‘I know the Poppy in those letters is nothing like the Poppy you’ve gone on to create for yourself since then. These days, on the surface at least, you are every inch the elegant, successful career woman – and your emotions are as well managed as your horrible low-carb diet or your work calendar. Back then, you were very different – a cauldron of emotion! So, you might not want Rose to see them. You might decide that that part of you is dead and buried and good riddance to it – but I hope not.
‘And Rose – I can’t force you to read them. And even if you do, out of guilt or loyalty or simply wanting to do what your mother has asked, I can’t control how you react. The spirit with which you respond.
‘I can’t control any of it – all I can do is hope.
‘Anyway, I think that’s plenty for now, don’t you? I’m lucky I had a C90, I’ve banged on for so long … so, goodbye for now Rosehip, Popcorn. I love you both, very, very much.’
Chapter 38
Poppy: 17 February 2000
Dear Rose,
I’m so, so sorry. I’ve called and texted, but you just won’t speak to me. You won’t listen to me, and I know why, and I know I deserve all of this. But it’s killing me, it really is. I just don’t know what to do, so I’ll keep writing and hope that one day you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, or at least tell me to my face that you won’t. Even that would be better.
I’m at home, in your bedroom, where everything reminds me of you, and Mum is downstairs baking another cake. She doesn’t know what to do or how to help. I’m supposed to be leaving for London next week, but I don’t know if I can. I feel like my legs have been chopped off without you.
I love you so much, and I’m so sorry. I still can’t believe I did it. The most disgusting thing imaginable, on so many levels. I can’t stand Gareth – I’m sorry, I know you say you love him, but I hate him. I’ve always hated him. He’s too smooth and too smarmy and he controls you like you’re his puppet.
None of what happened can ever be justified, I know that, but I want you to understand some of why it happened. I’ve thought about nothing else since, I really haven’t. I just keep going over and over it in my head, trying to figure things out and piece it all together. It’s like a nightmare and there’s no way out, because it always ends the same way.
I think part of me was just jealous – because he was in your life so much more than I was, and I’d always depended on you a bit too much. You’d always looked after me, and then suddenly it felt like you were gone.
I know it’s pathetic. I’m a grown-up and there are no excuses. But as soon as you met him, it started – forgetting my birthday (which you did this year as well, not that I blame you), and cancelling weekends, and just never doing anything without him. It’s like nobody existed to you apart from Gareth, and I just wasn’t mature enough to deal with the change, because I’m a bit of a knob.
I was feeling awful at that party. I’d been doing nothing at home other than drink and go to the Tennyson’s and lie around in bed, for months on end. I had my new job coming up, but even that felt like a failure – I never wanted to go into bloody marketing, for God’s sake. I just didn’t know what else to do.
On the night, you didn’t seem to have any time for me, and you couldn’t see how much pain I was in. Writing it down now, I know how stupid I sound. Like a spoiled-rotten little girl, which is what I am. Like someone so selfish they wanted you all to themselves – which is just what I am accusing Gareth of, isn’t it?
When I got there, that horrible old house on the hill was full of people I didn’t know. A few old friends of yours, but mainly his, and Rose, they are such tossers! I still don’t know how you tolerate being around them so much, when all they talk about is money, and they act like they’re the kings of the fucking world.
I didn’t know anyone, and you were off all night being a good hostess. Every time I saw you, it was like the real you had been swallowed up and replaced with some fake Rose, like aliens had taken over your body. The clothes you were wearing and the way you were behaving. It just wasn’t you. And he was always there, hovering in the background.
I know you might find this hard to believe, but he was tormenting me, in his own way. It was like bear-baiting. I’d see him, draped all over you, and he’d give me a wink when you weren’t looking, like ‘look what I’ve got’. He’d pretend to be nice, and was always giving me drinks – all night, he’d find me, and give me more and more to drink. First it would be beer, then wine, then brandy, then Bailey’s.
