeks, the disease and the drugs have ravaged her like a Viking horde, leaving this grey, skinny streak of a human being behind. He’d do anything to pass on some of his solid bulk, but apparently the boffins haven’t yet come up with a way to transplant the health and vitality of a 68-year-old man to his dying friend. He feels like crying, and gives himself a stern talking to. There will be time for self-pity later – right now needs to be all about her. ‘Maybe you should, Lewis,’ she says, rooting around in the make-up bag that sits on her lap. ‘And I can’t say that I’d mind. I’d much rather say my farewells to this cruel world with a handsome man in my bed …’ ‘Well,’ he replies, fussing around with the camera, ‘I’ll pop out later and see if I can find you one, then. What do you fancy, Daniel Craig? Or something a bit more old-school with a lot of chest hair, like Burt Reynolds?’ She’s not listening now, he can tell. She has her little compact mirror out, and is inspecting her reflection. The grimace on her face implies she’s not entirely delighted with what she sees. With a shaking hand, she tries to grip a brush, dip it in powder, touch herself up for her final scene. It is pitiful to watch, and he can’t bear it. He puts the camera down, lumbers towards her, and sits at her side. There is, sadly, plenty of room for both of them. He takes the brush and the powder, and goes to work. He adds some blush, and a touch of colour to her lips. They are cracked and thin, dehydrated. Like her body is rejecting anything that will sustain it. Patiently, she endures his fussing without a single word of abuse. She must be feeling bad, he knows, to miss an opportunity to mock him for his make-up skills. All those years in the village amateur dramatics have not been wasted. ‘Are you done, Max Factor?’ she says, her head lolling back on to the pillow, as though holding it up has drained her of all energy. ‘How do I look?’ He reaches out, and smooths down her hair. It is a dazzling shade of silver-grey, closely cropped to her skull in one of those boyish styles that only the very beautiful can carry off. And Andrea is beautiful – or at least she had been. Now, the once-stylish cheekbones – the type his mother always said ‘aged well’ – are poking out like wires, and her skin is stretched taut, like the world’s worst facelift. Her eyes are clouded by pain – she’s refused to take any medication this morning, saying she needs her wits about her – but are still the same striking shade he will always remember. Such a deep blue they are almost violet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes. He’s seen Andrea in many of her TV roles, from back in her heyday, and she was what they would have called a ‘stunner’ back then. She was never a star, and hasn’t appeared on screen in anything new since 2005, but she still occasionally gets fan mail, or an invitation to appear at a convention. A lot of people would recognise her – those eyes. That face. All the roles she played in the 1970s and 1980s, usually as someone’s love interest, or a feisty barmaid, or what she called Posh Totty. Never quite the leading lady – but then again, interesting roles for women were sadly lacking then, and she had two kids to look after as well. These days, she’d have smashed it, he thinks – been a Keeley Hawes or a Rachel Weisz or a Kate Winslet. Still, even when she was playing the Tart with a Heart on The Sweeney or a Sexy Alien Sidekick in Doctor Who, she was always good. Always stupendously glamorous. Always unforgettable. In fact, the only people who seemed to have been able to forget Andrea are the two people she loves the most. The two people she’s about to record her final message for, after weeks of preparation. Of field trips for him. Of rooting through photo albums, making cassette tapes, emptying out bin bags, setting up video-sharing accounts, drawing on maps with red pen, pilfering from scrapbooks. Pillaging their past, in the determined hope that she can change their future. He has no idea if it will work. He has no idea if he even cares – they’re not real to him, Rosehip and Popcorn. He’s never met them, and has no real desire to. She banned him from contacting them to explain that she really is ill this time (from that, he deduces that Andrea may have tried to scam them with dramatic hospital visits before now, just to get their attention), and that suits him just fine. He’s been friends with Andrea for more than ten years and never been introduced to them, which says it all. Partly, he thinks, looking on as she sucks in breath, eyes closed, fingers weakly clinging on to the blanket with her coral-painted nails, she didn’t want them to see her like this. Reduced to skin and bones held together with sheer force of will. Partly, she is so focused on this crazy plan of hers that it has now become more real to her than anything else, clinging to it and pinning all her hopes on it. She is convinced that this is her legacy. That this will work. That she will be able to achieve in her death the one thing she was never able to achieve in life – bringing her daughters back together again. As far as Lewis is concerned, those two deserve less of a second chance, and more of a good whipping – so caught up in the past, in their own petty bitterness, that neither of them could see what it was doing to their mother. It had been destroying her, from the inside out, just as surely as the cancer, and neither of them seemed to notice or care. She’s seen them, of course – there have been weekends away, trips to their homes, nights out at shows in London. But never at the cottage. Never in the same room. Never together – and that’s what did the damage. That’s what caused the internal injuries that all the MRI scans in the world wouldn’t show up. He still has no idea what the two of them were even feuding about – Andrea has always cast a dramatic glance skyward, and uttered something vague. But surely it wasn’t serious enough to cause this – to leave their own mother spending her last weeks on this earth coming up with some crazy plan to reunite them? Maybe, he thinks, she is right not to have told them. She wants to be remembered as she was, not as she is. And perhaps, deep down, she doubts that even a call to her deathbed will bring them together, and that would be more than she could bear. His motives, his reasons for being grateful for their absence, are less pure. Lewis thinks they simply don’t deserve her. But what does he know? He’s never had children. It would be possible now, in this day and age – he’d find a nice lesbian couple and come to some arrangement, or even do an Elton John and David Furnish and maybe adopt. But back in his era … well, confirmed bachelors didn’t become fathers, simple as that. And from what he’s seen of Andrea’s life, he’s quite glad about it. He reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. He has huge hands – he is built like a grizzly bear – and hers are tiny. Her skin is fragile, like the dusty paper in an antique book, and he holds it gently, scared it might disintegrate and fly away with the slightest touch. He feels her fingers twine into his, and is grateful to be there. She might not have her daughters, but she is not alone. ‘Is it all sorted, do you think, Lewis?’ she whispers, startling him from his thoughts. He’d assumed she was on the verge of another fitful bout of sleep. ‘Do you think I’ve done enough?’ she says, her fingers clinging to his, looking for reassurance. ‘Darling, it is all beyond sorted. I have never seen you display such organisational skills as I have in the last few weeks. It will be enough, I promise. So don’t worry about a thing – I know what to do. Everything is ready, and I’ll play my part to perfection.’ ‘Ha! That’ll be a first, then …’ she murmurs, sarcastically. Ever the critic. Just because once – once – he dropped the bloody skull during his am-dram Hamlet. She tries to sit up, and he sees she is struggling. He helps her move forward, and adjusts the bed so she is propped upright. He casts one last glance over her – the hair as neat as it can be, the make-up done, the dreaded earrings gone. She’s insisted on wearing ‘proper clothes’, even though her cream-silk blouse is now hanging off her shoulders, and has doused herself in Chanel Coco, as though the girls will have some kind of sniff-o-vision when they watch this. ‘Okay,’ she says, drawing in a big breath. ‘I think I’m ready. I can practically see a man with a scythe lurking in the corridor by the vending machine, my love, so we’d better get on with it. The show must go on. All set?’ He nods, and switches the camera on. He’s never been much of a one for technology, and he’s had to learn fast. Now, if he ever tires of playing the Solid Rural Lawyer, he can become an internet whizz-kid instead. ‘Testing, testing, uno-dos-tres …’ Andrea says, her voice high and firm; stronger than he’s heard it for days. What a trouper. He adjust his angles, knowing that she will insist on reshooting this if it doesn’t meet her high standards, and gives her the thumbs-up. She turns those brilliant eyes towards him, and smiles into the lens. It’s a perfect close-up, and she plays it exactly right. ‘My darlings. Rosehip, Popcorn, my only true loves. Not to be too Hollywood about this, but if you’re watching this tape, that can mean only one thing: I have shuffled off this mortal coil … and you two are going to need each other more than ever. You need to set aside your differences, and look out for each other – just like you always used to.’ Chapter 3 (#ulink_5466af16-1951-53ec-bf1d-4fb3691d5a51) Beacon C of E Primary School, 1986 ‘I’m going to rub your nose in that dog poo, you stuck-up cow,’ says Jackie Wells, holding Rose’s face down on the grass by the scruff of her neck. It’s Rose’s last year at little school, and she has committed the cardinal sin of being clever. She’s won all the prizes; she’s pretty and popular and even good at netball. Of course Jackie Wells hates her. ‘You don’t even have a dad, and if you did, my dad would beat him up,’ adds Jackie, sitting on Rose’s back. Rose has no doubt about that; Jackie’s dad looks like a Tonka truck. She struggles, trying to throw her 11-year-old nemesis off her back, but only succeeding in wriggling ineffectually on the school playing field. She glances ahead, sees flat green grass and, not very far away, a lovely pile of dog mess is buzzing with flies. If she was on her feet, she might stand a chance against Jackie – but unfortunately for her (and for Jackie), the child takes after her father and already weighs as much as that baby hippo they saw on the school trip to Chester Zoo. Naturally enough, there are no teachers in sight, and the small circle of kids gathered around the spectacle seem to be enjoying it. The ones that aren’t – Rose’s friends – look twitchy and embarrassed and worried, but too scared of Jackie to intervene. Rose tries to remind herself of her mother’s oft-repeated words, the ones about jealousy being the mother of all aggression. That might be true, Rose thinks, but it’s not much of a consolation right now. Not when her uniform is covered in grass stains and her face is smeared with soil and she’ll be eating poo for lunch. She flails around, trying to kick Jackie with her Clark’s shoes, but can’t manage it. All that happens is that Jackie presses her face even harder into the ground, and for a terrifying few moments, she can’t breathe at all. She can hear jeers and shouts and the brave, solitary cry of her best friend, Tasmin: ‘Leave her alone, or I’ll fetch Miss Cunningham!’ That is followed by a small, sad yelp, so Rose has to assume that Tasmin has paid the price for her courage. Jackie pulls her head up, using Rose’s long, curly ponytail like a handle, and slams her face back down into the damp ground. She feels soil smash between her teeth and into her mouth, and again panics as the world goes dark. Just as she is about to give up and accept her early death, there is an ear-splitting screech, and Jackie’s hefty weight is suddenly gone. Rose takes a brief moment to suck in air, then rolls around so she can see what is going on. Poppy has arrived, in a blur of violence and fury, and is holding Jackie down while she punches her in the head. Rose has no idea how she is doing that, as she is not only two years younger than Jackie, but most of a baby hippo lighter. ‘Don’t!’ she yells, punctuating each word with a blow from her screwed-up fists, ‘Ever! Touch! My! Sister!’ Obviously, it’s at that point that Miss Cunningham arrives, and the group of spectators magically all disappear off to play football or collect ladybirds or talk about Zammo in last night’s episode of Grange Hill. Miss Cunningham physically drags Poppy away from Jackie, who is left cowering and crying and, yes, Rose notices with some satisfaction, covered in smears of the exact same dog poo she was threatening her with just moments ago. Poppy is trembling with anger, her long, scrawny body vibrating with emotion. She looks over at Rose, who is getting to her feet now, and is instantly calmed by her big sister’s smile. The smile that tells her that everything is okay, that it will all be fine, and that there is nothing to worry about. Rose knows that Poppy is going to get into trouble for this. But she also knows, deep down, that she wouldn’t have it any other way. Rose might be the one who seems to look after them both – but when push comes to shove, it’s always Poppy who is willing to rush right in and batter someone. She’s her avenging angel, and anyone who crosses her pays the price. Rose dusts herself down, and prepares the case for the defence. As soon as she is upright, Poppy flees from Miss Cunningham’s lecture, and throws herself into her arms. She’s so skinny, and she’s crying, and her hair is all messed up, and she looks a bit like a tramp. Rose hugs her, and smooths her hair down, and whispers into her ear: ‘Thank you, Popcorn. And don’t worry – it’s all going to be okay.’ ‘Mum’s going to kill me …’ Poppy mutters, the reality of the situation starting to sink in as Miss Cunningham prowls towards them, hands on hips and scowl on face. ‘Mum,’ replies Rose, 100 per cent sure this is true, ‘will completely understand. And she’ll probably take us out for tea to celebrate.’ Chapter 4 (#ulink_abccb739-265b-5965-85b3-74d393836b0c) The Present Day Lewis is sitting on a traffic bollard, a few feet outside the hospital foyer. It’s not very comfortable, despite his bulk, and he wishes there was somewhere more pleasant to sit. Maybe he’ll donate a bench, he thinks, in memory of Andrea. The Andrea Barnard Memorial Bench. It would welcome the arses of the cold, the lonely, the ill, the desperate. She’d absolutely hate it, he decides, and the thought of the look of contempt on her face makes him smile. If there’s a heaven, she’ll be shaking her fists and uttering dire threats. ‘Something with a bit more class, please, darling,’ she’d say. ‘A nice little tequila bar, perhaps? God knows these poor people need a drink!’ It’s late now – somewhere after 10 p.m. on what has been a very long day. By now, he’d usually be tucked up in bed with an episode of Antiques Roadshow, or reading a good Barbara Cartland. It’s a Friday, so he’d have a nice lie-in the next morning, before taking a brisk constitutional in the valley. Maybe he’d persuade Andrea to come with him. Perhaps, if the weather was good, they’d go for a paddle in the lake with his ancient springer spaniel, Betty. For Lewis, and for poor old Betty, there will at least be another morning. Another sunrise. Another chance to wonder at the world – not that it looks very impressive when all you can see is a neon-drenched hospital car park and frazzled paramedics on a fag break. For Andrea, there will be nothing. No more sunrises. No more tequila. No more Antiques Roadshow, unless she’s been shown Downstairs, where she’ll be taunted by scary-looking dolls and ugly pottery for all of eternity. She’s gone, and he’s struggling to believe it can possibly be true – that somehow the world continues on as normal. There should be a black hole in the sky; a swarm of shooting stars to mark her passing, a murder of crows lined up on the bus stop cawing her name. Not just this … mundane reality. She made her film, and he had marvelled at her. At her strength and her resolve and her determination. He knew how ill she was, how much pain she was in – but you couldn’t tell from that video. She somehow managed to be loving and firm and even funny. Quite frankly, it had been the performance of a lifetime. He’d been the liability, not her, with his shaking hands and constant need to blink tears from his eyes. Pathetic. He was a mess – she was a powerhouse. Once she’d done it, though (one take, miraculously making it sound spontaneous even though he knew she’d rehearsed it), it seemed like whatever life and energy she had left drained out of her. It was her last hurrah, and within minutes of filming that one last close-up, her grey head dropped back into the lumps and bumps of the pillow as she fell into a long, staring silence. There’d been a few sniffles after that, a few quick, breathless questions asking how she’d done, but he knew – he knew that it was all she had left to give, and she’d given it to her daughters. After that, it was silence and morphine all the way to the end. It was a strange experience, seeing someone die. He wasn’t even sure she’d gone when it finally happened, after several false alarms. On one occasion, she went what felt like minutes without drawing in a breath, then when he went to check on her, she suddenly opened her eyes and made him scream like a big, fat girl. At least that provoked a laugh – albeit one that ended in a coughing fit. Almost an hour ago, though, it ended. It all ended. That glorious life, that wicked sense of humour, that vigorous bundle of vitality. Sixty-five years of love and laughter and experience – all gone. One papery hand fell away from the blanket to dangle loosely over the edge of the bed, coral nails vivid against the white sheets, and the other – clutched into his – became limp and lifeless. He waited, and waited, and waited some more. Part of him had been desperate for this moment – for her to be put out of her torment. But part of him felt like he had simply died with her, which wouldn’t have been the world’s biggest tragedy. He’d wanted to crawl into that bed, pull the sheets over them both, and just stop breathing. Stop existing. A world without Andrea was, right then, too terrible to even imagine. Lewis had made a lot of friends during his long, rich life – but none of them had ever come close to Andrea. She was like a beacon of energy, a rainbow shining into a grey world, a blast of dazzling light scattering away the darkness. She was his soul mate, his true love without being his lover, his partner in crime. He’d first encountered her when he moved to the village years ago, and their eyes met over a crowded giant vegetable stand at the annual fete. They’d both been staring at the same collection of ridiculously large marrows, and they both had the same raised eyebrows and ‘oo-er missus’ expressions, straight from a Carry On movie. That had led to coffee. Coffee had led to a night in the pub. And a night in the pub had led to an unshakeable friendship, based on a rude sense of humour, a love of banter, and, if he was entirely honest, on mutual loneliness. And now she was gone, and he was sitting with a concrete bollard up his bum, and it was dark and cold and rainy. The height of the inglorious English summer. He’d left his mac on the back seat of his car, his tweed jacket was soaked through, and he knew his shirt would be plastered to his skin in ways that were far from flattering. She’d be thoroughly shocked at him showing off his man boobs in such an unbecoming way, he was sure. His fingers were shaking and his carefully combed hair was wet and flat to his skull, letting all the bald patches peek out. Somehow, though, he just didn’t seem able to care. All his life, he’d done the right thing – been properly turned out, played his part, done what was expected of him. Now, he wouldn’t be bothered if he was naked, covered in woad and speaking in tongues. Everything felt heavy, and useless, and empty. Especially him. None of it felt real yet. He’d done some paperwork, accepted sweet tea and sympathy from kind nurses who never really knew her, and been forced to eat some over-buttered toast. Eventually, after ‘giving him some time’, they gently suggested he needed to leave the room. It was only decades of training and conditioning and pure English politeness that stopped him from yelling at them. From kicking them out, and barricading the door with his recliner chair, and wailing like those Middle Eastern ladies you see on the news. He understood now, for the first time, how grief could make you wail like that. How pain could be so pure and so livid that it took on a life of its own, a small, furious animal that wanted to howl at the top of its lungs. To scream and scream and scream until the whole world shattered with the sheer force of its misery. His own parents had died after long, full lives, and they were never especially close anyway – they were merely the people who visited him at boarding school, and insisted he became a lawyer. It had hurt when they passed on, but nothing had prepared him for this. For the rawness. The agony. The inability to accept that she was really gone. That it wasn’t some silly trick of hers, that she hadn’t faked it all, and any minute would sit back up, tears of laughter in her magnificent eyes, proclaiming: ‘I well and truly got you that time, sweetie! I completely Reggie Perrin-ed you! Fancy a G&T on the way home?’ But no matter how long he waited, it didn’t happen. She just refused to stop being dead, damn her. And now he is here, in the rain, fishing around in his jacket pocket for his phone and his cigar box. The cigar that she’d bought for him – a limited edition Montecristo that, under normal circumstances, he’d be looking forward to smoking. He’d enjoy it on the terrace of his small garden, along with a nice glass of ruby port, listening to the night-time sounds of nature all around him, bathing in the starlight. This, though, is slightly different. There are no sounds of nature, just sirens and screeching tyres and shell-shocked-looking people, standing in small, damp clusters as they wait for taxis. The starlight has been replaced by the flickering yellow signs of the hospital, and the glow of hundreds of tiny lights shining from hundreds of tiny windows. The car headlights are reflected in dark pools of oily rain on the pitted tarmac as they zoom past, and he can hear a horribly loud drunken argument going on somewhere nearby. It is far from idyllic. He waits until the downpour slows from its previous let’s-all-build-an-Ark levels to a mild drizzle, and pulls out his cigar box. He’s left his cutter at home, so he commits the blasphemous act of simply tearing off the end. He lights it, and takes that first, glorious puff, white smoke billowing out in front of his face in a fragrant cloud. He realises that he is sitting next to a ‘No Smoking’ sign, but nobody else seems to be taking any notice. The cigar tastes and smells divine. A rare treat. She’d made him promise that he’d do this – that he’d do lots of things, in fact, but especially this. A quiet cigar, all alone, just for her. After a few tipples, she’d often filch one from him, and chug away on it while wiggling her eyebrows at his scandalised expression. Andrea often tried to shock him by doing un-ladylike things, and still somehow managed to remain the classiest woman he’d ever known. After a few moments of enjoying the aroma and the sweet, woodsy taste in his mouth, Lewis looks up to see a man in a wheelchair parked in front of him. He looks about ninety years old, and only has one leg. His wizened face is wrapped up in the hood of a fur-lined parka, and closer inspection shows that he isn’t anywhere near ninety – he’s much younger, but prematurely aged by some addiction or another. Lewis has spent enough time in courts to know that the missing limb is likely to be a related condition, and even in their relatively quiet patch of the country, drugs have ravaged the lives of many. He’d usually make his excuses and leave, overwhelmed by that peculiar mix of sympathy and disgust that men of his age and background tend to feel for the heroin-afflicted. Andrea, of course, was never overwhelmed by any such thing. She gave money to everyone who asked for it, had enough back copies of the Big Issue to wallpaper her whole cottage, and was ever empathetic with the lost souls of the world. ‘We all have our demons, darling,’ she’d say, passing a fiver to a shabby bloke with a dog on a string, ‘it’s just that some people’s are more obvious than others’.’ He decides he’s not going to budge, not tonight. Not while he’s smoking his magical Montecristo, and still debating whether he should run back into the hospital and take Andrea back home with him. Perhaps he could mummify her and prop her up on the sofa, so he still has someone to talk to. He’s convinced that Andrea mummified would still be better company than most people alive. ‘Smells good,’ says the man, sniffing the air appreciatively. ‘Have you got a spare, mate?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ replies Lewis, shuffling slightly to try and relieve the numbness in his nether regions. ‘This was a gift from a friend.’ ‘You must have some good friends,’ his visitor replies, tapping dirt-encrusted fingertips on the arms of his wheelchair. ‘I don’t have any left.’ I wonder why, thinks Lewis, uncharitably, before reminding himself that Andrea could be watching right now. Hovering over his shoulder, a shimmering diamant? wraith telling him that he could afford to be ‘just a tiny bit less of a snob, don’t you think, my love?’ ‘I’m not sure I do either,’ Lewis eventually answers. ‘The best one I ever had just died, in there.’ Actual tears well up in the man’s eyes, and Lewis immediately feels like a shit for silently despising him. He has no idea what his story is, or how he ended up here, or what his demons are. He knows nothing about him, and has no right to judge. ‘That’s rubbish, mate. I’m so sorry for you. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. They say that time heals and all … but I’m not so sure. Sometimes time seems to stand still, as far as I can make out. Anyway, good luck to you. I’ll say a little prayer for your friend.’ He gives Lewis an abrupt nod, and starts to wheel himself away, his hands slipping on the wet frames as he turns, the wind blowing his parka off his shaven head. ‘Hang on!’ says Lewis, standing up, and immediately feeling a shooting pain fly right up his spine. Ouch. He recovers, and follows the man in the chair, handing him the cigar. He’s lost his appetite for it now, anyway. ‘Her name was Andrea,’ he adds, as he backs away towards the car park. ‘And I appreciate your prayers. I’m sure she would too.’ The man mutters his thanks and waves at him as he leaves, watching Lewis head towards his car, an old Jag he’s had for donkey’s years. He glances back, and all he can see of his new friend is the orange glow of the cigar tip moving around in the black night, like some kind of aromatic firefly. He opens the car door, and sinks into the passenger seat in a soggy, crumpled heap. He’s smoked his cigar. He’s increased his karmic brownie-point count. And now he has to do what he’s been dreading for the last hour. He has to do what Andrea asked him to do. What he promised her he would. He has to start the process that she hoped would put all her daughters’ broken pieces back together again. He knows he needs to be strong. To help the girls and, in doing so, help Andrea. But he doesn’t feel capable of putting their pieces back together, when his are all scattered and shattered and shed. He feels like Humpty Dumpty, and has no idea how he is going to find the strength to do what he needs to do. Call Rosehip and Popcorn, and tell them that their mother is dead. Chapter 5 (#ulink_e1d94d22-eb7e-567c-b00b-44654d739c65) It’s almost 11 p.m., and Joe is in bed. Rose is under no illusion that he’s actually asleep. He’ll be on Instagram, or playing Xbox Live, or doing whatever else it is that 16-year-old boys do when their mum isn’t around. She decides she’s probably better off not pondering that one, and walks into the kitchen. She sees a blurred reflection of herself in the stainless-steel fridge door, and hastily pulls it open. Nobody needs to see that, especially her. She’s wearing a baggy old dressing gown and stripy bed socks, and her hair desperately needs washing. Or possibly shaving off entirely so it can have a fresh start, and stop impersonating a neglected badger – her mass of curls is now pure frizz, the dark brown streaked with premature grey. She stares into the fridge, bathed in the yellow glow of its light. She inspects the shelves, already knowing what is there, and knowing that she wants to eat none of it. She went to Tesco on the way home from work, and there is practically a whole farm crammed on to the shelves. Fresh rocket and carrot batons and a cucumber big enough to qualify as a deadly weapon on an episode of CSI. Salmon fillets and a quinoa salad and green juices in trendy glass bottles. Her fridge is leaner than the entire British Olympic cycling team in pre-camp training. Surely some of that vitality will be absorbed into her just by looking at it, through some kind of environmental osmosis? She roots around, sighing. She’s bought all of this for her new health kick, walking round the supermarket full of hope and resolve as she packed the trolley with overpriced super-foods. She’d been shamed into it by Joe, who pointed out that him being forced to eat a broccoli stir-fry in one room while she stuffed her face with cream cakes in another wasn’t exactly setting a good example. Plus there were never any cream cakes left for him, which wasn’t fair. Rose didn’t really need him to point this out to her at all. She was already painfully aware of it, and he didn’t even know the full extent of the problem. At 16, he was out a lot. He had friends to see and parties to go to and parks to hang round in. And while he was out, she didn’t even need to hide – she could binge to her heart’s content. Except, of course, her heart probably wasn’t all that happy with it. Multipacks of Wotsits and microwave sticky-toffee pudding in pots are never, ever to be seen on those healthy food pyramid charts they have pinned up in the school where she works. They are the renegades, the outcasts, the bandits of the nutritional world. They are also, Rose thinks, shutting the fridge door a lot harder than she probably should, the only things that make her feel even marginally better about life. She walks over to the cupboard under the stairs. The one Joe never goes in because it is the place where she keeps a strange combination of the Hoover, printer cartridges, empty cardboard boxes that once contained long-gone appliances, and random presents for other people. It’s known as the Present Cupboard, a throwback to a time when Joe was much younger. When he was at primary school, and there seemed to be a party every weekend. When life was dominated by the local soft-play centre, and coming up with some ?5 toy to stick in a gift bag. When teachers needed novelty mugs for Christmas, and toiletry sets for the end of term. It used to contain a cornucopia of delights. Cheap games and craft jars and wrapping paper and boxes full of cards with pictures of cuddly bears for the girls and pirate bears for the boys. All of that faded out as Joe got older, when the tenner-in-the-envelope replaced the tat on birthdays. Now, his mates don’t have the kinds of parties that involve climbing frames and ball pools – they have the kind that involve deliveries from Domino’s Pizza and illicit booze smuggled into the garden in Coke bottles and someone plugging their phone playlist into speakers. But for some reason, after all these years, they still both call it the Present Cupboard. And Rose does in fact still keep some presents in there – for colleagues, for neighbours, for those odd occasions when she just needs to say ‘thank you’ via the medium of chocolates or wine. That’s what she has in mind now, as she rummages through the empty backpacks and the battery tin and the cardboard box brimming with mysterious chargers for equally mysterious items. She eventually emerges victorious, brandishing one of those big, round, plastic tubs full of Cadbury’s Heroes. She bought it in the run-up to Christmas, along with about five others. This is the sole survivor. The rest have taken up permanent residence on her thighs. Rose checks the sell-by date, sees that all is good, and retreats back to the living room. She slumps down on the sofa, and sighs when she sees she’s left the remote control by the telly. Heaving her too-big body up again, she retrieves it, and flicks through the channels until she finds something bearable. This takes longer than it should considering the fact that they have about 8 million channels. She settles on a repeat of Poldark, which is pretty much the equivalent of a big box of chocolates in visual form, and leans back into the cushions. Just one episode, she tells herself. And just a few chocolates. It’s Friday, after all. She’s had a busy working week, and she deserves it. She’ll start her health kick tomorrow, and soon she’ll be all spry and limber, like Demelza, skinny enough to frolic through the waves on a Cornish beach in summer instead of hiding her despicable calves in leggings and encasing her bingo wings in cardigans. She hears a bumping sound from upstairs, and deduces that Joe is on his Xbox. His game chair is rocking around, and he’ll probably be getting over-excited as he shoots things. At least it’s the start of the school holidays, so it doesn’t matter how late he stays up. Or her, for that matter. Six weeks stretch ahead of them – six weeks of fun for him, and six weeks of boredom for her. School holidays feel different when you’re 42 than when you’re 16. At least she’ll be able to catch up on all those jobs she’s had piling up around her. Clean the car out. Unblock the drain in the shower. Many other exciting tasks. She makes a mental note to call her mum in the morning – that needs to be top of the list. Her mum sent Joe a gift voucher to celebrate the end of his GCSEs, which of course he’s already spent. It turned up weeks ago and they both keep forgetting to phone and thank her. Now she comes to think of it, she’s not spoken to her mum much recently at all. She usually called a lot – or at least what feels like a lot, when it’s your mum. She shrugs, deciding her mum must just be busy, and uses her untidy fingernails to tear off the tape around the lid of the box. Why do they always make these things so difficult to get into? Why is it that the carrot batons are just there, all washed and ready to go and simple, and the good stuff like the chocolate takes an engineering degree and a blowtorch to break into? Life just isn’t fair sometimes. Rose shoves a handful of miniature Caramels into her mouth, and hides the wrappers in the tub. If they’re right at the bottom, it’s like they don’t count. Nothing to see here, nothing at all. She looks on as Poldark takes his top off again – quality television – and wonders if this is all she has to look forward to now. Quiet nights in with a box of chocolate and Aidan Turner. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it was the actual Aidan Turner, here in person and scything her back garden for her, but it’s not. It’s a teeny-tiny-TV version, which is nowhere near as satisfying. She also wonders what Simon next door is up to. She saw him doing his own gardening earlier, also with his top off. Not quite Poldark, but enough to make her blush. He’s probably asleep, she thinks, or chatting to supermodels online. And I’m turning into a horny old woman who needs to get her own life, instead of living through other people’s. Joe is starting sixth-form college in September, doing his A-levels. He’s excited, and hopeful, and bright enough to do well. The world is at his size-10 feet, which is where it belongs – because he really is a great lad. He’s not had it especially easy, between his dad and his dad’s new family and what she suspects has been her increasingly morose presence, but he’s always stayed upbeat. Confident. Secure. She remembers those days when everything felt possible. The days back home, when mum was still acting and they all lived in the cottage, and She Who Shall Not Be Named was still in her life. It feels like a million years ago, she thinks, getting to work on the miniature Wispas. Chapter 6 (#ulink_4b5fcacf-6a9f-5dc8-824f-89acd2c60d65) Forest Hills High School Christmas Disco, 1991 Rose collapses down on to one of the benches, drenched in sweat. Poppy stays on her feet for a while longer, trying to tempt her back up to Chesney Hawkes singing ‘I Am the One and Only’. ‘No chance,’ says Rose, wiping her forehead clean and grinning at her younger sister. ‘I hate this song anyway.’ Poppy pulls a face, and sits down next to her. She’s on a mission tonight. A mission to have the most fun humanly possible at an event held in a decked-up school sports hall. It’s their last Christmas disco together, and she wants to make it count. Rose is 16 now, and will be going off to sixth-form college to study hideously science-y things in September. Poppy will have to face the rest of high school alone, and can barely tolerate the thought. She’s boiling, and would like to follow Rose’s lead and wipe her face clean, but she knows all her foundation will come off as well. Then her spotty forehead will be revealed to the world like the devil’s own logo. She hates spots almost as much as she loves Rose, and her battle with acne has already taught her a very valuable lesson: life just isn’t fair. Rose comes from the same genetic material (as far as they know) as her, lives in the same house as her, and eats the same food as her – but has that kind of milky-white skin that they use to advertise Simple cleansing lotion. Poppy, who actually uses Simple cleansing lotion, has a face full of crusty blisters that make her look as if she’s re-invented smallpox. Rose looks at her sister, and sees her skin glistening under the disco lights. She pulls a tissue from her pocket, and gently dabs the moisture away. ‘It’s okay,’ she says, quietly, as Poppy starts to mutter in distress and tries to knock her hand away, ‘I’m being careful. The slap will remain in place, I promise. Just trust me.’ Poppy settles immediately. Of course she trusts her. Rose would never leave her exposed to the taunts of her alleged friends, and the insensitive gaze of the Bastard Boys. Rose would never call her Spotty Poppy, like they do. All cleaned up, she feels better. It’s hard to see properly with sweat dripping off your mascara-laden eyelashes. Not that Rose knows that – she never wears make-up. Never needs to. She has mum’s gorgeous eyes, and that perfect skin. She’s an English Rose, as their mother always says. Poppy’s not quite sure what she is – an Ugly Duckling, with any luck, who might magically transform into a beautiful 14-year-old swan sometime soon. She might even grow boobs, which Rose has already managed. Not that she appreciates them – she says they’re more trouble than they’re worth, and keeps them hidden away under baggy sweaters. If Poppy had them, she’d probably start walking around topless just for the thrill of it. ‘I can’t believe you’re going to leave me here …’ says Poppy, sighing as she looks out at the dance floor with disgust. Everyone seems way too interested in members of the opposite sex, and what everyone else is wearing, and being cool. Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ has come on, and they’re all busily making squares with their arms. It’s not very co-ordinated, and it kind of looks like they’ve all been possessed by a jerky-limbed demon. ‘I’ll only be at the college on the other side of town,’ replies Rose, nudging her so hard she almost falls over. ‘You’ll still see me every morning and every night and every weekend. Besides, you’ve got friends here. It’s not like you’re Little Orphan Annie, is it?’ Poppy gives her a sideways look, and nods. Technically, she’s right. The college is only on the other side of town. But she knows it’s The Beginning of the End. After her A-levels, Rose will apply to universities, and they most definitely won’t be on the other side of town. They might be on the other side of the country. Everything is changing, and she’s not happy about it. And while Rose is right again, she does have friends, she’s not especially close to any of them. High school seems to be ruled by teenaged tribal warlords, and she hasn’t quite found her faction. She’s not slaggy enough to be in with the Hot Girls, and not nasty enough to be in with the Mean Girls. Not weird enough to be part of the Geek Gang. She’s not sporty. Not musical. Not especially good at anything at all – other than being Rose’s sister. Rose is excited about college, and Poppy wants to be excited for her. But she can feel everything … sliding away. Slipping and changing and wriggling around her. She’d quite like to keep things the way they are – the two of them together – but the world seems to have other ideas. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘You’re right. I’ll be fine, of course I will. It just won’t be quite the same without you.’ She feels sad as she says this, and then feels guilty for sucking at pretending to be happy. Rose is two years older than her, and there’s nothing she can do about that. If she carries on being a sourpuss, she’ll spoil the night for both of them. As she plasters a huge smile on her face, determined to fake it till she makes it, the lighting makes a sudden change from flashing neon strobes to something more subdued, and the music changes with it. Poppy looks up at the clock on the sports-hall wall, and sees that it’s almost 10.30. Kicking-out time – which also means it’s Slow Dance time. Eeek. The girls look on as couples pair up and move apart, as hearts are broken and dreams are crushed. It’s painful to see the rejects slink off to the corners, and downright funny to see the loved-up duos shuffle round the dance floor to Sin?ad O’Connor singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. There is snogging and groping and a few concerned looks from the teachers lurking on the edge. Maybe, thinks Poppy, there will even be a Christmas Disco Baby in nine months’ time. She giggles at the thought, and amuses herself by trying to guess who the lucky couple could be. A shadow falls over them, and she looks up. Uh-oh. It’s Him. It’s Marcus Pemberton. He’s in Rose’s class, and he’s been chasing her for what feels like years. Rose smiles at him, shielding her eyes against the lights, and he looks as though he might melt in a puddle of Levis at her feet. Marcus is one of those boys who is on all the teams, and has his name called out in Assembly for his latest sporting triumph practically every morning. He’s the Head Boy to Rose’s Head Girl, and if he’s ever had a spot, Poppy has never seen it. His hair is floppy and blond, and his expression as he stares at Rose is completely ga-ga. Poppy totally and utterly hates him. ‘Would you like to dance with me, Rose?’ he says, shuffling a bit on the spot, hands in his jeans pockets. His face is in shadow, but Poppy knows he will be blushing madly. She stays quiet, but notices the way her sister is looking at him. Like he’s a giant Freddo and she feels like a snack. She steels herself, ready to sit this one out, hiding away on the bench and pretending she’s fine with it. It’s Rose’s last disco, after all. If she wants a giant boy-shaped Freddo, she deserves one, and Poppy won’t get in the way. She stares at her fingernails, wondering when it was she chewed them down to the stubs, and tries very hard not to exist. ‘Thanks Marcus,’ says Rose, ‘but I’m already taken. I’ll see you at the weekend, though, all right? Maybe we could go and see the new Star Trek film or something?’ Poppy risks a sneaky glance from beneath her clumped-up lashes, and sees that he is both disappointed and hopeful. She’s said no to the Slow Dance, but yes to a date. Probably all a bit too much for a teenaged boy to compute, especially one who plays rugby and regularly gets his bonce battered, but he nods and leaves. Poppy resists the urge to stick two fingers up at him as he disappears into the darkness. ‘Come on then, sis,’ says Rose, standing up and stretching. She holds her hand out, and Poppy takes it. She’s actually already taller than her big sister, a long, lean streak of a girl, not quite grown into her own legs. Her mum calls her Bambi, and Rose just calls her lucky. ‘Let’s show them how it’s done …’ Rose leads Poppy on to the dance floor, and the two of them perform the kind of waltz their mum taught them when they were little. The type that involves a lot of laughing, and treading on toes, and counting ‘one-two-three’ in their heads, even when it bears no relation to the music at all. They bump into people, and interrupt quite a few snogs, and attract a lot of dirty looks. But they couldn’t care less. For now, at least, it’s Rose and Poppy versus the World, as it has always been – and as Sin?ad almost says, nothing compares to two. Chapter 7 (#ulink_2c5ed136-10f7-5173-81cb-3313a07f478a) The Present Day Poppy is standing, staring into the fridge, wearing her sweaty gym gear and feeling the familiar and welcome pangs of hunger rumbling through her flat stomach. There is nothing on her shelves apart from a few sticks of celery and a bar of 80 per cent cocoa chocolate. She snaps one small square from the bar, and places it on her tongue, enjoying the almost orgasmic feel of the chilled chocolate melting in her mouth. She closes the fridge, and goes to make a coffee. Sadly she’s all out, so she pours the boiled kettle water straight into the empty jar, knowing from years of experience that the crusted-on granules will last for at least one more half-hearted effort. She needs to do some shopping, she thinks, taking the scalding-hot coffee jar into the lounge area and sitting at her desk. It’s late, and she’s using the Anglepoise lamp as she casts her eye over paperwork and the initial mock-ups from the graphics team. They’re all rubbish, and she’ll have to go in and do some arse-kicking on Monday. Poppy is the head of marketing for a pet supplies firm, and it’s about as interesting as it sounds. It does, however, allow her to live in her nice flat in Islington, with her own parking space, an en-suite in her bedroom and a gym in the basement. Whoop-di-do. She’s just come up from the gym, in fact, where she spent as much time flirting with Josh, the 23-year-old financial advisor from the floor above, as working out. She half wonders how he can possibly be qualified to offer advice on anything other than doing weights and drinking, he is so young. She certainly wouldn’t trust her ISA with him, that’s for sure. She would, however, sleep with him, and already has, on several occasions. He’s tall and bulky and fit and energetic, and he doesn’t give two hoots that she never wants to stay over. Or that she’s 40, even though she’s never directly told him that. With her toned body and long, sleek hair, she passes for a lot younger anyway. It’s fun, she tells herself, playing with men like Josh. And carbs are way overrated anyway. At least that’s what she tries to explain to her mother, when they’re sitting in some Cotswolds tea room on one of their weekends away, and she ends up drooling into her salad as her mum tucks into scones and cream. Mum never seems to change, no matter how much she eats. After years of borderline starvation to stay slim for her TV roles, her metabolism seems to have adjusted to her twilight years by giving her the gift of consistency. She’s fit for a woman in her sixties – she still does yoga and swims and walks in the hills – and looks lean and attractive. Her last telly gig – playing the feisty-yet-caring secretary of a handsome maverick QC – was a few years ago, but people would still recognise her as Penny Peabody, and marvel at how well she has aged. Last time she spoke to Poppy, a couple of weeks ago now she supposes, she sounded a bit tired, and a bit less enthused about their planned spa break in Cheltenham than she’d expected. Maybe, thinks Poppy, sipping the tasteless coffee water straight from the jar, she’s just had enough of facials. Maybe they should mix it up a bit. Perhaps she could take her on a wine-tasting weekend, or they could go sky-diving together. Maybe she should put her fiendish pooch plan into action and get her mother a dog. They’d been on a photoshoot for the latest ad campaign for Woof! a few months earlier, and there was a field full of adorable pups. Adorable when they weren’t shitting all over the place or trying to hump each other, anyway. They’ve not had a dog since Patch, the psychopathic cross-eyed Jack Russell, went to the big kennel in the sky when they were teenagers, and the time could be right now. She’s at home all day, loves going walking, needs company … Poppy puts it on her mental list of Things To Do, along with Kick Arses of Graphics Team, Buy More Coffee, and Pick Up Work Suits From Dry Cleaners. She swills the coffee-and-chocolate water around her mouth, licking it from her perfectly white teeth, and flicks on the TV. She has an hour to fill before she heads out again. She’s meeting Kristin for drinks at the wine bar on the corner, and they’re likely to be out until the milkmen are doing their rounds. Making meaningless conversation with meaningless people and just possibly indulging in some meaningless sex afterwards. It’s a Friday night ritual, one that Poppy tries to persuade herself she still enjoys. Part of her would just like to go to bed instead of meeting her 20-something partner in crime – but that would be admitting defeat. That would be acting like a 40-year-old, which is far worse than actually being one. Anyway, apart from the colleagues she works with, it’s one of the only times she gets to meet new people. It’s not easy meeting people in London. Everyone is always so busy, either with work or family, battered by commuting and finances and, in the case of the few people she knows with kids, trying to move to an area with a Good School. It had all felt like a lot more fun when she was younger – but these days, as she chats and laughs with people ten years her junior, it feels a bit more … desperate. God knows what will happen when Kristin gets married. It’ll happen, one day, she knows – she’s already lost most of her party animal pals to the sacrificial altar. They’re never the same again once they’ve tied the knot. She uses the remote to pass on a Bollywood movie, ignores the news (which always depresses her), and is only marginally tempted by a Steven Seagal film. It’s always fun watching a fat man do karate kicks, but she’s not quite in the right mood tonight. She finally settles on Poldark – something she’d very much like to do in real life. Right on top of him. Letting out a dirty laugh that echoes around her empty flat, she puts the almost-coffee down in disgust. Maybe she’ll go for a nice G&T instead. It’s the freaking weekend, baby, and it’s never too early to start drinking. She’s not stupid, and appreciates the irony of her lifestyle: going to the gym every day, banning cake, drinking enough water to fill a flotation tank, and then polluting her temple-like body with booze at the weekend. Well, she thinks, pouring herself a hefty glass, nobody’s perfect, are they? And some habits are harder to break than others. She just wishes being a party girl still felt as exciting and fun as it used to, in the Olden Days back in the last century. Back when she still had a sister. Chapter 8 (#ulink_e3ffa144-3e0e-54ad-86e8-a9e06400b1f7) Glastonbury Festival, Somerset, 1995 ‘Okay, that’s settled then,’ says Rose, lying on top of her sleeping bag because it’s too hot to get inside it, ‘you can have Liam, and I’ll have Noel.’ ‘That’s fine by me. Liam is way sexier. You only want Noel because he writes the songs, and you’re an intellectual snob so you think that means he’s cleverer.’ ‘I have to be honest, Pops, I don’t think you could call any of Oasis clever … If I wanted clever, I’d have to go for Jarvis Cocker.’ ‘Even though he’s so skinny?’ ‘Even though. There was something foxy about him tonight, don’t you think? All those shapes he pulled, and the way he held the microphone? Or is that the marijuana speaking?’ ‘If the marijuana is actually speaking to you,’ says Poppy, passing her sister the item under discussion, ‘then I’m going to suggest you drank some of that special mushroom tea the hippy dudes were offering us earlier.’ ‘No! I didn’t, honest!’ says Rose, giggling. Everything seems very, very funny, for some reason. Even earlier, when there was a wasp trapped in the tent with them – and she is terrified of wasps – she couldn’t stop laughing as Poppy batted it out again with a rolled-up festival programme. Fearless wasp warrior. ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t …’ replies Poppy, also giggling. ‘Hey, I just had a thought. It’s a funny one.’ ‘Go for it. I’m a very receptive audience right now.’ ‘Okay,’ says Poppy, ‘you know how the Stone Roses were supposed to be playing, and they dropped out?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well, we’re lying here smoking up a storm, and instead of the Stone Roses, we have the … Stoned Rose! Rose! Your name! You get it?’ Rose does get it, and frankly it is the most hilarious thing she has ever heard. She laughs so much she fears she might have some kind of calamitous event going on in her cerebral cortex. It’s Poppy’s fault, she decides, with a grin. That she’s a Stoned Rose, and that she’s almost laughing herself to death. She might be two years younger, but she’s a bad influence. Leading her astray. Rose is in her first year at Liverpool University, studying Biology, with a nice sideline in cheap lager. Poppy is at college doing her A-levels. They don’t see as much of each other now, for obvious reasons, and this has been a glorious weekend. They’ve watched fine bands, and eaten less fine veggie burgers, and had henna tattoos done on their hands, and witnessed one of the amateur flame-jugglers get taken away to hospital. They’ve danced and drunk and been hoisted on random men’s shoulders and lain out in the sun, listening to the sounds of bongo drums and acid trips wafting past their ears. It’s late now, and they’re enjoying their last night together. Even in the early hours, in their tent, they can hear the sounds of festival life going on around them: music and laughter and yet more bongos and guitars strumming and the very occasional vomit. ‘Was Andy disappointed you weren’t sharing with him?’ asks Poppy from out of the blue. Andy is Rose’s boyfriend, and he’s here too, with a gang of his friends. Poppy doesn’t have a boyfriend, just a few lads she snogs when she’s been in the Tennyson’s Arms on a Friday night. ‘I don’t think so,’ answers Rose, passing back the joint and twisting on to her side so she is facing her sister. Poppy is still long and lean and lovely, and the spots have cleared up now. She’s a bit of a babe, but doesn’t seem to realise it. Bambi’s all grown up, at least in body. ‘I think he’s happy enough with his mates,’ she adds. ‘And anyway, even if he wasn’t, so what? This is our weekend. We’ve been planning it for ages. I can see Andy whenever I want – but spending quality time with my adorable little sister is far more precious.’ Poppy laughs, and stubs the cigarette out on the lid of the little tobacco tin she carries everywhere with her. Rose glances at it – it’s what they call ‘vintage’ these days, and the lid is decorated with a naval design. It looks suspiciously like one that used to live in a glass cabinet back in the cottage. ‘Did you steal that from home?’ she asks, pointing at the tin. ‘Well, as it’s my home as well, technically I don’t think it would be called stealing, do you?’ ‘Mum would go nuts if she could see us now … especially when she realised you had that tin …’ Poppy stretches out, her limbs so long her grubby, bare toes touch the end of the tent, and replies: ‘Nah, she wouldn’t. Well, maybe about the tin. But she wouldn’t mind us lying here having a smoke, I don’t think. Mum was working in show business in the Seventies, dahling, don’t you know? She’s probably snorted cocaine off Oliver Reed’s arse! Plus she paid for the tickets and everything – I don’t think she was under any illusions that we’d be spending the weekend behaving like nuns, do you?’ Rose ponders this, and it takes her a few moments to drag her mind away from the image of her mum and Oliver Reed. Is he on the list, she tries to recall? The list that her and Poppy keep, of names their mother has dropped from her more glamorous days? She seemed to have known – and ‘known’, she suspected, could mean anything from having met on set to had lunch with to shagged in an orgy – pretty much every big-name actor of her era. The girls know there is truth in it. When they were younger, they joined her on set in various locations, and found it all pretty boring. To them, it was just what happened when your mum went to work, even if it sounded glamorous from the outside. And to them, Mum was just Mum, even if she did once paint Joan Collins’s nails for her. ‘No, you’re right,’ she eventually concedes. ‘She wouldn’t mind. Actually, I kind of wish she was here, don’t you? She’d be a good laugh.’ ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ replies Poppy, whispering conspiratorially, ‘but I think she might actually be here. I think she might have been one of those naked ladies with the blue-painted boobs, the ones who were doing yoga around the camp fire earlier …’ Rose bursts out laughing at the idea, and Poppy joins in. Everything really does still seem very, very funny. For some reason. They laugh for what feels like hours, until the bongos finally go silent, and peace falls over their little patch of Glastonbury. Chapter 9 (#ulink_fbebdac0-b8ca-5a17-9162-96d8cecbb225) The Present Day The phone rings, and Rose is so shocked she physically jumps. The tub of Heroes jerks from her lap, and the shameful evidence of her binge eating spills out on to the carpet in a mass of shiny, multi-coloured foil wrappers. She kicks them under the sofa with her bed-socked feet. It’s the landline. Nobody ever calls her on the landline any more. In fact, nobody ever calls her full stop. Apart from Joe, when he needs a lift or wants to check if he can stay out later. Joe … she reminds herself that he is upstairs, safe, and that the landline call will not be from the police, telling her he’s had an accident, or been beaten up by chavs, or fallen down a well. Which means it will probably be some nice man from India worrying about her levels of life assurance cover, or possibly her mother, calling to tell her Poldark is on. Once she’s calmed down, she reaches over to the side table, and answers with a cautious hello. She doesn’t like to be rude to the nice men from India, they’re just trying to make a living after all, but she doesn’t want to encourage them either. ‘Good evening,’ says the voice, too posh and well modulated and elderly and English to be a nice young man from India. ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Rose Young?’ Rose mutters yes, and is suddenly, for no apparent reason, gripped by utter dread. Her entire body feels cold and shaky, and she has an almost irresistible urge to put the phone down. To end this conversation – this conversation she is convinced must not be allowed to happen. ‘Rose, my name is Lewis Clarke-Smith, and I’m afraid I’m calling with some bad news …’ Chapter 10 (#ulink_ff8a760a-b9bb-532b-be26-c5eb14d3524b) Approximately 200 miles away, in Islington, Poppy is still trying to muster up the energy for a quick shower, and debating how short a skirt she should wear for tonight’s adventures. She is surprised when the landline rings, and it takes her a few moments to find the handset. Kristin would text her if she wanted to get in touch, so, she deduces, it must be her mother, who tended to stay up late watching re-runs of old TV shows and critiquing everyone’s performance. She might have some stern words to utter about that scything scene. Poppy slings back a gulp of her G&T, and answers. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she says jauntily, trying not to let any of her borderline maudlin mood seep down the phone lines to Shropshire. Everything in the garden must always be rosy, as far as her mother is concerned, or she’ll just worry about her. ‘Erm … no, I’m afraid not,’ comes the reply. It’s a man’s voice, someone older, deep in tone and precise in enunciation. ‘Is that Miss Poppy Barnard?’ ‘It is,’ she says, starting to get annoyed now. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ ‘My name is Lewis Clarke-Smith,’ he says, ‘and I was a friend of your mother’s.’ Poppy barely registers the name, and is no longer concerned with his enunciation. She only hears one word of that sentence: ‘was’. The glass falls from her hands, and spills the remainder of her drink across her Lycra-clad thighs. Chapter 11 (#ulink_c87e0839-9e7a-5a7d-a757-84315565db98) Rose puts the phone down, and automatically reaches for another chocolate. It takes her three attempts before she manages to get the wrapper off, her fingers are trembling so much, and she doesn’t even taste it once it’s in her mouth. She’s just going through the motions. Giving her brain something to do. Trying to avoid processing what she’s just heard. That her mother is dead. That the great, garrulous bundle of energy that was Andrea Barnard is no longer gracing this planet. That she’d been ill for a while, and not told her. That she’d been diagnosed with stomach cancer a few weeks after her birthday, and for some reason kept it secret. She doesn’t know what she is feeling. It is a sensation unlike any other she has ever experienced. It is a shock, the way she has been told, and that is making her numb. Perhaps it would have been different if she’d been there at her bedside, where she belonged. If she’d been with her. If she’d had the chance to say goodbye. She wasn’t alone, she knows. Lewis Clarke-Smith assured her of that, in his calm, steady, deep voice. The kind of voice that is used to being listened to, and is used to making itself firmly understood. Except she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand any of it. Of course things had been difficult in recent years, but she still thought of herself as having a close relationship with her mother. She saw her as often as she could, making the trip down scenic A-roads from Liverpool to Shropshire, meeting her in Ludlow for lunch or shopping in the markets. Having her here for Christmases. Alternate Christmases, of course, as every other year she went to the home of She Who Shall Not Be Named. They spoke on the phone, they texted each other. They were present in each other’s lives – so why wasn’t she present in her death? In her suffering; in her final days? Rose feels a stirring of anger in the pit of her stomach, mixed in with shock and disbelief. She tries to stamp it down, she knows it’s not appropriate – but it’s there. She’s angry that she wasn’t told. She’s angry at the slightly disapproving tone in Lewis Clarke-Smith’s perfect voice – just a hint, the barest sneer, but most definitely there. He thinks she failed her mum, and Rose has the sneaking suspicion that he might be right. And that, when it comes down to it, is why she is angry – because she can feel the guilt starting to curdle its way up to the surface. She has so many questions, and she asked so few of them. The call was unexpected, shocking. The voice on the end of the line delivered the news with steady, practised sympathy, and he sounded so calm that she completely forgot herself. It was one of those authoritative voices that she could never resist, like the head teacher at her school. He’s a complete wanker, but somehow everything he says seems to make sense. It was the same with this man, with this Lewis Clarke-Smith who, now she comes to think of it, her mother has mentioned in the past. She’s never met him, but recalls vague stories about am-dram shows and the village fete and borrowing his dog Betty for walks in the hills. She wasn’t paying attention, of course. And she never went back to the village, or the cottage that had been her childhood home. She was too caught up in her own life, her own challenges. In avoiding memories that would hurt too much. Probably, if she’s entirely honest, too busy planning what she was going to order from the takeaway that night. And Mum’s stories were never in short supply – there was always an anecdote, a memory, an amusing vignette. She’d taken that for granted, and now it suddenly occurs to her that there will be no more stories. No more tales about her Eighties show-biz life. No more accounts of the size of the marrows in the vegetable-growing contests. No more descriptions of the time she let out a 200-decibel fart during her sun salutation at the village-hall yoga class. No more Andrea. It is simply inconceivable, that thought. Her mother, she’d assumed, would outlive everyone. She was a force of nature, a one-of-a-kind, a goddess walking among mortals. She couldn’t be dead. It just did not compute. Rose is now on to her fourth Creme Egg Twisted, and feeling slightly sick for all kinds of reasons. The news. The chocolate. The fact that all of those questions are still swilling around in her head like sour milk sluicing through a sieve. The fact that Lewis had calmly instructed her that she now needed to watch a bloody video. That a lot of her questions would be answered, and that it’s what Andrea had wanted. The nausea rolls over her, and she leaps to her feet as fast as she can. She runs into the downstairs loo, kicking aside the various travel brochures she keeps in there, full of luxury holidays she’ll never go on. She falls to her knees, and pukes up an entire tub of Cadbury’s. By the time she’s done, the toilet bowl is full of thick brown chocolatey liquid, and tears are streaming down her cheeks. She falls back on to her bottom, landing plumply on a Kuoni safari brochure, and lets herself fall apart. Chapter 12 (#ulink_9698413d-e0c4-516c-b40b-b479dcdb84ff) 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. Chapter 13 (#ulink_de0073e8-5376-52d0-be27-44e86456f64c) Andrea is propped up on a hospital bed, her steel-grey hair smooth, her make-up flawless, if a little more heavy-handed than usual. The silk blouse she is wearing is perfectly pressed, and her smile is dazzling. If not for the weight loss and, of course, the location, you’d never know she was ill. The room is small, dominated by that bed, by the tiny figure lying in it. The cabinet is overflowing with flowers, wilting lily petals drooping down into the open jug of paleorange cordial, and the lighting is bright. Andrea does a quick test, and the camera wobbles slightly, as though the person holding it is moving around, or maybe giving a ‘thumbs-up’ gesture. She nods once, folds her delicate hands neatly on her blanket-covered lap, and begins. Her voice is steady, assured, perfectly poised – she’s delivered many a monologue, and this is by far the most important she’s ever spoken. ‘My darlings. Rosehip, Popcorn, my only true loves. Not to be too Hollywood about this, but if you’re watching this tape, that can mean only one thing: I have shuffled off this mortal coil … and you two are going to need each other more than ever. You need to set aside your differences, and look out for each other – just like you always used to. ‘I know this has all come as a terrible shock, but I make no apologies for doing things this way. The illness came quickly, and horribly and, before I knew what was happening, I was dealing with lovely Macmillan nurses and charming doctors – all of whom had awful news. ‘It’s only been a few weeks, my loves, and I know that you’ll be so sad that you didn’t get to spend that time with me. You might even be a tiny bit angry that I deprived you of the chance to be here, at my side – but I had my reasons, and if ever an old lady has the right to be awkward, it’s when she’s dying, don’t you think? ‘Part of me was reluctant to let you both see me suffer. You were both too small to remember when my mother died, but it was one of the worst experiences of my life – sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, when she didn’t even recognise me. The pain had taken her over, you see, like some kind of demonic possession. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if her head had started spinning and she talked in ancient Aramaic. ‘Pain can do that to a person – it reduces them to their animal state, strips them of everything that makes them … human. I spent endless nights in that hospice with her, all alone despite being surrounded by people, and I vowed right then that it was an ordeal I would never put you two through. I have no idea what my fate is – I am hoping for a dignified swansong, with gentle lighting and aromatic oils and possibly some gentle Gregorian chanting in the background. A graceful exit, stage left. ‘But the truth is, I might just as easily turn into my mother – become that pain-wracked animal who only knows one thing: that they are dying. She had no clue I was even there at the end, and since then I’ve always thought the whole sitting-by-the-deathbed thing is simply a steel trap for suffering. It’s a consolation, I suppose – as the person left behind, you can always tell yourself you did your best, that at least they weren’t alone. ‘But honestly? I think we are all alone when we die. We’re embarking on a journey that nobody can accompany us on – we don’t get a plus one. ‘For the people left behind, exhausted and drained, it is an emotional battering the likes of which you can never prepare yourself for. It is an indescribable torment, waiting for someone you love to leave you, knowing that each minute together could be your last, but also knowing that part of them has already gone. ‘I simply didn’t want that for you two, and I hope you understand – it was a decision made out of love. And I had my poor Lewis with me, I am guessing – I’ve tried to kick him out on several occasions, but the stubborn old fool simply won’t have it, and I suspect he’ll be here to the bitter end. ‘He’s here with me now, helping me make this video, and let me tell you he’s one of the finest human beings that has ever graced the planet. But enough of that – I can’t have his ancient hands trembling, or him crying, can I? ‘Anyway. That was part of my reasoning. I should probably have discussed that with you at some stage, but it’s not an easy one to slip into casual conversation, is it? “I’m having a lovely mini-break, darling, and by the way, I won’t be inviting you to my deathbed.” It doesn’t slip easily off the tongue, so I’m afraid I avoided it. Perhaps I was being a cowardly lion, who knows? But it never seemed relevant. I always felt so healthy, despite all of those little games I played over the last few years. ‘And that, I suppose, brings me to one of the other reasons I’m chickening out of seeing you, and leaving this message instead. I love you two, more than life itself – I hope you know that. But I have to be honest – and this is a time and a place for honesty, my sweets – you have broken my heart. Shattered it into tiny pieces, to be dramatic about it – which of course I always like to be. ‘Over the years, I’ve tried everything to bring you two together again. I’ve organised parties that neither of you attended, for fear of seeing the other. I’ve performed in dingy small-town theatres in the hope that you’d both come to the opening night – and neither of you did. I’ve pretended to be rushed into hospital with pneumonia, when I had nothing more than a nasty cold. I’ve lied and I’ve schemed and I’ve shamelessly emotionally blackmailed the two of you – all to no avail. ‘No matter what I threw at you, you simply didn’t budge. I know you love me, and perhaps right now, watching this, you are starting to realise how much – that is normal, don’t worry. It’s a punch to the gut that you will learn how to live with, I’m sure. But realising how much you love me now I’m gone doesn’t change the fact that in life, you couldn’t set aside your differences – not for your sake, not for Joe’s sake, and certainly not for mine. ‘I’m incredibly proud of both of you – you are, and always will be, my grubby angels. I’m proud of your strength, your resilience, the way you’ve made your way in the world. But you have both let your bitterness define you. You’ve both been moulded by this old, tired anger that you cling on to, until it’s become an almost physical part of you – like your curly hair, Rose, or your brown eyes, Poppy. What started as something painful seems to have become something you can’t live without, and that is what has broken my heart. ‘You’ve both built lives. Have careers. Rose, Joe is a wonderful, wonderful boy, and you’ve done a brilliant job of raising him. But no matter what you’ve achieved, or gone on to do in your lives, you’ve done it without each other – which means that nothing has ever been quite right, has it? ‘I know you both like to fool yourselves that you’re better off without each other, but you couldn’t be more wrong. I raised you to laugh together, to fight together, to protect each other. The world can be a cruel and scary place, and it was always a great consolation to me that there were two of you. ‘Bringing you up on my own was never easy. There were all kinds of cracks beneath the surface that you didn’t see – which I never intended you to see. I had to make compromises with my career, I struggled at times for money. It was challenging, and it was often lonely – but, I told myself, at least these two precious girls will never face this kind of solitude. ‘They will always have a best friend, an ally, someone to turn to in their hour of need. They won’t just be drinking wine at midnight and staring into the log fire looking for answers, like I often was. ‘But instead of turning to each other, you turned on each other – and this fight has destroyed our family. Destroyed our chance to be together, the way I’d always hoped we would be, eventually. I never gave up hope that the old wounds would heal, but now I have to accept that if they do, it’s not something I’ll be around to celebrate. ‘I’m not saying this needlessly, to hurt you – God knows that would be the last thing you need right now, after the news you’ve had. And I know you’ve both done your best. Rose, believe me, I’ve loved my visits to Liverpool, and all Joe’s Christmas plays and being involved in his life. Getting to play the Glamorous Granny has been one of the best roles I’ve ever had. ‘And Poppy, I do understand how hard you tried – all our holidays, and trips away, and the silly amounts of cash you always spent on my gifts. I’ve never had so many cashmere sweaters and hand-made leather bags in my wardrobe. ‘Time spent with the two of you was never wasted, and I valued every second I had with my two gorgeous girls – but for me, it was always bittersweet. Because I could see, more clearly than you could yourselves, how much damage had been done. Together, you could take on the world. Apart, you’re like a three-legged dog, or a tortoise stuck on its back – there will always be something missing. Something holding you back. ‘That, I think, brings me to more current events. To the here and now and the future, even if that is a foreign land I will never visit. To the whole purpose of this video, and the way I’ve spent my last few weeks. If you thought I’d emotionally blackmailed you before, then this time I’m going for gold in the Manipulative Mother Olympics. ‘This time, I’m not going to be subtle. I’m not going to play games, there’s no point. I’ll state things as clearly as I possibly can: I am your mother. I love you. I am dying. And my one great wish is to see you two together again. I could never achieve that in life, and I am desperately hoping that I can in death. ‘Lewis – stop snivelling, Lewis! – has been at my side throughout all of this, and he is your go-to man, as they say in the movies. Listen to him, and do as he says, and buy him a nice cigar, because he bloody well deserves it. Lewis is, so to speak, my representative on earth, and he’ll be guiding you through this process. ‘I can practically hear the question – “What process?” – so I’ll answer it for you. The process of at least trying to rebuild your relationship. The process of putting the pieces back together, and moving forward in your lives – at each other’s sides, just like I always wanted. ‘Although I am, excuse my French, completely pissed off at being dragged away from life while only in my sixties, it has been a good life. Full and rich and never, ever boring. You two have been both the highlights and the low points, and I’m hoping that the low points will soon be specks of dust on the horizon. ‘At the moment, as I record this, I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of dying, or what comes next, even if I accidentally end up in Goldfish Heaven – I’m only afraid for you two, and what will become of you once I’m gone. ‘I know that when my own mum died, I was suddenly swamped with questions that only she could answer. About my childhood, about her life, about the best way to make a steak-and-kidney pie, about everything. ‘Your mum is the person you most take for granted in your life and, right now, you’ll both be willing to give up your right hand to have one more conversation with me. To be able to pick up the phone one more time. To be able to sit and chat about mindless things, or not-so-mindless things – you will have questions, and that won’t stop. ‘As you get older, and your lives change, and you face new challenges, there will always be part of you that wants to call your mum and ask her what she thinks. Or to see her, and get a special mummy hug, one of those that makes you feel like everything will be all right in the end – the kind only mums can give, no matter how grown up you are. ‘I know that’s how I felt, at least. I still do, right now, at this very minute. I still wish she was here, all these years later. Losing your mother leaves a hole that is simply never filled. The pain of not being able to make that phone call, or get that hug, will always be with you, right up until it is your turn to walk in my shoes. It’s the cycle of life, just like in The Lion King, but without the lovable warthog. ‘I’m so sad, for you, that I won’t be here to answer your questions, or give you advice – at least in person. I won’t be picking up the phone, or just down the motorway, or trying and failing to use Skype, not any more. Believe me, if I could live forever and always be around for you, I would. ‘Instead, I am offering you a gift. It’s a strange gift, and it comes in many forms. There are videos, and diaries, and letters, and photographs. There are words of wisdom, and words that are undoubtedly lacking in wisdom, and there are small tasks for you to carry out. You know I always liked a good project – and this, my darlings, is my most ambitious yet. ‘I’ve been calling it the A–Z of Everything as a working title, always convinced that I’d come up with something better – but time seems to be running out on me, so I suppose that will have to do. And, truth be told, it’s accurate at least. ‘There are things in there that will surprise you. Shock you, even. Secrets to be told, mysteries to be shared, stories to be recounted. Don’t expect it to be easy – nothing worthwhile ever is, is it? ‘I’ve poured my heart and soul and most of the contents of my attic into this A–Z, girls, so I beg you to take it seriously, and treat it with respect. Lewis has it all for you, and I also beg you to accept this gift in the spirit with which it is given – in love, and in hope. The funeral is all sorted – sorry to deprive you of the chance to plan it all, Poppy – and there is very little for you two to do, other than show up, sit down, listen, and learn. ‘This is a project that you need to complete together. I realise that very thought is probably making you both shudder, and that even in this time of shock and grief, you’re thinking it’s impossible. That you need to find a way out. Maybe even that it doesn’t matter – that I’m gone, so what difference does it make? ‘Well, I can’t control what you do next. All I can do is ask – as your mother. Your dying mother, not to put too fine a point on it. Come to the funeral. See Lewis. Embrace the A–Z of Everything in the way you’d undoubtedly like to embrace me right now. Think of it as one last hug, and humour me. ‘I like to think it’s not that much to ask, as I’m at the end of the line here. To borrow a line from Frank, it’s time to face my final curtain. But, believe me, if you pull this off – if you see this one last mission through – I’ll be somewhere, up there, watching; giving you a standing ovation and clapping until my hands are raw. ‘But before then, I have a few final comments, and a task to start you off. First of all, let me say two very simple things – I love you, and I know that you love me. That sounds so simple, but grief has a sneaky way of obscuring those simple truths, hiding them beneath rainclouds of doubt. ‘When that happens, when the “I wonders …” start to kick in, then kick them straight back out again. I love you, and I know that you love me. Repeat as often as necessary, until it becomes so real you don’t ever question it. If you take nothing else with you from all of this, then at least take that. ‘Now, the teensy-weensy task I mentioned. I’d like you both to make a list. Poppy, I know you will relish this one, and you probably have some kind of app you can whip out on your incredibly clever phone, but please don’t. Do it the old-fashioned way. Rose, it’ll take you a while to find a paper and pen – try that little drawer by the telephone table you never use. ‘Once you’re ready, I want you both to make a list of the things you feel guilty about. Guilt is a terrible emotion. While it serves a purpose – it’s our conscience’s way of telling us we’ve done something wrong, and hopefully avoiding a repeat performance – it can also eat away at you like a disease. It sours every drink, poisons every meal, casts a shadow over every joyous occasion. I am not, as you might be able to tell, a big fan of guilt. ‘But we all have it. Everyone has regrets, and that nagging sense of self-loathing that comes out to poke at you in bed at night. So, take control of it, my dears – and make that list. Be entirely honest, because nobody will ever see it but you – rest assured that my next instructions are not to post it on Facebook, or whatever you young people are using these days. When you’ve made it, keep it safe. ‘As well as that, I need you both to think about the way things have gone wrong between you. And, just as importantly, the way things used to be right between you. When exactly did everything start to go wrong? And why was the wrong so much stronger than the right? ‘I imagine you sitting at home in Liverpool, Rose, pulling a face right now and thinking “Well, that’s bloody obvious, isn’t it?” And to some extent, yes, it is. ‘But if we’re honest, the obvious thing that went wrong was only part of it. Nothing could be shattered as thoroughly as your relationship was without there being some cracks already in place. So, I’m asking you, please – much as it might hurt, think about it. ‘And now, darlings, I’m going to sign off. I have a date with some excellent drugs, and a nurse is bound to pop in soon to see if I want any jelly … plus poor old Lewis looks like he badly needs a hug. ‘Remember, I love you both, so very, very much … and I know that you loved me.’ Chapter 14 (#ulink_e699c2f4-cd6e-5cb9-aad6-3e4eb23fa2ea) Rose is splayed across the sofa, her tear-stained face hidden by a cloud of frizzy hair. She is in pain, everywhere. Her neck is sore and her stomach is screaming and her swollen ankles are tender. Everything hurts, and she has no idea how to make it stop. She’d quite like to make everything stop, especially the one thought that keeps going round and round in her exhausted brain: She’d broken her mother’s heart. No matter how much love there was in that video, how much pride, and hope, and humour, this was what had stayed with her: she’d broken her mother’s heart. Her wonderful, vivacious, ever-bright mother. Gone. How could it even be true? Part of her is still refusing to accept it. As pranks go, it would be cruel – but she’d take cruelty over the alternative any day. She’d give anything right now for the phone to ring again, and to hear Andrea’s voice. ‘Sorry I had to do that to you, Rosehip,’ she’d say, apologetically, ‘but it was the only way to get your attention. I’m not actually dead at all, but if I was, how would you feel?’ She would feel … destroyed. Completely and utterly destroyed. Wracked with agony. Raw and exposed and empty. Exactly how she feels now. She’s watched the video three times, and the panic has got worse with each viewing. She can feel it now, rising up to choke her, wrapping around her internal organs and strangling the oxygen out of her. Every moment is etched in agony in her memory. The way her mother smiled. The way she clutched the blanket on her lap. The way her nails were still painted, glamour against the grey. The way she spoke, so calm and deliberate and real. As though she was sitting in the room with her right now, not already dead. Already cold. The image of her mother in some chilly mortuary in the Midlands grips her, and she can’t get it out of her head. Lying on a stainless-steel slab, skin pale, flesh pallid, eyes closed. Fingernails painted, hair done, make-up still on. Looking like her mother, but not her mother – a waxwork model of her mother. She wants to bust in, and cover her up with a fleecy blanket, and keep her warm. The pain is so intense, she doesn’t know quite what to do with herself. Physically, she’s a wreck – short of breath, panting, paralysed by shock, aching. Emotionally, it is even worse, and she wants to die. If it wasn’t for Joe, innocently upstairs, now quiet, possibly sleeping, his shaggy brown hair curling over his forehead, she probably would. She wants to reach out for someone, to seek comfort, but has nowhere to turn. Joe’s dad Gareth is in London, on to his third wife and fourth child, and dead to her in any way that matters. Any way beyond terse emails about Joe, and the sly digs she knows are intended to hurt and always hit their target. She has friends, but they’re not the kind you call at midnight to sob uncontrollably. She has Joe himself, but she can’t use him as an emotional crutch. His granny’s death will hit him hard enough – she can at least let him sleep one last night without having to deal with it. She has a sister, but even thinking about Poppy makes the pain so much worse. It’s too big. Too frightening. Too much. There is nobody to help her. Nobody to console her. And all she wants is her mum. Her mum, who always smelled of Chanel Coco and had the softest skin and gave the best hugs. Her mum, who held her hand when she started school, and lurked across the road in the car on her first date in case it didn’t go well. Her mum, who got up at 5.30 a.m. that summer she had a paper round and did it with her just so she had company. Her mum, who had wiped away so many tears; and always had a tissue handy. Who talked her through the importance of properly burping a baby, and took Joe out for huge walks in his pram when he had colic and Rose was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Who cleared her entire ironing pile while she zoned out on sleeping pills after Gareth left. Her mum – who taught her everything she knew about love. She’d broken her mother’s heart. ‘Oh God,’ she wails, muffling her words into an already snot-stained cushion, ‘please tell her I love her! Tell her I’m sorry!’ God doesn’t answer, and, even if He did, Rose probably wouldn’t listen – she is lost and alone in her grief and her anguish. She rolls physically to the floor, and lands on the carpet in an ungainly heap. Crawling first on to all fours, then to her feet, she totters unsteadily through to the hallway. Her eyes are red and raw, and she bounces off walls as she walks. She pulls open the drawer of the telephone table so hard it comes out in her hand, and she drops it to the floor, spilling its contents: a small torch, a ball of string, a tube of Superglue, a rubber in the shape of Pikachu’s head, a Thai takeaway menu, a pedometer. She kneels down, breath heavy with the effort, and scrabbles until she finds a biro and one of those block memo pads for taking phone messages. Clutching them to her like a newborn baby, she walks back into the living room. There isn’t a desk down here, and she needs something to lean on. She finds one of Joe’s hardback books – a Star Wars encyclopedia – and covers up Yoda’s head with the paper. Her hand is trembling, and she can’t hold the pen properly. It keeps slipping, and making her scrawl, and she’s useless. Just utterly, pathetically useless. She can’t even do this properly. She stabs Yoda in the eye in frustration, and draws in a long, slow, shuddering breath. She knows the biology of what is happening to her. She knows she needs to calm down, to regulate her breathing, to inhale and exhale and simply stop bloody panicking. She takes in three long, slow breaths through her nose, tries to let them out just as slowly through her mouth. She temporarily gives up on the list, and goes to the fridge. She opens the door, sees that the quinoa and the carrot batons are still there, and grabs a half-full bottle of Blossom Hill from the door. She looks around the kitchen, and there are no cups. No glasses. She is as shitty at keeping a house as she is at everything else. She pulls open the cupboards, and sees only an egg cup. Everything is either in the dishwasher, or festering somewhere in the science experiment that Joe calls a bedroom, buried under layers of mouldy pizza and rigid socks. She pulls out the egg cup. It has an acid-house-style smiley face on it, and it’s just too small. She opens the next cupboard, and pulls out a plastic measuring jug. That’ll do. The wine glugs in, splashing back up to sting already stinging eyes. She looks at the markings on the side of the jug, having a strange flashback to simpler days – days when a laboratory and strange liquids and carefully poured fluids were the centre of her world. The wine bottle is empty. The jug shows her she has 600 millilitres of anaesthetic to play with, and she takes it back through to the lounge. She picks up the book, the pen, the paper. She tries to rub the ink mark off Yoda, but it’s gone too deep, like a weird eyeball tattoo. Rose drinks, and she breathes, and she swipes snot from her inflamed nostrils with the corner of her already soggy cardigan, the long one that she fools herself covers her arse. And she makes her list. Chapter 15 (#ulink_20f6412d-d75d-5cf9-af6d-93e7386aa3b8) Rose starts with shaky hands, calmer now but still barely able to hold the pen, eyes blurred by tears. As the wine goes down, and the tears dry up, and the words start to flow, it gets easier. And worse. It feels like the List That Will Never Die. The guilt pours out of her and into the pen and on to the tiny white pages. She underlines the title twice, freehand, so the line is a jagged doodle, and she even feels guilty about not using a ruler. Things I Feel Guilty About 1 That I wasn’t there when my mum died 2 That I broke my mother’s heart 3 That I didn’t see her enough, or tell her I loved her enough 4 That last time she was supposed to come and stay, to keep me company when Joe was at his dad’s, I made an excuse about work and cancelled, when really I just felt too depressed to be bothered, and wanted to stay in and eat kebabs on my own 5 That I let my marriage get fucked up and didn’t work hard enough to save it 6 That Joe has grown up with me for a mum 7 That I am a crap mum 8 That I sometimes use Joe as my friend instead of having real friends and make him watch Grey’s Anatomy with me 9 That I eat too much and drink too much and do no exercise; that I don’t seem able to stop even for Joe 10 That I seem like a nice person on the outside but inside I am actually horrible 11 That I stole a box of Cadbury Roses from the village shop when I was 11 and told my mum I’d won them as a prize at school, and she was so proud of me she baked a Victoria sponge to celebrate 12 That I dumped Andy by text when I was drunk and accidentally sent it to his best mate instead 13 That I didn’t have enough sex with Gareth, because I was always so tired after I had the baby, and maybe if I hadn’t been so selfish Joe would still have his dad around 14 That I sometimes secretly wish that Gareth would get hit by a bus 15 That I don’t condition my hair or do my nails or take a pride in myself, like mum always did 16 That I messed up my career and gave up on everything 17 That I spend more money every week on junk food than I do on Joe 18 That when Joe was born I thought for a little while that I could never ever be happy again 19 That I was supposed to cure cancer and I ended up as a teaching assistant and that must have disappointed mum so much, not that she ever said anything 20 That I once reversed her car into a tree and blamed the dent on a hit-and-run in the supermarket car park 21 That I hate my job and everyone I work with, even though it’s not their fault I’m doing it 22 That I lost touch with all my university friends after I met Gareth, at first because of him and then after he left because I was too embarrassed to admit I’d made a mistake 23 That I once told my mum I hated her when I was 15 because she wouldn’t let me stay out any later than 10 p.m. even though Tasmin Hughes was allowed to stay out as long as she liked 24 That when Tasmin Hughes got pregnant and had a baby I never went to visit her, and I know now she must have been really lonely because that’s what it’s like when you have a baby 25 That I stabbed Yoda in the eye 26 That every year I buy Joe a nice Thornton’s Easter egg with his name on it, then eat it myself, and have to buy new ones, crap ones from the newsagent 27 That I once lay on the floor and pretended I wasn’t in when the Jehovah’s Witnesses called round instead of being polite about them trying to save my soul 28 That I used to pull faces whenever Mum started one of her show-biz war stories and now I’d love to hear some more 29 That I eat Extra Strong Mints before bed because I can’t be bothered brushing my teeth 30 That once when Joe was a toddler and Gareth had gone I left him alone in the house asleep while I went to the chippie, and he was crying and terrified when I got back 31 That I am really bad at keeping the house tidy and everything is always a mess 32 That I am now so fat I can barely cut my own toenails 33 That Joe once accidentally-on-purpose forgot to tell me about a Geography field trip to Iceland because he knew I didn’t have the money and didn’t want me to feel bad, even though all his friends were going 34 That I never bought him a puppy 35 That I have never met this man Lewis, which shows how much I know about my mother’s life 36 That I neglected her, and myself, and everything 37 That Joe makes his own packed lunches because I’m too disorganised and lazy 38 That I don’t change my duvet cover for months at a time because nobody ever sees it 39 That when the phone rang tonight and I thought it was my mum, I was annoyed because I had to drag my fat arse away from Poldark 40 That I have spoken to my mum twice in the last month and never noticed she was so ill because I am too wrapped up in myself – she’s a