Will You Remember Me? (27 page)

Poppy was sitting on the bed, reading the obituaries again.

Mabel Jean Cunningham died peacefully in her sleep, aged 101. Much-loved sister, wife and mum, nan, great-nan and great-great-nan. Sleep tight, Jeanie, you were one in a million and we shall miss you.

‘A hundred and one? Mabel Jean, you lucky, lucky lady.’

She had readily agreed to Claudia’s suggestion that she go and stay with her in Oxford for a few days, to try and get some clarity back into her thoughts. They were leaving any minute. She tried not to think of the last time she had visited, at Christmas. It had been perfect: the kids full of turkey and chocolate and sleeping soundly upstairs; her and Mart nestled on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, glasses of ruby red port in their hands. She couldn’t remember a time when her life had seemed more perfect.

Now she was running through the list of extra things she might want to throw in her bag to take. She heard Martin’s voice downstairs. After all the years of smiling every time she heard him speak, and longing to hear his words whenever he was away, it felt alien to her that this morning she was acutely embarrassed at the prospect of having to interact with him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This would require a lot of strength and her reserves were already running low.

Her phone buzzed. Poppy retrieved it from her handbag and opened the screen. She groaned loudly. ‘That’s all I bloody need.’ Cheryl had apparently booked a flight over for a few weeks’ time.

‘Come down, Mummy. Daddy’s home!’ Peg shouted up the stairs.

‘Shit.’ Poppy ran her fingers across her forehead. She picked up the holdall and went downstairs.

Her eyes went straight to Martin, who stood by the kitchen door and looked dreadful, hovering awkwardly like a stranger who hadn’t been invited to sit. His two-day beard growth made him look scruffy. His eyes were bloodshot, with two dark circles beneath them, the result of fatigue and night-time ponderings. His shirt was crumpled. He glanced at her and gave a small, nervous smile; hesitant, gauging her reaction.

‘Right then, we’ll be off. Daddy will look after you for a couple of days.’ Poppy found it easier to talk to him via the kids, no matter how cowardly. ‘Be good, Maxy, and you too, Peg. Make sure you give me a shout at Granny Claudia’s every evening after school. I want to hear exactly what you’ve been up to.’ Poppy gave the brightest smile she could muster. ‘I love you both soooo much!’ She hugged and kissed her children, then climbed into Claudia’s Mini.

Claudia pulled out of their road and past the parade of shops. ‘I’ve left a big lasagne for tonight and other bits and bobs in the freezer, so all he’s got to do is get them out the night before and then heat them up for supper. I’ve given him instructions. They’ll be fine.’

‘Thank you,’ Poppy whispered as her tears fell. ‘I can’t believe this bloody mess.’

‘It’ll pass, darling. Everything does.’ Claudia nodded sagely, keeping her eyes on the road.

Poppy stared out of the window. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’

‘You mean meeting Jo?’

‘Yes.’

Claudia sighed. ‘I think it’s up to you, but anything that moves things forward has to be a good idea. I can’t bear the idea of you carrying lots of anger around in you, it can’t help anything.’

‘No,’ Poppy agreed. ‘It can’t.’

‘Next stop Salisbury, then?’ Claudia asked.

Poppy nodded, too apprehensive to say anything.

The windows of the Salisbury branch of Costa were fogged up. Unusually for the time of the year, the door was closed. The day had unexpectedly thrown down a summer shower and the pavements, which still held heat from the early morning sun, steamed slightly. Shoppers and tourists, caught out by the deluge, crouched low under shared umbrellas, wearing flimsy, inappropriate clothing and open-toed footwear, hardly what was required in a downpour. Inside, however, and with a perfect view of the entrance, Poppy was toasty and dry, wrapped in a warm fug of coffee and cinnamon.

At the creak of the door, she looked up from her frothy cappuccino, but it wasn’t Jo. Instead, a young mum fumbled with the handle, reversing in as she tried to negotiate the door with her bottom, dragging behind her a pushchair laden with bags and with a soggy toddler clinging to her hand. Ordinarily Poppy would have jumped up and gone to her aid, opened the door wide, helped, but not today. Today she had to concentrate, in position, ready.

