‘Lisa… I need to say something,’ says Paul.
Holly, his sister, who is also my best friend, has just legged it back home after a night in round mine, watching telly and drinking; the new normal for the three of us, since Grandma got too ill to babysit Poppy.
‘Right…’ he says, looking all serious. This is not his normal face. We’ve been mates for the better part of thirty years… albeit by proxy for the first twenty. He’s a few years older than me and Holly, we probably got on his nerves more than anything back then. The last ten though, we’ve definitely been mates. Even so, he’s rarely shown me this serious face and it’s made me feel a bit wobbly.
‘Go on then, talk whilst you give me a hand with these.’ I eye him carefully as I hand over two dead wine bottles, juggling three glasses and a bowl of crisp crumbs. He follows but doesn’t carry on with whatever’s given him his serious face, so I default to filling an awkward silence. ‘When do you fly?’
‘Tomorrow. Two o’clock.’
‘God, I’m so jealous!’ He follows me into the kitchen. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a holiday right now,’ I groan. ‘Maybe after Grandma has… God, that’s an awful thing to think… argh, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Sorry, sorry. Mood kill.’ His face is still serious. ‘Sorry, what did you want to say?’ I dump the glasses and bowl, taking the bottles from him. ‘Are you okay? You look… stressed.’
‘Lisa. I…’ He looks to his feet, then around the kitchen. The sound of glass clinking into the recycling interrupts him. My chest knots with nerves. The energy has shifted quite substantially, and I don’t think it’s because of the Chardonnay. When I’‘Hi!’ says a self-assured voice and nerves spring up out of nowheve stopped faffing, he touches my hand briefly, a request for me to stop. ‘I don’t know how to say this, Lisa. Christ, I’ve thought about how to say it so many times.’ He turns away. ‘The conversations you and I have had in my head.’ He offers a shy, embarrassed smile and my heart lurches. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to make things awkward or difficult for you. I really don’t, but…’ He clears his throat. ‘I have fallen totally, and completely, in love with you.’
Oh God.
‘I tried to stop it. We’re friends, I know that. I didn’t want to complicate things. And then I thought maybe I could ignore it, because I didn’t want to not have you in my life, so friends had to be better than nothing at all, if you see what I mean… sorry, that’s a bit clumsy, but—’
‘Paul—’
‘No, please, sorry, I don’t want to cut you off, but I need to just get this off my chest now, then I can go. I thought that if I told you now, before I go away, you’ll have space from me. Time to think. Making you feel awkward or weird is the very last thing I’d want to do, so I hope you understand why I’ve chosen now.’
I shuffle my feet.
‘The thing is, I suppose, I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I don’t expect anything, really, I just…’ He lets out a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve needed to say it so that I know once and for all. Not now, I don’t need you to say anything now. Think about it. But… then… if you don’t feel the same way, I would totally understand, and I can just work on getting over it.’ He looks at me, dark hair newly cut for his holiday. ‘I can work on getting over you.’
‘Right.’
‘Lisa, you make me want to be the best version of myself. And if you felt remotely the same way, even just a little bit, I would do everything in my power to make you happy. To love you and Poppy the way you deserve. I’m not into all that princess shit, you don’t need anyone putting you on a pedestal as such, but… I think you’re amazing. Like… the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You are generous and kind, you’re so smart, you’re funny, you’re sexy as hell… sorry… that probably sounds weird coming from me but… well, you are. I just think you’re the most incredible person and I want to spend all my time proving that to you.’
I swallow. It might be the single most romantic thing anybody’s ever said to me. And certainly not what I expected to hear from one of my best mates. We hover in the kitchen, I guess he doesn’t know what to say or do next and I’ve got no idea. For someone who hates people feeling awkward, and always finds a way to fix that for them, I’m dumbstruck.
‘Well…’ he puffs out. ‘I said it. I feel better… maybe. I don’t know. Look, I’ll let myself out.’ He makes to leave, then stops. ‘Please don’t worry if you don’t feel the same. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.’ He looks about the room again. ‘I just needed to say it in case there was a chance… So, yeah, I guess I’ll see you when I get back.’
