In person, Poppy Carrie was an impossible mixture of normal and extraordinary. She turned up wearing jeans and boots, a cream cashmere-silk sweater, and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses—nothing about her at all to scream “famously beautiful person.” Except looking at her for too long made it hard to breathe. She had this dreamy, summery English loveliness, all corn-gold hair and eyes like freshly turned earth, and this shy scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There was definitely a trace of Nik around her cheekbones and in the generosity of her mouth.
She’d come from LA, with her…boyfriend? A six-foot-something hunk of weathered manhood called Colt Dawson, who had a ranch out in Montana, and did stuff with horses for Hollywood. Apparently they’d met on the set of Madame Bovary. I got all this from the internet, frantically googling something I could say to Colt as we sat together in the waiting room because we were giving Nik and Poppy time to talk.
Colt himself had said exactly zero words. And was occupying his chair with a degree of stillness I usually only associated with the deceased.
I, of course, was wriggling. Topics flitting in and out of my brain like moon-drunk moths.
“Soooo,” I said, “did you vote for Trump?”
“Nope.”
“Oh yay. I mean, I guess I thought you might have what with being, well, y’know, all with the horses and the big sky and things.”
“Nope.”
“Not that you have to explain your beliefs or your politics or your opinions or anything to some random English guy you just met in a hospital waiting room.”
“Didn’t plan to.”
“Well.” I wheezed anxiously. “Good talk.”
Eventually, we were allowed back in. They both looked a little tearful, but in a happy sort of way. Then Poppy smiled at me, and I tried not to die.
“It’s Arden, isn’t it?” Her voice was softly musical, deep but light somehow, and it was so nice to hear another English accent.
Nod. Nod nod.
“I’d love a cup of tea? Do you want to come with me?”
Oh. My. God. “Y-yes. That would be really nice.” Great. I sounded like a robot. “There’s a Coffee Central near the lobby. They do hot and cold beverages. And muffins. And smoothies. And pastries sometimes and I’m not being paid to advertise them or anything.”
“Perfect.”
She slipped her arm through mine and we made our way downstairs, this new reality, where Poppy Carrie touched me as she might a friend, quietly dissolving what was left of my brain.
OMG, Arden, say something.
Actually: check that. You aren’t allowed to say anything ever.
“How are you finding America?” she asked.
“Oh. Um. I’m not sure. It still feels unreal.” I smiled—yep, I smiled at Poppy Carrie and she smiled back. “I mean, Boston looks like I built it last week in Sim City.”
She laughed. “But you know in American terms, it’s ancient.”
“It is?”
“Yes.” She lowered her voice to an awed whisper. “Nearly four hundred years old.”
I put a hand to my brow. “No!”
“And, compared to somewhere like New York or Washington, far less artificial than it could be. Like Oxford, Boston was essentially designed by cows.”
“Hey, I’ve seen the Charles. The only cow fording that is a giant space cow.”
“Well, they do say everything’s bigger in America.”
We’d made it to the coffee place and I hadn’t passed out or embarrassed myself too badly. Actually, apart from occasional flashes of OMG Poppy Carrie, I was feeling fairly comfortable. She vaguely reminded me of Nik. Well, if he was way prettier and way more charming. But she had his appreciation for the absurd—which might have been why they both gave every impression of liking me.
“I’m so sorry, but can I be really annoying?” Poppy was saying to the barista, who frankly looked as though her being annoying at him might be the highlight of his life. “Can I have a cup of boiling water, and a tea bag separately, and some milk in a jug? I know you must hate me right now but some rather terrible things have happened to tea out here.”
“N-no, that’s fine.”
Poppy seemed blissfully unaware of the fact she could probably have asked for a black chicken to be sacrificed in a pentagram of blood, and would have received the same answer. “What about you, Arden?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“Please. My treat.”
Ahhh. What was I possibly supposed to say? I couldn’t enter into a battle of British politeness with Poppy Carrie. That was insane. “Gosh. Thank you. I’ll have a strawberry smoothie.”
A few minutes later we were settled into a corner and I was trying not to slurp my drink too noisily—which was borderline impossible because I swear to God someone had left half a banana in there. No offense to Coffee Central.
“I just wanted to thank you,” said Poppy. “For taking such good care of Nik.”
I squirmed. “It wasn’t a big deal.
“You don’t have to downplay it. Having you here has helped him a lot. And I’m so glad you called me.”
“I’m glad I did too. I mean, I’d do anything for Nik but I’m not…I mean…this has all been a bit overwhelming.”
She nodded, stirring her tea. “I can imagine. Which is partly why—and I hope you won’t feel I’m trying to take something from you—we’d like it if I could officially replace you as Nik’s next of kin. You’ve been wonderful, Arden, but really it should be me, not you.”
“Oh God, that’s fine. I’m not trying to keep your brother from you.”
“I never thought that for a moment.”
“Honestly, I only agreed because it seemed funny. We never actually thought I’d have to do any next-of-kinning.” I grappled non-euphemistically with my banana and then gave up, as it had lodged itself immovably in the straw. “We got superdrunk once and made a pact to get married if we both turned thirty-seven and weren’t with anyone else. I wouldn’t hold him to that either.”
She gave me a mischievous grin. “You’re very cute. What if he tries to hold you to it?”
“Well, he’s hot and funny and clever and nice. So I’d say yes, obviously.”
“Can I come to the wedding?”
“You’re welcome at any and all of my queer, hypothetical weddings.”
There was a brief pause.
