turn left into the road, a black Mini Cooper swung past me into the little gravel drive opposite. It disappeared around the back of the flint cottage. It all happened terribly quickly, but not so fast that I didn’t make out the blonde driver and the briefest glimpse of a male passenger beside her. I sat, frozen. Turned off the engine and slid right down in my seat, pulling my scarf up over my face. A few seconds later, the downstairs front room of the cottage sprang into light. Emma came towards me across the room, laughing, head thrown back. She was wearing a tight pink cardigan with lots of silver chains around her neck, white jeans which showed off her figure, and her face was alight, blonde hair flopping over one eye. She reached for the curtain cord with one hand and flicked her fringe back in a practised fashion with the other, before turning, no doubt to the man who’d followed her into the room, as the curtains swished shut.
I sat there as if I’d been shot. Barely breathing. I tried to marshal my thoughts which were spinning like a kaleidoscope. So Emma had a man. And she definitely had him, there was no doubt about that: no mistaking the body language, the tight clothes, the flirtatious laugh. And she was looking good too, which surprised me. She’d scrubbed up. Moved on. Stepped right over Phil, over his grave. For this was not a girl to let the grass grow under her feet, particularly the grass on a mound. Why was I surprised? Because I’d thought true love would last a bit longer? Because Phil was barely cold? But perhaps it hadn’t been true love for her. Perhaps she hadn’t been besotted with him. But if not, what had been the point? Just sex, I supposed. An affair. For four years. I took a deep breath. Exhaled shakily. You really do need to get out more, Poppy. Need to grow up.
I drove home slowly, trying to work out how I felt before I had to make small talk with my babysitter. It was one in the eye for Phil, surely? Emma wasn’t exactly beating her breast and rending her hair, so stick that in your pipe, Mr Shilling; nobody’s mourning you now. I glanced guiltily up to the heavens, feeling bad. Guilt. Another feeling that had ambushed me lately. But why should I feel guilty? Emma should be the one with her life turned upside down, yet she was way ahead of me. No life on hold for her. Oh no, just the money, please, I thought suddenly. I could see her holding out her hand, clicking her fingers impatiently, nails freshly painted. Just hand it over. I gripped the steering wheel hard. Yes. Right. We’ll see about that. Had it helped my resolve, I wondered, seeing that little vignette? D’you know, I believe it had. As I drove up to my house I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, caught my own eye, as it were. For some reason it reminded me of Mum. Or … was it the woman I might have been, had Mum not died? Whoever it was seemed flintier than me. Had more of a glint to her eye. She seemed to say: find a bit of inner strength, Poppy dear. A bit of steel, hm?
Felicity was just putting my phone down hurriedly when I went into the kitchen. She went pink.
‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Poppy. I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, unwinding my scarf and thinking that every time Felicity babysat I found her on my phone, something that never happened with Frankie.
‘Gosh, I love your bag,’ she gushed in a confident manner. ‘Is it new?’
‘No, I’ve had it for years, but thanks.’
Flattery to ingratiate, I thought uncharitably as I took my coat off. Understandable, of course, in a fifteen-year-old who’s been found running up my phone bill. She flicked back her long tawny hair as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag from the table, just as Emma had crossed the room to the window and swept back her fringe. Some girls knew the way forward, didn’t they? Had the savoir faire, the pretty learned manners. Did I want Clemmie to flick back her hair with a jewelled hand? I wasn’t sure. I tailed Felicity thoughtfully down the hall to the door.
‘Have you seen anything of Frankie, now you’re back?’