He grabs his keys from the side, heading through to the hall. I follow too close behind, which means when he spins round, hand moving to his forehead, he nearly knocks me over with his elbow. ‘Sorry… shit, sorry!’ He grabs my hand to check I’m okay and my palm tingles. ‘Look, I really hope this hasn’t just been the most awful thing to do or say.’ He stuffs his hand in his pocket. ‘I’m not very good at this kind of thing… a little out of practice, I guess. Turns out I’ve had feelings for you for much longer than even I realised.’
‘It’s… it’s fine… I…’
‘Don’t rush. I know it’s probably out of the blue. You need time to think. I know it’s not just you. I know something like this could ultimately affect Poppy too.’ He looks through to the lounge. ‘And maybe to some it would be stifling, small town, everybody knows us. I don’t imagine you dreamed of falling for someone you’ve essentially grown up around… but just because we live in a small world doesn’t mean we can’t have big dreams, right?’ I swallow, then nod. ‘Look, thanks for a lovely night.’
‘Oh, it’s fine. I mean, thanks for coming round.’
He catches my eye for a second, holding it longer than he ever has before. It makes me notice him. He’s tall, almost bearlike, in that he’s strong, the kind of man you can curl up into the arms of and know everything’s going to be okay. Something in my belly shifts, tilts, then flutters.
‘See you when I get back.’
With that, he’s gone. And I’m left, behind my closed front door, hot, stunned, and wondering how I hadn’t seen that coming.
I check through my bag, reaching to blindly open the front door as I shout up the stairs. ‘Come on, Pops, we need to go!’ A rush of cool September air tickles the back of my neck.
Poppy slides down on her bum, each step bumping her pigtails, which bounce like glorious red, coiled springs. She doesn’t get her hair colour or the curls from me, they are definitely from her dad.
We stand side by side in front of the hall mirror. Facebook was awash with first day of school photos this morning, but I haven’t posted the one I took of her in her bedroom. Though, to most, she looked like an excited, proud and eager five-year-old, ready for her first ever day at school, I hate that I recognised a painted brave face, and faux giddiness. It’s not to say she won’t be fine, she will be, as soon as we get there and she meets up with Charlie, but right now, she’s definitely faking it. I catch my own face and realise where she gets it from; I’ve had this face on quite a bit over the last couple of weeks. What a bloody roller coaster. ‘Well, you look ready to get learning,’ I chirp.
She crouches down to fuss Frank, Grandma’s old dog who came back with me after the funeral last week. ‘So do you, Mum.’
‘It’s going to be funny, us being in the same building but not really seeing each other all day, isn’t it?’
‘You’ll see me. And I’ll see you.’ She stands, threading her hand in mine. ‘Don’t worry, Mum.’
I wonder if I could ever stop her feeling the need to make everything alright for everyone else, or if nature and nurture have this one pretty much sewn up? ‘Of course I will. Silly me. Now, come on, grab your coat and let’s get going.’
Her rucksack is almost as big as her, yet she casually throws it over her shoulder like a child much older than her years. I squeeze her tight, kissing her pigtailed head, wishing time would slow down as we head out into the September sunshine, almost tripping over a parcel on the top step. ‘Woah, careful.’ I instinctively put my arm out to stop her falling, checking up and down the road for the postie, she doesn’t normally come this early.
‘Is it for me?’ Poppy fumbles to pick the package up, peering at the name written neatly across the front.
‘Erm, no, I think it’s for me.’ The handwriting is unfamiliar, there’s no sender’s address.
‘Ohhh.’ She speaks disappointment but hasn’t actually stopped trying to paw at it. ‘Who’s it from? What is it?’ Her tiny hands pull at mine as she tries to get a closer look. ‘Open it, open it!’
I’m looking for a clue via the postmark, but there isn’t one, it’s been hand delivered. My phone dings to say it’s half past eight. ‘We’re going to have to wait until later.’ I drop it on the side, shooing Frank and his cocked leg away from the buddleia and back into the house. ‘Come on, in the car. We have to get to school, it wouldn’t do to be late on our first day, would it? See you later, Frank, I’ve left the radio on. Do you think he’ll like Radio 2, Poppy?’