“I’m so glad Nikki has a friend like you,” she said softly. “We haven’t kept in touch since I left home and, obviously, this isn’t how I would have wanted to reconnect. But I’ve thought about him a lot.”
“From what he said, he feels bad about how things went before.”
“That was partially on me. He was, in his confused, teenage way, trying to protect me. And I was—I suppose I still am—very angry.”
I stared at her—so composed in her cashmere, with her tea. “You don’t seem like an angry person.”
“Therapy. And”—she gave a slightly wry smile—“Colt, oddly enough. He understands wild things. Sometimes he just takes me out into the middle of nowhere and I scream until there’s no screams left. Then we lie in the bed of his truck and watch the sun set and the stars come out.”
“That sounds way better than therapy.”
“And there’s always action movies.” She made an absolutely ferocious face and mimed firing what I presumed was an automatic weapon. “Eat this, motherbitches. Very cathartic. Especially if you have an unholy vendetta against blue screens.”
I burst into rapturous applause. “And the award for best motherbitches goes to…”
“Now you know why I’m an actor not a writer.” She put down her gun. “But you are, aren’t you? Nikki said you were a journalist?”
“Well, I’m working on it.” I was doing it again. I took a breath, and went on. “Actually, I’ve had a piece accepted by Milieu.”
“Congratulations. Nikki loves Milieu, though, of course, he pretends he doesn’t read it. They approached me not too long ago. But I tend to avoid interviews wherever possible.”
“Is it weird? People wanting to ask you a bunch of questions?”
She tucked a lock of hair back into the knotty thing she currently had going on. “I think it’s more…it’s always the same questions. I know it’s very selfish of me because I do care about transgender rights. But sometimes all I want to be representing is me.”
“I don’t think that’s selfish. You’re a person, not a political entity.”
“And the truth is”—her eyes glittered, revealing a glimpse of the person who liked to wander into the wilderness and scream at the sky—“it feels as though the rest of the world is fascinated by things I myself find unbelievably boring. Like the body I inhabit. Or the name my parents gave me.”
“What would you want to be asked?”
“Oh, anything that doesn’t secretly want to be ‘what happened to your penis?’ The same questions every other actor gets. I suppose I just want to talk about my job.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
And then I froze, gripped by an idea. An idea that—like my dissertation—was either great or terrible, and I wouldn’t know which until I saw what people thought of it. Except did I really want to live the rest of my life as someone who’d pissed off Poppy Carrie? But, then, if I didn’t, I’d have to live as someone who’d completely blanked what might have been a perfect opportunity.
“Well.” Oh shit. I was speaking. “I know this isn’t the best time to mention this, but you could always talk to me, if you wanted.”
Her smile, if anything, grew even warmer. “I think I’d like being interviewed by you.”
I sealed my lips before a startled “are you sure” could escape. And I didn’t faint either (though I resolved to run mad later). But, oh fuck, what was I supposed to do now? The last interview I’d conducted had been for the Sebby Hall Bog Sheet. And the subject of it had been the spider plant in the Junior Common Room.
“Do I contact your…publicist to get something set up?” I asked, doing my very best impression of a professional person. “I mean, I’m freelance at the moment so I’m available whenever.”
A slight pause. Then, “How about now?”
I managed an affirmative squeak.
She laughed. “I was thinking, perhaps, we could just keep on as we are. And see what comes out of it.”
Holy shit. An exclusive interview with Poppy Carrie. This was probably the sort of thing that changed your life. And it was happening right the fuck now. Except…as much as I wanted this, I also wanted to do it right. Which would have to involve some honesty. I braced myself for disaster. “Look, I should tell you, I’ve never done anything like this before. I might balls it up beyond redemption.”
“Maybe you will. But”—she met my eyes over the rim of her cup—“I have a feeling you won’t.”
I thought about it for a moment. Maybe I had that feeling too. “Is it okay if I record it on my phone?”
She nodded. “I’ve almost finished my tea, though. Would you like another smoothie?”
“For this?” I grinned. “I’m going to need a fucking muffin.”
* * *
Afterward, I sat in my hotel room, ate my way through a king’s ransom of snacks, and tried to translate recorded words into written words while keeping, somehow, the feeling of them. And the truth of the person who had spoken them.
And it was fucking impossible.
Give me “Ten Mineral Waters You Absolutely Must Try” or “An Intimate Guide to Tending the Boylawn” any day.
This was too vast. Too complex. Too real.
My ability to language had become this octopus, all flailing tentacles and squishiness, resisting my best attempts to corral it into the shapes I needed.
Ahhhhh.
I threw myself onto the bed and rolled about, kicking my feet, expertly converting mental distress into physical dramatics. Weirdly, it helped. Cleared my head. And, probably as a Pavlovian reaction to all the wanking I’d got up to recently, made me think of Caspian. Specifically what he’d said to me on the plane back from Kinlochbervie: that wanting something meant letting yourself be vulnerable.
And I wanted—oh how I wanted—to do a good job with this.
Not just for me and my career. But for Poppy.
She deserved an interview that captured at least something of who she was. Her anger and her kindness, her charisma and her strength.
Fuck it fuck it fuck it.
I sat up and grabbed my laptop. Slammed every door in my brain that didn’t lead to Poppy Carrie.
Wrote: Eat it, motherbitches.
Kept writing: Poppy Carrie isn’t like you think she is. And then she’s not like that either.
Soon there was nothing but the hours passing. The words ebbing and flowing across my screen.