Poppy had thought long and hard about what to wear, hating herself for how much she agonised over every detail. She had scraped her hair into a neat ponytail before releasing it and redoing it, twice. At the back of her mind was the thought that Jo had seen her daily in her pyjamas, crumpled from sleep as they chatted over the doorstep; she had helped Poppy with her up-do for a mess dinner once, while Poppy had sat there in her Spanx and dressing gown; and she had even perched on the corner of the mattress when Maxy was only hours old, with Poppy in a right state, her face pale, her hair stuck to her head with sweat, her stomach cramping with heavy loss. Today, that intimacy was disregarded. Jo had gone from ally to enemy. It had taken mere moments to wipe out five years of friendship: one splayed hand against his back, her head cocked to one side to avoid his nose, her dark curly hair falling in a curtain over her shoulder… Poppy blinked to rid her mind of the image. Today, the embers of her fury needed no stoking.

The door banged open. She peered over her coffee cup; her hands held the mug up to her lips, forming a pyramid that half hid her face. Her eyes flickered in recognition. Poppy watched as Jo ran her fingers through her wet hair and brushed raindrops from her black jersey and the thighs of her jeans. It felt odd not to beam out a smile, jump up and wave ‘Over here, mate!’ like she would have before. Poppy observed how Jo scanned the faces, saw her flinch when her gaze finally fell upon her. She noted how she walked slowly towards the table, her pace hesitant, measured, as if she was nervous, scared.

So you fucking should be.
Poppy swallowed the thought.

Jo placed her bag on the floor, her purse already in her hand. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Poppy shook her head and raised her mug in response.

‘I’ll just…’ Jo indicated the counter and walked away.

Poppy exhaled and realised she had been holding her breath. Her jaw hurt from being clenched for the last however many minutes. She could hear Jo’s sing-song tone as she ordered her latte and it made her stomach flip. How dare she sound normal, happy and nice?

It was a minute or two later that Jo scraped the chair across the wooden floor and took up her position opposite. She looked haggard and tired and Poppy felt a flush of euphoria that she wasn’t her usual shining self.

When Jo spoke her voice quavered. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Poppy. I’ve been sick all morning with nerves.’

Poppy looked up into her face. She gave a small smile.
What, Jo, sicker than me? Hope your nerves clear up soon.

‘Well, you don’t have to say anything, you just have to listen.’ Poppy was aware of the curl of her top lip and the harsh cockney inflection to her words.

Jo nodded quickly, causing her face to wobble.

Poppy’s voice was calm. ‘I’d waited my whole life for my wedding reception, Jo.’ She paused. It was odd to hear herself saying her friend’s name with such disdain. ‘It was a big deal for me. But you know that, don’t you?’

Again Jo nodded.

‘And the sad thing is that now, when I think of it, I can only see you and my husband in the cloakroom, locked together.’

‘It was nothing, Poppy. I swear to you. It was just a moment, it was nothing!’ Her words tumbled out, as though she expected to be halted at any moment.

‘Nothing?’ Poppy shook her head. ‘How dare you say it was nothing? He is my husband, we have a life, a history and you have damaged it. That day was a symbol of what we had achieved, how far we had come.’ Poppy stopped, briefly pictured their dingy Walthamstow flats from years ago, the pub on their wedding day. ‘But I can’t think about Peg in her special frock or Maxy dancing on the spot with his little waistcoat on, not even the bloody buffet, none of it. It’s like it’s all disappeared and all that is left is that image of you and him.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was a whisper.

Poppy shook her head; she didn’t want to hear sorry. ‘And the worst thing, the very worst thing is that I am dying. I am dying, Jo, and you know that.’ Poppy beat her flattened palm down onto the tabletop. Two women on the adjacent table looked over in the direction of the noise.

Jo’s tears came now, falling over mottled cheeks and into her twitching mouth.

Poppy wasn’t done. ‘All my kids will have is the memory of me, the idea of me. And that party was supposed to make special memories. Instead, they saw me crying and had to leave before they got any cake.’ Poppy gritted her teeth as she remembered her beautiful cake. ‘They heard me screaming at their dad and that made them cry. You took that wonderful memory away from them and you took that day away from me.’

‘I’m so sorry…’

Poppy looked out of the window and mentally reloaded, aware of Jo’s snivelling into a paper napkin.

‘Are you having an affair with my husband?’

‘No!’ Jo looked Poppy in the eye, emphatic.