But she’s gone, skipping round to the car, her feet crunching the pebbles on our drive. A breeze whips up scent from the climber that Grandma helped me plant a few years back. I’m really going to miss pottering around the garden with her.
We pass by Dad’s house. There’s no sign of life, though I’ve no doubt he’ll have been up for hours, probably down in the kitchen, reading today’s Telegraph or some such. Poppy watches the house as we go past. ‘Grandad was sad last week, wasn’t he?’
‘He was. It was his mummy that died, my grandma.’
‘I bet he probably cried. I’d cry if you died.’
I make noises of agreement but don’t really want to get in to this. Whether he cried or not doesn’t change the fact that he controlled the funeral in the same way he controlled her life in the last few years, mine presumably no longer available to him in quite the same way.
The guest list was small, he didn’t invite any of her church group. He refused to play Elvis, which I know she’d expressly asked him to do because she asked me too. Grandma’s best friend Iris was allowed to go, but I don’t know that she felt all that welcome. As far as funerals go, it was as staged as everything else he’s ever done, a show of love because to really feel it might hurt too much. Sometimes I wonder why he lives that way, and how I managed to avoid inheriting his approach to life. I guess I probably have my grandma to thank, or Grandma Elsie as Poppy always called her. Nurture over nature on that one. She was the closest thing I had to a mother, my own having died when I was a baby. And it wasn’t always easy with her. I lived with Dad; Grandma lived two streets away. We saw her often, so long as the two of them were speaking. I suppose she was as complicated as Dad, but ultimately, she taught me love and compassion and what it was to be a woman, and… I indicate into the school car park… what it is to be the best mother I can be.
‘Here we are.’ I pull up by the staff gate, waiting for it to lift. It feels weird being able to park in this end of the car park. We didn’t even dare walk through this bit when I was a kid, it was strictly teachers only. That I’m allowed to park here, the newest member of the team and not even a teacher, feels weird. Like I might get told off. Not that it feels as exclusive as it did back then. There are kids and parents cutting through from their car park all over.
‘Come on then. Let’s get you round to class, then I’ll head over to the office, okay?’
Poppy nods, her voice suddenly lost as she watches a sea of parents, in various states of polish, usher the fruits of their loins towards classrooms.
‘Look, there’s Charlie!’ I say, relieved, hoping her best friend might give her the boost she needs. Me too, for that matter. Charlie’s mum is Holly, my own best friend; Paul’s sister.
Poppy knocks on our car window, waving. But they both disappear around the corner of the building. Her shoulders sag.
‘Come on, let’s go catch them up.’
Rules about walking through the car park may have relaxed, but not much else has changed. The same plants grow in the garden, if a little bigger and wilder now. The same smells emanate from the kitchen; that school kitchen smell that is exactly the same regardless of what is actually on the menu. Unless it’s curry day, in which case it’s that smell, plus spice. Poppy grasps my hand in the way she only ever does when she’s nervous or shy. ‘It’ll be alright, Mum. You’ll be fine today, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘I will be just fine. I’m going to love every second and we can talk about it all on the way home at the end of the day.’
‘That’s right, Mum,’ she says, placated.
‘Morning, you, how you doing? Was last week okay? I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you. You’re really gonna miss her, eh?’ Holly pulls me in for one of her famous, all-encompassing hugs. She’s been in Playa Del Inglés for the last three weeks; Grandma died just after she’d gone and she wasn’t back ’til late last night so missed the funeral too. It was weird not having her here for such a significant moment in my life and she feels it too, if her extra tight hug squeeze is anything to go by.
‘It was… okay, I guess. A bit strange. Dad was in a particularly odd mood, and he wouldn’t play the Elvis track she wanted at the funeral.’
‘But she told you both that’s what she wanted.’
‘I know, right.’ I picture Dad’s face when he was absolute in the fact it wasn’t happening. ‘I suppose she’s not alive to see it, so maybe it doesn’t matter? I mean, maybe if she’d chosen something a bit more in keeping with the mood? ‘Hound Dog’ isn’t exactly mournful.’
