Poppy’s friends were now the cool muso crowd. Norah knew she could never be cool enough for them and didn’t care to be. Norah had friends, loosely speaking, but mainly, she liked to spend a lot of time drawing, which happened to be a solo pursuit. Hanging out with other people had never been a priority.

Though Norah’s and Poppy’s lives ran parallel, they didn’t intersect much. Occasionally, they’d see each other on their street and smile and say hello—nothing more. Norah thought she seemed alright, but who could tell at a distance?

Only Poppy was asking for her. She’d never done that before.

‘Did she say what she wanted?’ Norah questioned Joy.

‘No, she just asked if you were here. Which you weren’t. And she left.’ Joy dabbed at her piece.

Norah frowned. ‘OK. Weird.’

She turned back to her bastard project and soon forgot about it.

Four

Now

Poppy sat in a boxy, drab kitchen, looking at the clock in agony: 2.15. She was due to pick up Luna in an hour, which meant running into Norah again. Poppy had had all day to mull over their interaction. That was no good thing. She was feeling very paranoid.

Norah had been here building relationships with the other parents for a while, and Poppy was a newcomer. If Norah hated her and decided to do something with that feeling, it might not be too hard to make everyone else hate her.

Was Norah that person, though? She hadn’t been when Poppy knew her. But a lot of time had passed. And the way she’d treated Poppy today.... There was anger there, still. That much was clear.

But who was she now? What was her life? She’d always carried a melancholy; it had been part of her charm. But where was the shine that went with it? Those grey, almond-shaped eyes had always been deep and mysterious, but a little of the soul in them had seeped out somewhere along the way. She still had that sexy, sarcastic mouth, but it didn’t smile.

Who was Norah Cauldwell now? Poppy didn’t know. She only knew who she had been.

Twenty Years Ago

‘I did look for her. She wasn’t in,’ Poppy explained to her mum, sitting in the kitchen eating a biscuit.

Her mother was stirring something mysterious on the hob. It didn’t smell very good.

‘Then go and call for her,’ her mother said.

Poppy sighed. ‘I’m not eight. I can’t just bang on someone’s door and ask them to play.’ She paused. ‘I don’t even know what you think I can do, anyway.’

‘Come on, Pop,’ her mother said. ‘I’m not going through this again.’

‘I’m not a grief counsellor, Mum,’ Poppy said.

She knew how it sounded. Like she didn’t care what had happened to Norah. And of course, she did. Truly. However, she and Norah weren’t friends now. How could Poppy help?

‘I know that,’ her mother retorted, tossing a sharp look over her shoulder. ‘But I just think she could do with someone who understands.’

Poppy sighed again. ‘Mum...’

‘I know this feels like a lot to ask. But I just think it’s important you try and talk to her. At least once. I talked to her mum. I don’t think either of them is coping.’

‘Did she say that?’ Poppy asked.

‘Of course not. She acted like everything was fine,’ her mother said, turning the hob off and going to the table, where she leant her hands on the back of the chair opposite Poppy.

‘Maybe it is,’ Poppy suggested.

Her mother raised an eyebrow.

Poppy looked down at the table. ‘Yeah, OK. Fine. I’ll go.’ She pushed the rest of her biscuit into her mouth. She looked back up to find her mother staring at her. ‘What, now?’ Poppy asked, mouth full of hobnob.

‘Yes.’

Poppy got to her feet with a heavy heart. This was going to be so bloody awkward.

Poppy walked out of their old red front door, down Orchid Road and knocked on Norah’s blue front door. She was thinking about how to open. Something about just wanting to hang out? That would be weird. They didn’t hang out, ever. Maybe she could ask for some help with something school-related? But that would be a pretty see-through lie since they didn’t share any classes.

Poppy pushed the doorbell, hoping inspiration would strike when the moment arrived. But then Norah answered, looking at her, she asked, ‘Is this about that casserole dish?’

That threw Poppy for a loop. ‘What?’

‘Joy told me you were asking for me, and I remembered your mum gave my mum a stew thing a few weeks ago, so I thought...’

‘Oh. No, it’s not that,’ Poppy said. But what was it?

Norah stared at her, waiting. Her irritation showed in those shrewd grey eyes. Inspiration had failed to strike Poppy. There was only one thing for it.

‘Can I be honest?’ Poppy asked.

Norah looked confused. ‘I don’t know, can you?’

‘Look, the thing is... I think you’re gonna hate this. The reason I’m here. So I think I just need to tell you straight out, and then you can tell me to piss off, OK? Because that’s what I’d do if I were you.’

Norah looked increasingly puzzled. ‘Hate what?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh.’

Poppy nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Was it your mum’s idea?’

Poppy nodded, grateful that Norah was intuiting a lot about the situation. Saying it aloud would be agony.

‘Well, come in for a bit, and then you can at least tell her, god, I don’t know. But something.’

Poppy smiled. ‘I appreciate your understanding on this.’

‘It’s just mum bullshit, that’s all,’ Norah said with a wry smile that Poppy would come to know well in time.

Poppy laughed. ‘Yeah.’ And she went in, thinking, Maybe it won’t be so dreadful after all.

Now