Poppy sighed, gathering her thoughts as she stared at the woman sitting opposite her, the woman who knew everything about her; everything. The woman she had sat and counselled over Danny. Poppy rubbed her brow. ‘I have felt sorry for you, worried about you! You’ve eaten at my table, sat my kids on your lap and given them baths.’ Poppy shook her head as these thoughts formed images in her head. ‘I never, ever in a million years would have thought that you’d have done that to me, to us. Especially not now.’

‘I love you, Poppy. You know that. And the kids.’ Jo let her head fall on her chest and gulped air that seemed to fuel her distress. ‘You know how I feel about them. They… they were the closest I ever got to being a mum.’ Jo continued to address the table. ‘I miss them.’

Poppy remembered their conversation only weeks ago, how she’d asked Jo to be part of Peg and Max’s futures: ‘You will stay in their lives, won’t you, Jo? Look after them, be there if they need someone to talk to?’ Poppy watched now how Jo’s face crumpled as she cried without restraint. She felt the tiniest fissure appear in her armour. It was true, Jo did love the kids. ‘I will love them for you, Poppy, always,’ she’d said, and Poppy believed her, even now.

Poppy felt her heart rate slow. She was calmer now. Peg and Max would need all the friends they could get. Would it be so hard to forgive Jo for their sakes? She drew breath to speak, but as she did so, the image of Jo’s hair came into her head, falling sideways in a curtain, her head twisted to the side to avoid his nose, the two of them meeting at opposite angles. It was as if she had seen it only a second ago: Jo stooping slightly in her heels, her hand on Martin’s back. It was enough to fuel her anger once again. Gathering her bag, she stood abruptly and yanked her coat from the back of the chair. ‘Well they don’t miss you. The only thing they will remember about you is that you upset their mum.’

Jo looked up with eyes red and swollen, her breathing erratic, fingers fidgeting with the napkin that had rolled itself into little worms beneath her fingers. ‘Poppy, I—’

‘No, save it, Jo. There is nothing you can say that can make up for what you have done. And trust me, if I ever see you within five feet of my family, any of my family, ever again, you’ll regret it. And remember, I have absolutely nothing to lose.’

Poppy saw Jo’s eyes widen as she turned on her heel and swept from the café.

She walked along Butcher Row, her vision blurred by the rain and the tears that misted her eyes. Her hands shook as she punched her fingers into the screen of her phone.

‘I’m ready for pick-up,’ she mumbled, when Claudia, who was parked round the corner, answered the call.

Without warning, the ground rushed up towards her as a man’s voice echoed in her ear. ‘Are you okay? Oh God, I think she’s fainted…’

She felt the cold pavement graze her cheek and welcomed the blackness that removed her from the world.

Poppy had insisted on getting a taxi to the airport. The cost was the last thing on her mind; she would have given her last penny not to have to spend hours in the car next to Martin. She could hardly bear to look at him, let alone sit in such close proximity. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t dilute the bitter taste of anger that filled her mouth.

She had packed as though he had never been invited. His newly acquired trunks, sandals and pile of T-shirts were still in their carrier bags, abandoned on the bedroom floor. He hovered guiltily in the corners of the room, too afraid to interact and trying to make himself small, invisible. This suited Poppy just fine. She had deliberated long and hard over the email she’d sent to Simon and Kate and after four deleted attempts, in which she’d tried to sound upbeat and perky, had decided to be as honest as she was able.
Martin and I are having difficulties and I will be travelling alone. I hope you understand.

Their reply indicated that they did indeed understand, but couldn’t she put the ticket to some use?

Poppy looked up from her seat in the departure lounge, her hand luggage by her side, to see Peg standing in front of two tall male pilots. They were dressed in their full regalia, complete with shiny shoes, and peaked caps sitting squarely on their heads. Poppy strained to hear the conversation.

‘So, yes, I’m going to be a pilot too.’ Peg nodded.

‘That’s good to hear. Are you going to join the RAF like I did?’ one of them asked. ‘That can be a good route to becoming a pilot.’

‘No, I don’t think so. My dad’s a soldier and he says the army is the best and the RAF is for softies and lightweights. But I might – does it pay you a lot of money?’ Peg’s head was tilted back on her shoulders so she could converse face to face.

Poppy cringed and sank low in her seat.

The men laughed. ‘The money’s not bad,’ the other pilot piped up, ‘but not as good as British Airways.’