good actress but I should have noticed 41 That I didn’t remind Joe to call and thank her for that voucher she sent After more than forty stop-off points on the guilt trip, Rose stops, and looks at what she has done. Her mother probably imagined a journal, or some neatly written-out pages of A4. Instead, it’s a tear-stained mess; an almost illegible scrawl with smudged ink and creases and incoherent punctuation. The memo-pad paper is small and square, and she has filled more than twenty sheets of it. She’ll need to go back and gather them all up. She pauses, and finishes the wine; 600 millilitres down, a new bottle to go. She knows she has to add one more to the guilt list. She doesn’t want to, though. She doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth she can feel tugging at her, prodding her, whispering her name like one of those Satanic blond-haired kids in old horror films. She watched that video three times, and Mum had asked her to be honest. To tell the truth. So that’s what she has to do. Rose wipes her eyes, and picks up the pen again. She winces because of the blister that is starting to throb on her finger, a dull ache compared to all the others. She picks up a fresh square of paper, covers Yoda’s mutilated face, and adds: 42. That I never gave Poppy a second chance, no matter how hard she begged Chapter 16 (#ulink_2d27e398-e901-5d6c-b224-58c1516d13c6) Poppy isn’t sure what to do next. She’s watched the video, and called this man Lewis, who sent her straight to voicemail, and also phoned around various hospitals until she could confirm that it is all true. Unfortunately, it is. She needs to do something, and decides to take a shower. She ends up sitting on the floor, the too-hot water sluicing over her head and shoulders, burning her skin bright red, steam cocooning her in a smeared glass box. She stays in there until her fingertips are so wrinkled and puckered up they look as if they belong to a witch, and her bottom is numb on the tiles. When she finally climbs out, the whole bathroom is filled with steam, as though she’s in a Turkish sauna. She uses a fresh towel to wipe the mirror clean, and stares at herself. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, and her hair is plastered to her skull, and her body is slightly too thin. Her collarbones are prominent, and the skin around her neck is just too taut to be attractive. There are lines around her mouth from years of smoking, and her long legs are so toned they’re almost hideous. She hates what she sees, even though she has worked hard for it. She hates it because that face, that body, belong to the kind of woman she never wanted to become. The kind of woman who lives alone and works in marketing and has meaningless friendships and is a complete bitch to everyone who works for her. The kind of woman who could drown in her own shower and not be found for weeks on end, or until the flat below flooded. The kind of woman nobody really cares about, because the only person who did has abandoned her and selfishly died. The kind of woman who could break her own mother’s heart, and not even notice she was doing it. She picks up an aerosol can of shaving cream, and takes off the lid. She holds it in front of the mirror, and sprays it all over the glass, until everything is obscured and all she can see is the cream, slowly falling down in white dollops and plopping into the marble sink. Satisfied at her minor act of vandalism, she puts on a black satin kimono, and goes back into the living room, where she briefly considers getting out her tobacco tin again. She can still picture it in its original home on the polished shelf in Mum’s glass display cabinet. It sat alongside her other accumulated nick-nacks and almost-antique oddities: a giant conch shell she bought from a gift shop in Dorset; her own father’s pocket watch and chain; a beer mat autographed by John Lennon when she met him in a pub in Soho in the Seventies; a tiny dragon carved out of jade. Her memories of that display cabinet are vivid, and it sums up their cottage – eclectic, unpredictable, full of clutter; every item laden with some significance. There will be a lot to do, she thinks, as she sits down at her desk. A lot to sort through. Things to package up. Things to send to the charity shop, or keep for themselves. They might need to hire a skip for the junk, and call in an antiques expert to appraise the valuables, and it might not always be easy to tell the difference between the two. She takes a pen, and starts to jot down a few points. Practical stuff. Things that she thinks are keeping her calm, until she realises that she is crying so hard her whole body is shaking in huge spasms, and her handwriting is unreadable. Her hair is still soggy, and the kimono is getting soaked through as it drips over her shoulders and back, and it feels a bit like she is drowning in snot. She snatches a tissue from the box on her desk, and angrily wipes her eyes and nose and face clear. She screws the tissue up, and throws it on the floor, to be dealt with later. She’s been making the wrong list, she knows. This isn’t what her mother asked her to do in that awful video, looking so neat and tidy and thin. Poppy picks up the pen again, and turns to a fresh page in her leather-bound notepad. She takes a deep breath, and starts. She’s going to be totally honest, just like her mother asked. She puts pen to paper, and it doesn’t take long at all. There is only one item on Poppy’s guilt list: EVERYTHING. Job done, she slams the notepad shut, and wrings her soggy hair out in a damp ponytail. A small puddle of water builds up on the hardwood floor, and she dips her toe into it, for no good reason other than it’s there. She’s made her list, and she’s had a shower, and she’s cried, and now her whole mood feels as empty as her grumbling stomach. She doesn’t want to do the other thing that her mother asked her to do. She doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t want to even let Rose back into her mind, let alone her life. It’s too hard, too nasty, too brutal. She might not survive. For years now, she’s closed that part of her life off. Walled it up, like a mad woman in a Gothic novel – left it to starve to death in the hope that it would rot and crumble like an ancient skeleton, and eventually be nothing but a pile of dust on the ground. It’s allowed her to function. To have a life. To have a career. To have fake friends. But she knows that old crone is still walled up in there: wailing, insane, still so, so hungry. If she lets her out, she’ll be devoured. If she lets herself think about it, like her mother has asked, she will think of nothing else – and her whole life will fall to pieces, crumpled up like the soggy tissue on the floor. It’s too much, and she can’t do it. She won’t do it – not right now. Chapter 17 (#ulink_b0ff554e-afdf-55a9-9840-855653749ad8) ‘Wassup, mum?’ says Joe, his usual morning greeting. It is after 11 a.m., and he has just staggered downstairs, wearing stripy pyjama bottoms and sporting a supreme case of bed-head. He’s tall, her boy, and is taking after his dad in looks at least. He towers over Rose as she putters around in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. She’s barely slept, and when she did, it wasn’t what you’d call restful. When she woke up, she felt normal – until she remembered. She’d had about twenty seconds of peace before the world came crashing down around her, and she disappeared back under the duvet, too exhausted to cry, too wrecked to move. Since then, she’s cleaned the house, hidden her Guilt List, and put the Star Wars book away in a cupboard where she hopes Joe will forget all about it. She’s still ashamed about going all Dark Side on Yoda. Joe is reaching for the cereal box on autopilot when he stops, pauses, and looks around at the sparklingly tidy kitchen. He wipes his eyes, and then screws them up, like he’s not quite seeing properly. His hair is flopping over his forehead and, despite his height, he still looks impossibly young to Rose. Her little boy, but all stretched out and super-sized. ‘It’s really clean in here. Are you feeling all right?’ he says, giving her a lazy grin to let her know he’s joking. ‘Should I be calling 999?’ Rose says nothing, but pulls him in for a big, long hug. He lets her, but backs away after a few moments, looking borderline embarrassed. He might be a little boy to her, but he’s still 16 in the real world. She realises she doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t have a clue what to say, or what to do. She doesn’t know how to break it to him gently, or how to do it in a way that won’t traumatise him, or freak him out for the rest of his life. It’s the first time he’s had to deal with death, and truthfully, it’s the first time she has as well. Unless she counts the pets, which she doesn’t – Mum stage-managed those brilliantly, but this is far, far different. Her own pain is still huge – a living, snarling beast inside her – but she knows she needs to set it aside, and do the right thing by her boy. Protect him from the kaleidoscope of hell that she’s going through, and help him deal with it. ‘Joe, come and sit down with me, will you?’ she says, gently pushing a lock of his too-long hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear. He looks confused, but follows her barefoot into the living room, plonking himself down on the armchair in that exhausted ‘I’m-so-busy-growing-I-don’t-have-any-energy-left’ way that teens have. ‘All right, Mum,’ he says, when she remains silent. ‘I’m sitting down. And I’ve seen too many TV shows to think this can mean anything good. What’s wrong?’ ‘It’s Granny,’ replies Rose, staring off into space, her eyes fixating on the motes of dust that are floating in the bright sunlight filtering through the windows. ‘I got a phone call last night, and … well, she’s gone, Joe. Your granny died yesterday.’ She doesn’t know what she has been expecting from him. Tears, maybe? Hysteria? The same kind of ridiculous drama she indulged in last night, during her Festival of Snot? Instead, she simply sees his lower lip tremble slightly, and his frown deepen. She realises that – even at his age – he is trying to be macho. ‘It’s okay to be upset,’ she says quickly. ‘I know I was. You don’t have to be brave for my sake, sweetheart, honestly.’ He studies her face, as if he’s examining her for evidence of lies, and she feels so ashamed. Her beautiful, bonny baby is trying to protect her when, really, it should always have been the other way around. All those times he stayed in with her when he should have been out with his mates; the way he’d sent her a friend request on Facebook even when it wasn’t cool to have your mum as a Facebook friend in anyone’s universe; all those occasions when she’d sensed him feeling guilty as he left to go and see his dad in London. All of it was wrong, and all of it was her fault. She’d relied on him when she should have been relying on herself. That really has to change. ‘What happened, Mum?’ he says, eventually. ‘She seemed really great the last time we saw her, and it wasn’t that long ago, was it?’ The tears are there, now; she can see them shining in the blue of his eyes before he swipes them away, as though he’s angry with himself for allowing them to even exist. ‘I suppose it was just before her birthday, wasn’t it?’ Rose replies, even though she has absolutely no doubt about when she last saw her mum. She’s gone over it enough times. It was over four months ago, hard as that is to swallow – time flies when you’re not having fun. She was supposed to visit after that, while Joe was away, but that was when Rose had cancelled on her. Before she was ill, according to Lewis’s timing, but still. Unforgivable. ‘Yeah,’ Joe replies, biting his lip. ‘That’s right. When we took her out for lunch at that National Trust place with the castle and the fake jousting. She bought some lavender bags in the gift shop and said the chocolate cake was so sinful she needed at least two portions, because there wasn’t enough sin in her life these days.’ Rose finds herself, against the odds, smiling at the memory of her mum relishing every last mouthful of both her slices. She never seemed to put any weight on, whereas Rose felt she only had to look at a chocolate cake to gain a stone. Or maybe that was going home and eating her own bodyweight in Hobnobs once she was on her own, who knows? ‘That’s it, yes. Well, apparently she became ill a little while ago. Six weeks or so, her friend said, when he called last night.’ ‘Who called?’ says Joe. ‘Was it Lewis? And why didn’t she tell us? We could have visited her, and … I don’t know, said goodbye properly! I never even thanked her for that voucher she sent!’ His tone pops up a few octaves with the last few words, reminding her of the time a couple of years ago when his voice started to break, and he spent weeks sounding like the frog chorus. She feels his sadness, and his desperation, and his guilt. She feels all of that herself too – but she deserves it, and he doesn’t. ‘Yes, it was Lewis,’ she answers. ‘Although I don’t remember much about him, even though I know she’s mentioned him before … and Joe, your Granny wouldn’t have wanted you to feel bad about this, okay? She didn’t tell us because … because she wanted to protect us. Because it was quick, and because she wanted us to remember her the way she was – happy and stuffing her face on chocolate cake, not in pain. That’s what she wanted, and that’s what we need to try and do for her. Do you think you can manage that?’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/debbie-johnson/the-a-z-of-everything-a-gorgeously-emotional-and-uplifting/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.