I’m not trying to defend myself here. It’s not like he held me down and shoved a funnel in my mouth or anything – the way I was feeling, I was more than happy to get drunk. But this was a whole new level of drunk. This was the most smashed I’d ever been.
Then, after the New Year midnight thing, I felt so sick I wanted to go to bed. I felt like I was on another planet, like everything was just a huge blur. I was bouncing off walls and falling over and couldn’t even speak properly. I could see people dancing but wasn’t even sure they were human.
That’s when I saw him again, when I was trying to get up the stairs. That staircase was so big, and the steps all seemed huge, and I was trying to crawl up them but I couldn’t even do that, so I gave up and just sat on them, about halfway up, clinging on to the banister. You know that feeling when you’re drunk and you go to bed but you can’t get to sleep, because every time you close your eyes the room spins? It was like that, even though I was awake.
Gareth came up to sit with me, and I was too far gone to even tell him to shove off. And he made a big deal of looking after me, and saying how much he wanted me to have a good time, and how he loved me because I was your sister, and then he said he had something to ‘give me a little boost’. That’s what he said – give me a little boost.
He said I couldn’t pack in now because I’d spoil your party, and a bit of me thought he might be right, and mainly I was just so off my head I didn’t know what I was doing. So I took the coke, snorted it all, and washed it down with some vodka straight from the bottle.
To be honest I was behaving like one of those people in an anti-drugs video, and I’m lucky I didn’t drop dead. Right now I wish that had happened rather than what did, I really do.
After a bit I started to feel even more weird – like I was seeing everything through a big kaleidoscope. I know you’ve never been a drug girl, but basically it felt like the world was taking on a life of its own. Everything felt better, even the touch of the scrappy old carpet under my legs, and the wood of the banister. It was a big, giant, insane whirl of colour and sound. Like the trippiest music video ever.
He sat with me for a while, and then said he thought I’d had enough, and I needed to go to bed. I didn’t really know what was happening, and he helped me up the rest of the stairs, and took me to my room. I thought he’d leave me there, and I could collapse and look at the ceiling swirling around or be sick or something.
But he didn’t leave. He started stroking my hair, and telling me how much I looked like you, and how pretty I was. It was so weird – part of my brain wanted to scream and kick him in the balls, but part of me, the part that was just totally fucked up on drugs and booze and neediness, was listening. You’d always said he could make a woman feel so special, and for once I was on the receiving end of it, at a time when I was feeling far from special.
He didn’t force me into anything. I have to be clear about that. I’m not saying he made me do anything, I’m not. But I just felt like I couldn’t stop it, I was so off my head. Or maybe that I didn’t want to stop it enough to figure out how. I feel sick as I write that, but I’m trying to be honest.
He stroked my hair, and then he started kissing me, and … well, you know the rest. You found us like that, and even then I didn’t really know what was going on – he ran off after you, and I fell down, and I couldn’t even move again. Not for hours.
By the time I could, you’d gone, and he’d gone, and I couldn’t get h
old of you no matter how many times I called. The house was wrecked, and I was a mess, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stop puking up, and crying, and I ended up walking to the station in the snow. There were no trains, obviously, because it was New Year’s Day, and I slept in the waiting room with all my clothes on top of me. I thought then it was the worst day of my life, but every day since then has just got worse.
I’m not blaming anybody but myself, and I’m not trying to worm out of it. I’m really not. I hate myself so much, more than even you could hate me right now. I’m so, so sorry – I don’t know what else to say. I’m desperate to talk to you Rose – even if it’s just for you to scream at me, or come home and beat the crap out of me, anything. I’ll take any punishment you want to give – anything at all. Just please, please, please get in touch.
I love you so much and I can’t believe I did this to you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but please at least call me – and let me try and explain. Please.
Poppy xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Chapter 39
Rose
I stuff the letter back into the envelope with the rest, and stare at Ronan Keating’s giant face on the wall.