‘Even more reason to have played it, if you ask me. Other than that, was it all okay with your dad?’
Poppy and Charlie are hopscotching by their classroom door.
‘I guess. He tried chatting, I did my best to chat back, under the circumstances. I just feel so… confused… actually, not confused, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he did things that way. It just felt wrong, somehow. And he’s definitely acting weirder than normal. Something’s brewing, I can feel it. He still hates that I took this job.’
‘I can’t get over him trying to get you sacked before you’d even started.’
‘He didn’t try to get me sacked.’
‘Well, no, okay. But he did try to persuade them not to employ you.’
‘Mmm.’ One of his mates is the brother-in-law of the head teacher here. Thankfully she paid no attention, but it was a stark reminder of how controlling Dad can be. He’d laid off for a while, maybe had even started to let me live my life. ‘Perhaps losing Grandma has hit him hard. Without her to look after and control, who’s he got?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Says he wants me to focus on getting some kind of degree.’
‘Online, presumably?’
‘Of course.’ Holly remembers when Dad tore up my university offer without my knowing until it was too late to accept. By which time, Billy and I had got back together and I wasn’t in such a rush to leave Lincolnshire. Not sure I’d have ever made much of a nurse anyway, I can’t stand the sight of blood. ‘I’ve told him I just want to work. I’ve always been happier when I’m working. I need this, for me and for Poppy. I just wish he’d stop judging every move I make.’
Holly takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Well, he’s not the only one judging you.’
‘What? Are you judging me? What for?’
‘Because you’re not wearing the good luck present I gave you!’ She fixes me with a look.
‘Oh! Was the box from you? Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to open it.’
‘Box?’
‘Yes! On the doorstep, this morning? Though you could have knocked. Or just brought it to school even.’
‘What box? I meant the envelope with the ironic friendship necklace I got you from Gran Canaria. I asked Paul to pop it through your letterbox on his way back from dropping me off.’
My heart flips. I’ve barely had a chance to think about the implication of seeing Paul again. Who, I realised pretty soon after he said how he felt, I’ve had a crush on for years, probably long ignored because I hadn’t for a second thought it would ever be reciprocated. He’s known me since I had bruised legs and a fringe my dad cut. How could that ever be considered sexy?
‘I can’t believe he forgot!’ She pulls out a necklace from beneath her T-shirt, hanging it off her index finger. A cracked half of a friendship heart hangs loosely, the word ‘Best’ on hers.
‘I assume “Friend” is on mine then?’
‘Gorgeous, right? Word to the wise, mind, don’t wear it in the shower. I put mine on so I wouldn’t forget it this morning and I think my neck has gone green.’ She rubs at a mark where the chain has been and grins. ‘Mind you, what can you expect from a five-euro gift?’
‘It’s the thought that counts.’
‘Correct! Which is why I want you to put it on as soon as he’s dropped it off. We can show it to all the other mums tomorrow.’ She pauses. ‘Ha! Who am I kidding? As if I want to talk to any of the rest of them.’
Holly has always pretended she’s not interested in making new friends, mainly because she handles rejection badly. She’s spiky sometimes, can be difficult to get along with. Some people find her directness off-putting, but I’ve always admired the fact that she speaks her truth and I know, without doubt, she has my back, no matter what. I look around at the collection of cliques in the playground. ‘Oh God, this is us now, isn’t it? For years to come. Mornings and afternoons of having to make small talk with people we have barely anything in common with.’
‘That’s right. Years of it. Years of avoiding requests to join the PTA, years of wondering which child is repeatedly giving yours nits – and no, lavender and tea tree spray doesn’t work. Years of wondering how you can say no to the party invite for the kid whose parents smell, argue, drink, or all of the above.’
‘Do you think we’re the only ones that feel that way?’
‘God knows. If we aren’t, they hide it better than us.’ She grins at me as the school bell goes and Poppy pulls up short, mid-hop.
I jog over to her. ‘Come on, you, give us a kiss. I can’t wait to hear all about your day. You’re going to have so much fun.’ She looks at me meekly. ‘Butterflies?’ I ask and she nods. ‘Me too.’
