The Kicking the Bucket List: The feelgood bestseller of 2017. Cathy Hopkins
probably did,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ve had colonics. They’re not so bad. Your skin will glow and your eyes will sparkle. Doesn’t hurt. Might even do us some good.’
‘And this is supposed to bring us together how?’ asked Rose.
‘I can see the sense of it, sort of,’ I said. ‘A clear-out is always a good thing. Like clearing the leaves out of drains, get rid of the rubbish and you get to the clear water underneath.’
Rose raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Typical of you to say something like that. Did you hear it at one of your New Age workshops down in Cornwall?’
‘No, but I do tell my art students that when they feel that their work isn’t going well. In any creative venture, you always have to clear the gunk first. Don’t you tell your writers that?’
‘No. I tell them to rewrite.’
‘Same thing, sort of.’
But I’d lost Rose’s attention. As far as she was concerned, she was the only one whose opinion mattered when it came to being creative. She glanced at her watch. ‘There are so many other things I could be doing with this weekend. I’m going to my room. I’ll see you for the first session at eleven.’
With that, she turned and walked off.
Fleur sighed and took the paper from me. ‘Ah. Happy days,’ she said as she glanced at it, then left the room and took off in the direction of the bar.
Saturday 10 October
At 11 a.m., the three of us trooped back to the library for the first session, where our counsellor was already waiting. She looked to be in her sixties, a large woman with silver hair past her shoulders, chunky amber jewellery, layered clothes the colours of autumn: ochre, brown and orange, and a pair of wide, comfy shoes, the kind bought by older people with bunions. Fleur would probably comment later on her bosom and need for a good bra – an over-shoulder boulder-holder, she used to call them.
The counsellor introduced herself as Beverly. She spoke with an American accent, East Coast – possibly a New Yorker. ‘I met your mother on several occasions when she came and stayed here in her younger days,’ she said.
‘Our mother actually came here?’ asked Rose.
Beverly nodded. ‘She did. She attended a few of the workshops I ran over the years. She contacted me earlier in the year and told me she was putting together a list of activities for you and asked if I would meet with you as part if it. I suggest that we begin by introducing ourselves. Would one of you like to start?’
‘We’re sisters,’ said Rose. ‘We grew up in the same house. We don’t need any introduction.’
Beverly regarded her for a few seconds. She had a very direct gaze. ‘I do this with all my clients, even the married ones. We so often think we know each other, but actually there’s always something new we can learn. Rose, why don’t you go first? Tell us a little about yourself.’
Ha-ha. Take that Rose, I thought.
Rose gave a tight smile and, without looking at Fleur or me, began to speak. ‘My name’s Rose Edwards. I live in Highgate, London. I’m fifty-one years old. Two children. One husband. I work in publishing.’
‘Speak to Fleur and Dee, Rose.’
Rose turned in her seat. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked through gritted teeth.
‘How do you feel about being here, Rose?’ asked Beverly.
The look Rose gave Beverly almost made me laugh. I knew it so well. Her ‘I won’t be bossed around and you watch your step missie’ face. Beverly reflected it right back. This could be fun, I thought as I settled in my chair as Rose continued. ‘I feel frustrated. I don’t want to be here. I have better things to do with my time.’
‘Good,’ said Beverly. If Rose was expecting an argument, she wasn’t going to get one. ‘Now you Daisy.’
I turned to look at Fleur and Rose. ‘Mum was the only one who called me Daisy. I’m Dee McDonald. Forty-nine. Divorced, presently single. One daughter, doing well, and thanks to both of you for asking about her. OK, we might have fallen out but she’s still your niece.’
‘Mum always let us know how she’s doing. Anyway, we’re in touch on Facebook,’ said Fleur.
‘You are?’ Ouch. That was news to me and hurt. Lucy hadn’t accepted me as her Facebook friend, but then ours had never been an easy relationship and we’d often been at war with each other when she was growing up. We weren’t close like Mum and I had been, though I hadn’t given up hope that one day we might be. Lucy was wilful and stubborn as a child, ran wild in her teenage years, and her opinions often clashed with mine. As soon as she left school at eighteen, she was out the door and went to get a job in London and live with her aunt, Andy’s sister. She’d lasted less than a year there, then went to live in Byron Bay in Australia, near her father, who she adored and who could do no wrong. We Skyped regularly, but letting me see her Facebook page was a no-no as far as she was concerned.
‘Yes. She often messages me,’ said Fleur. Turn the knife, why don’t you Fleur? I thought.
‘Let Dee speak,’ said Beverly. ‘How do you feel about being here Dee?’
‘I was feeling great, but now I feel insulted that my sister Rose feels she has better things to do with her time than be here with Fleur and me. I think the least we can do is try to approach things with a positive attitude.’ What I didn’t say was that I was gutted that Lucy and Fleur were friends on Facebook and I’d been left out. It felt too familiar, reminiscent of times with Fleur and Rose when I’d been excluded from their various groups of friends.
Rose rolled her eyes.
‘Good,’ said Beverly. Good? Is she mad? I wondered. You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife. ‘And lastly, Fleur.’
‘Fleur Parker. Youngest. Married twice. Presently single. Nicest of the three.’ She grinned at Beverly.
‘Don’t hide your feelings behind jokes and charm, Fleur. How do you feel about being here?’
‘Actually I feel good,’ she replied, and turned to look at Rose and me. ‘I think the stupid standoff has gone on long enough and it’s time to make up. We’ve just lost our mother. It’s a time to be with family.’
If it’s not too late, I thought.
‘We were never close,’ said Rose.
‘Yes we were. We were. I remember loads of good times with both of you. You have a selective memory, Rose. I’ve missed you both.’
I was surprised to hear this. Fleur had always been so independent, and never appeared to need anyone, except in her thirties when she’d gone through a bad patch with alcohol. She used to call in the early hours of the morning when she’d been drinking to bemoan about some relationship or other, but mainly to berate me for not being there for her, as if she was the only one who ever had problems. Rose had had many years of the same phone calls, and both of us had grown weary of them and taken to putting the answering machine on after ten in the evening.
‘I do have a selective memory,’ said Rose. ‘And that is why we’re not close – because I remember what you can be like.’
Beverly nodded. ‘Fleur’s turn, Rose.’
‘People change,’ said Fleur, ‘conquer demons.’
‘Do they?’ Rose replied.
‘Not you apparently,’ said Fleur.
‘Meaning?’