I know what he’d say – he’d tell me life is a rollercoaster and you’ve just got to ride it. And I know what my mum would say – that now I know more about what happened, now I’ve seen another side of the truth, I need to forgive her.
And I get why she would say that, and she would probably be right. But it’s not that simple, no matter how heart-wrenching those letters were. I chose to believe Gareth when he said she made the first move; I chose to listen to him when he begged for forgiveness, and I chose to ignore Poppy.
Partly I made those choices because they allowed me to go on living the life with Gareth that I thought I wanted. But partly, it was because the bigger hurt of the whole sordid affair was my sister’s betrayal, not Gareth’s. I could forgive him because he hadn’t caused as much damage.
Poppy was my best friend, my ally in life, my little sis – Poppy was everything, and she’d destroyed me.
Knowing now, all these years later, that things weren’t quite how he portrayed them isn’t actually as much of a revelation as she might expect. Deep down, I think I always suspected something like that had happened, especially with hindsight and a clearer picture of the way my ex-husband operates. I just chose not to engage with it, because it was easier to shut her out.
I suspect one of the reasons that I returned all her letters and refused all her calls was to avoid exactly this feeling – it was simpler to heap all the blame on her. It felt as if she’d gouged out my heart at the time, and there was no way I was going to listen to mitigating circumstances. Nobody could blame me for reacting like I did, even her – it was completely justified, and I wasn’t prepared to listen to her version of events.
I’m still not sure I am now. Because it’s too big, and too nasty, and too difficult. I carved out a huge chunk of my life when I blanked Poppy, and admitting I might have been wrong means I’d have to face up to the fact that for all this time, I’ve been alone for no good reason. That we broke our mother’s heart for no good reason.
I’m not ready for that, and I’m not sure I ever will be – because ultimately, no matter how much I can understand the truth of a lot of what she is saying, and how much I now see she was right about Gareth, it’s still not much of an excuse for shagging your sister’s boyfriend, is it?
We’ve all been drunk. We’ve all done stupid things. But this isn’t on the same level as bringing home a traffic bollard, or doing a runner from an Indian restaurant, or tipping the cabbie with a snog. This is a world away from any of that, and it’s not so easily forgiven.
I put the padded envelope aside, and decide I need to go downstairs. I’ve been up here for hours, and would quite like to stay here forever.
I pause in the doorway of my bedroom, go back, and tear that bloody Boyzone poster down from the wall.
When I emerge into the living room, Poppy is curled up on the sofa under one of Mum’s vast collection of tartan blankets. She is pretending to be asleep, but I know better. She looks terrible – the worst I’ve seen her since this whole thing started. Her hair is greasy and flat to her head, her skin is taut and pale and dry, and I can see that she’s been gnawing away at her usually flawless nails. It must be some kind of osmosis: a few days with me and even the most glamorous of women start turning into a frump.
‘I know you’re awake,’ I say, sitting down on Mum’s armchair. ‘I can tell from the way you’re breathing.’
She makes a pretence of waking up, yawning and stretching, and it almost makes me laugh, it’s such a juvenile thing to do.
‘Oh …’ she says, wiping her eyes as though they are still full of sleep. ‘Did you read the letters?’
‘I did,’ I reply, nodding. ‘Although your handwriting was awful, and you clearly kept blubbing so much that loads of the ink was smudged.’
‘And?’ she asks, trying to sound tough but falling well short.
‘And you were right about one thing you kept saying – none of it lets you off the hook. This isn’t a film, is it, Poppy? It’s not like we’re in Beaches or Steel Magnolias or something, where I have some sudden rush of emotion and everything’s immediately fine. This is real life, and it’s a lot messier than that, and I’m just not ready to deal with F at the moment. In fact it can F right off. I’m not saying I won’t be, ever, but … not right now. Even if mum’s shaking her fists at me and doing her “we are not amused” face, it’s not that straightforward.