‘You’ll be fine, Mummy,’ she says, giving me a hug and I bite my bottom lip.
‘We both will be. Picky tea tonight?’ I know this will be just the motivation she needs to get on with her day because who doesn’t like a picky tea? ‘I reckon we’ve still got cake left from Grandma Elsie’s fuddle too. She’d be thrilled to know we’d be scoffing it after our first day at school.’ She’d been the one to encourage me to go for the job in the first place. She’d always been the one to encourage me to do everything in life. Where Dad locked doors, she snuck a key out and unlocked them.
‘Can we have a picnic in the lounge? With teddies?’ Poppy’s eyes are Disney-wide.
‘Of course!’
She gives me a hug just as Charlie runs past her, shouting encouragement to join him. I watch as she disappears into class, her teacher patting her on the head as she moves through the door. I dig deep for some of the same strength of character.
‘You’re gonna be fine,’ says Holly, her hand on my back. ‘I’m going to call Paul and kick off about your necklace now.’
The sound of his name, twice this morning, makes me flustered, so I give her a hug and leg it before she notices.
‘And then we had to sit on the carpet whilst Mrs Butterworth read us a story and I got to sit at the front beside her, which was great except that Jacob Lees sat next to me and kept picking at the sole on my shoe.’ Poppy yawns.
‘Tell him to stop.’
‘I did. But he wouldn’t.’ I twitch at how early ‘boys ignoring girls’ feelings’ begins, but now is not the time for my five-year-old to hear a feminist rant. ‘I made a new friend on the friendship bench.’
‘Oh yes? Did you sit on it, or did she?’
‘She did. I saw her on her own so said hello. She’s in the other class actually, she’s called Evie. I think she’s my new best friend. As well as Charlie.’
‘Yeah?’ I switch the engine off, sitting for a second as I stifle my own yawn. First day in a new job and whilst I can hardly say nine ’til three is a long day, it’s more than I’ve done for these last few years whilst Poppy was a baby. Dad was insistent, after bringing me back from Edinburgh, a week after Billy left me with just-days-old Poppy, that I stay at home and look after her. ‘You walked away from that job you had, they’re not going to take you back,’ he’d said about my part-time job at the local library. I’d loved that job. If Billy hadn’t been so keen to move to Scotland, and me so keen to try and make things work between us, maybe I’d still be there. Maybe, had I not been so crippled with anxiety, hormones and the breakdown of my relationship, I’d have asked to go back. And I should be grateful that Dad put money in my account every month, preferring me to be at home with Poppy anyway. I suppose I should be grateful for all the time I’ve had to learn to be her mum, courtesy of Dad pretty much paying for everything, and Grandma Elsie showing me the ropes, but now that I’m out the other side, I feel like I’ve lost a little bit of me in the process.
‘Evie likes teddies and the colour blue, not pink like the rest of the girls, so that’s probably why we are friends. Did you make a friend today, Mummy?’
I can’t admit to how intimidated I felt, sitting in a staffroom full of teachers and TAs who appeared to be full of confidence and clarity on who they are and what they do. Perhaps that’s just how they have to present. Maybe if I faked it, I’d make it?
‘I don’t know about making friends yet, I was pretty busy, to be honest.’ Which was true, and the bit I loved the most about today. No time to think about anything other than managing phone calls, letters to type up, forms to get out to classes, dinner monies to look after, the school website and Facebook page to learn how to update. I’m really grateful they gave me a shot at the job because it’s probably a bit of a risk for them to take on someone who’s been out of the game for so long. ‘I think I’m going to love my new job!’
She heads inside first. ‘Oooh! Your present, Mum!’ She slings her coat off, leaving it on the floor as she leaps on the parcel I’d forgotten about until now. Frank sleepily fusses around our ankles, tail wagging. He’s getting too old to do all the jumping he used to when we’d visit Grandma. I tickle the top of his head and he leans into it.
‘What could it be?’ she says, shaking the box to her ear.
‘I’ll have that, thank you. You go hang your coat up, please.’
