Page 6 of Caught in a Storm

“No, they called you a rock-and-roll recluse,” says Poppy. “That actually sounds quite cool, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t. It makes me sound like the Unabomber.”

Poppy laughs. “What’s the Unabomber?”

“Nothing. Just some weirdo.”

“Well, weirdo or not,” says Poppy, “you came off as badass. They also called you the quiet Flower. I liked that, too.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” says Margot. “I’m not quiet. I’m certainly not a recluse.”

On the tiny phone screen, her daughter’s mouth turns upward. “You’re sure about that? Should I have Siri give us the definition of recluse?”

“Poppy!” says Margot.

“Mum!” says Poppy, teasing.

Mum. Margot is white and American; her ex-husband is Black and British. Poppy’s childhood was spent being shuttled between London, New York, and Los Angeles, so her accent, like her skin, is a perfect blend of her parents’. The result is a young woman who sounds like an American playacting at being a Brit.

Poppy called ten minutes ago to give Margot the rundown on the documentary. The episode featuring Burnt Flowers premiered over the weekend. Margot hasn’t watched it, because she never watches anything having to do with herself or the band. And now she’s glad she didn’t.

“I’m a perfectly normal person,” she says. “I take walks to get my coffee, and I go shopping. I chat with my neighbors. I say hello to their stupid little dogs.”

Her daughter doesn’t seem to buy it. “When’s the last time you took one of these alleged walks?”

“Poppy, it’s been pouring all day, see?” Margot angles her phone to the window.

Poppy ignores the weather and instead takes in her mom’s full reflection in the glass. “Nice jammies, by the way. Are you…are you not wearing a bra? Mum, it’s nearly lunchtime there.”

Margot turns her phone back around. “Yes, I’m wearing a bra. It’s an old one. What else did they say?”

Poppy adjusts an earbud. She’s at her office in San Francisco. Margot can see young professionals behind her looking at computer screens. “Relax, it was all very flattering,” she says. “Rock goddesses and all that. They talked about how you founded the band. The flyer you posted. Et cetera.”

Margot leans her back against the window. “What songs did they play?”

“ ‘Power Pink,’ mostly, which was cool. One of Nikki’s solo songs, too. The one with the video that’s like soft porn.”

Margot pictures her former bandmate gyrating. Nikki’s career as a solo artist has been a mix of hits and misses, but the releases have been steady, and she’s stayed in the public eye by occasionally popping up as a guest judge on singing shows and somehow maintaining the body she had when she was in her twenties. “Did they show the MTV thing?” she asks.

“They didn’t show it, no,” says Poppy. “They alluded to it, though. Called it a high-profile meltdown, I think. Nothing specific.”

That one stings, too: meltdown. Like recluse, it’s a distinctly Unabombery word. “What about the picture?” she asks. “Did they use that goddamn picture?”

“What picture?”

“The picture, Poppy. Your dad carrying me into Radio City Music Hall.”

Poppy bites her lip. “Well, yeah.”

“Shit,” says Margot.

“I know you hate that picture,” says Poppy. “I get it, I guess. But I think you can understand why I love it.”

Margot used to love it, too. A framed print once hung from the wall fifteen feet from where she’s standing now. However, if Margot could push a button and somehow erase it from existence and the Internet, she would, without hesitation.

“Anyway,” says Poppy, “your bum looked great in that dress, and you know it, too.”

Her daughter is being supportive, so Margot makes a go at smiling.