‘The best I can do is say that I’m sorry you went through all of that. It was your own fault, but I’m sorry – and I can see it’s not as clear cut as I wanted it to be. I really don’t want to talk about it any more, all right?’
Poppy scrabbles upright, the blanket falling to the floor as she moves, and refuses to meet my eyes. I don’t know what she’s thinking right now.
Maybe she secretly hoped I’d read those letters and rush downstairs and hug her. Maybe she’s thinking I’m a nasty old cow. Maybe she’s thinking none of those things – because this Poppy, the new Poppy, has become much better at hiding her feelings than the old one. Which suits me just fine right now – I can’t deal with any more bloody feelings. I am already drowning in feelings, and it’s making my eyeballs ache.
‘Okay,’ she says simply. ‘Fair enough. Shall we move on with the A–Z? The quicker we do it, the quicker we can both get back to normal.’
I recognise her neutral tone as a classic self-defence posture, and go with it. Because she’s right – we need to get through this, and both survive it. I know our late, great mother meant well, but at the moment, it feels as if it’s doing more harm than good. It’s opening up old wounds that might not stop bleeding, no matter how many plasters she tries to stick on from her celestial first-aid kit.
‘Yep. Fine. What’s next?’ I ask.
She reaches for the index, which is now starting to tear where it’s been folded and unfolded.
‘Do you have a copy of that?’ I say, frowning.
‘Yes, Lewis sent a digital copy, plus I took photos of it, just in case. Anyway … G is an easy one. G is for “My Gorgeous Grandson”, and there’s one line next to it – it says “this is for Joe, and is none of your beeswax.” I saw it earlier – it’s in the roses box. Looks like it’s another one of those British mammal cards. Maybe a darling deer or a beautiful badger. H is the next one for us, though. It’s a theatre programme, and a note, and a … a DVD. Plus what she describes as “a load of odds and sods”. I say “she” because I can’t imagine Lewis saying anything like that. Do you want to do it now?’
‘Might as well,’ I answer, ‘seeing as we’re here. I’ll go and make us some coffee.’
Poppy starts to rummage in the box while I walk through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I realise as I do that I haven’t eaten all day, and don’t even feel hungry – for possibly the first time in
about fifteen years.
Emotional trauma, it seems, has at least some side benefits.
Chapter 40
Andrea: H is for Hamming it Up
Hello my loves,
I’m writing this to you on a beautiful June evening. It’s been one of those glorious days where you feel the long-forgotten sun on your skin, and everything in nature seems to be so glad to be alive. Do remember to top up the birdbath and the feeder while you’re here, won’t you? I wouldn’t want my lovely little blue-tit family to think I’d abandoned them.
I’ve been to the hospital today, and it wasn’t pleasant. They’ve been giving me some treatment that has made me feel absolutely ghastly, so I think that’s the last time I’ll be bothering.
It’s only going to prolong the inevitable, and I’ve decided I’d rather spend my last weeks feeling at least human. There’s a lot left for me to do, and I won’t manage it with my head stuck in a toilet bowl, will I? And don’t fret – Lewis was with me every step of the way. I practically had to kick him out so I could get some work done.
Anyway, on to business. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep going today, and I apologise now for the state of my handwriting. I’ve been spending so much time around doctors I seem to have started writing like one!
I am going to tuck this note inside one of my old programmes, and the subject of conversation tonight is unashamedly all about Me. Me, me, me, me, me. So there.
I’m taking a break from my emotional prodding, girls, to indulge in a good old-fashioned nostalgic wallow. I’ve so enjoyed getting all of this together, chatting to Lewis about it, and reliving a few glory moments. Old luvvies never die, darlings – they live on in celluloid heaven! I mean, Sir Alec Guinness might be long gone, but we still know these are not the ’droids you’re looking for, don’t we?
The A-Z of Everything Page 18