She picks it up and jumps just a little so she can hook her hood over the bannister, which isn’t quite hanging it up, but it’ll do.
‘Can I open it? Please, Mummy, can I?’
‘It’s for me!’
‘Yes but, I can help, can’t I?’
Her excitement makes me grin. ‘Come on then.’
Together, we unwrap the brown paper to find more paper, white tissue paper this time. Poppy rips against my gentle unfolding. ‘Hang on, careful.’ I take it from her, unwrapping the last layer to reveal the most exquisite notebook. Handmade with thick brown paper, a stitched cover with an abstract pattern interwoven with gold thread. I run my finger down the front of it, the different kinds of fabric and textures make my hands tingle. ‘Wow!’
Poppy leans on me, reaching her hand across to copy me as I stroke the front page. The weight of her feels nice, reassuring. I open the book up and flick through the pages to find tiny headings on alternate pages.
‘What does it say, Mummy? What’s it for?’
I pause on one of the front inside pages where, handwritten, it says,
Tell me your dreams…
‘What does that mean?’ asks Poppy, frowning as she peers.
‘Well, I don’t know, I guess it’s asking what we want in life?’
‘I’d like Evie to come round for tea. And maybe Charlie too. I think they’re going to really like each other.’
She climbs on my lap, so I pull her in for a cuddle. ‘Are they your dreams?’
‘Yes. And also, I’d like a cat.’ She looks up at me sweetly, just like she always does when this subject comes up. ‘A cat like Scamp.’ Scamp being my dad’s old cat who she can’t possibly remember because Scamp died two and half years ago and I think she’s romanticised the grumpy old, scratchy, hissy bugger. Though, in his defence, I’d be scratchy and hissy if a two-year-old was terrorising me like she did him.
‘I wonder what Frank would think about a cat in our house? Go on, get changed. Lay your school clothes out on your bed so we can hang them up for tomorrow. I’ll start tea.’
Poppy climbs the stairs on her hands and knees and I stand, shaking my head. A card falls out of the gift.
Lisa, here is a place for your hopes and dreams. Writing them down is the first step to making them happen. Good luck in your new job. X
I study the handwriting, my heart quickens. I don’t recognise it. It’s definitely not Holly’s; hers is unmistakable, sort of fat and loopy, full of flourish and generosity. Is it wrong to say hers is very definitely the handwriting of a woman? This though, it’s tight, clean, neither male nor female, just tidy. And whoever it is, knows about my job. I run through the people that know: Holly, already discounted; Paul… I mean, I suppose… it’s not really his style though, is it? Dad… I can’t remember the last time I saw his writing, though I guess his probably could be described as tight. He’s not been one to nurture dreams though, more wrap them up and pack them away in case they take me anywhere but within walking distance of him. I haven’t specifically told anyone else, but in our village, everybody knows everything.
I flick through the pages again, finding another where the words: Who nurtures you? are handwritten. And another, How do you feel right now? and more, Who do you want to be? What is important? It’s got to be someone who knows me, the questions are so personal, so probing. Paul and I have talked about some of this stuff, when we’ve all gone out together, usually when Holly is at the bar or chatting some bloke up and we’ve been left alone. Considering they’re siblings, he’s definitely a deeper thinker than she is. I guess he always has been, from back when Holly and I were silly teenagers and he was heading to college, his head always in a book of one sort or another. I could see how it might be from him, especially after what he said before they went on holiday. He wouldn’t want to admit to it straight away, I guess. He’s probably still giving me space. I take my phone out. Should I just message him a thank you? My phone dings in my hand making me jump.
I hope Poppy’s first day went well. X
Dad. I read his message a few times, wondering how best to respond. Frustrated that he hasn’t mentioned it was mine too. I suppose a first day at school is more significant than a new job. And I should be grateful that he remembered at all, really. He’s just lost his mum. He’s no doubt grieving. Maybe that was what was behind him interfering at the school? He just wasn’t thinking straight? The text is probably his way of saying sorry. Sometimes though, I just wish he’d actually say that. Or not interfere in the first place.
I go to type something back to him, but everything seems not quite right somehow. I’. . .
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