Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  I cleared my throat to spare Alice the crack in my voice. ‘He rented the office above, but some days he’d spend more time with us than upstairs – especially in winter. The heat from the charcoal grill had something to do with that.’

  ‘Pete said it was the lure of your mum’s home-made tzatziki.’

  I smiled for the first time since the phone call. It felt good to remember; the happy memories were as comforting as a blanket.

  ‘He used to give me his copy of Re:Sound after he’d read it and we’d talk about bands for hours. My life would have taken a very different turn if Patrick hadn’t been in it.’

  ‘Pete says your parents wanted you to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Immigrants always want their children to train to get proper jobs, and I don’t blame them. It helped that Pete was happy to go into accountancy, it took the pressure off me. So, when I announced I wanted to do an English degree, they reassured themselves that I could always be a teacher. They wanted more for us than the slog of working in a restaurant. But then, if it wasn’t for that restaurant I wouldn’t have met Patrick.’

  After she left I didn’t manage to sleep at all. The hours ticked by and it felt like I was just waiting for my alarm to go off.

  I dozed a bit on the train, thankful it was the weekend, otherwise I wouldn’t have got a seat, but for the last part of the journey back to London, I gazed listlessly out of the window.

  I now found myself back at my flat sitting on a hard-backed kitchen chair, my bones aching from tiredness, mechanically chewing toast and forcing back coffee in an effort to jumpstart myself awake.

  I wanted to go to the hospital – surely he’d be allowed visitors by now? But would I be allowed in to see him? I wasn’t family, and I didn’t know any members of Patrick’s as he never talked about them. I only knew Justin.

  It was only a few days ago that Patrick and I had been chatting in John Lewis and he’d told me how much he was looking forward to spending more time at his vineyard in Crete. He was going to learn how to make wine, and I’d teased him that he’d spend his days content just to drink it. The idea that he might never make it back to Crete made me feel sick all over again.

  I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit here.

  I googled the name of the hospital that Justin had given me. It was somewhere off Harley Street. Whether I was allowed in or not was in the lap of the gods. I just knew I had to try.

  *

  It was spitting when I came out of the station at Oxford Circus. I pulled up my hoodie and cursed myself for not bringing an umbrella. I could have stayed underground, changed onto the Bakerloo Line and got off at Regent’s Park – the tube closest to the hospital – but trains were so unreliable at the weekends, it was faster to walk.

  Despite the rain, I found myself walking slowly. Every so often I’d chide myself to get a move on, but it still took me almost twenty minutes to reach the hospital. Then there was some confusion over which wing I needed, and by the time I’d found the right entrance, I’d been walking for a full half hour. My hands were frozen and my trainers were sodden.

  The reception was empty, with only a receptionist and security guard sitting behind a curved mahogany desk.

  I walked towards them, my sockless feet squelching in my trainers. ‘I’m here to see Patrick Armstrong.’

  The receptionist clicked a couple of times on her computer, but before she could speak, the lift doors slid open and Justin walked out. He didn’t need to speak; his ashen face said it all. He caught my eye and shook his head.

  I was too late. Patrick was dead.

  I felt my body sway, and I swung out my arm to steady myself against the wall. Justin was walking towards me; I blinked furiously, trying to get my eyes to focus.

  I realised Justin was talking and that his hand was gently touching my forearm. ‘Zoë,’ he repeated. ‘You’re in shock. I think we all are.’

  His words snapped me to attention. ‘I’m so sorry, Justin. Sorry for your loss, and for not being here for Pat sooner.’

  ‘There was nothing any of us could do.’ His eyes were glassy. He had his own grief to deal with; I was just in the way.

  The next few days went by in a blur. I did what I always do when I’m stressed – I threw myself into work and drank too much.

  Simon was still away, and we Facetimed as much as possible, but some nights I was out too late to catch him and we’d just send each other a series of texts.

  On the fourth day after Patrick died, I got a postcard from Zak Scaramouche.

  Dear Member,

  I’m just a humble rock and roller, taking life one bottle of Jack Daniel’s at a time, but I’ve learnt a couple of things over the years: life is precious and we need to cherish every moment, and the people around us.

  I’m not very good at sharing my feelings – I prefer to let my guitar do the talking – but I want you to know that I’m thinking of you and that my heart breaks imagining that yours is breaking.

  Sometimes it’s hard to keep doing the Fandango. Sometimes it takes all our effort just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But I’m here walking beside you.

  Always.

  Zak x

  I rang Simon the night before the funeral and asked if he could come with me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Frixie. I wish more than anything I could be there for you, but I just can’t get back to London tomorrow.’

  I tried not to feel to hurt by it; it wasn’t a personal rejection, and after all Simon didn’t know Patrick.

  I think he was surprised his death had affected me so much.

  I tried to explain it to him. ‘I owe him so much. I’d never have considered a career in music journalism if I’d never met him.’

  ‘I understand, but you’ve got to look to the future, Frixie. That’s what Patrick would want.’

  He was right, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  I was dreading the funeral more than I let on to anyone. Part of me wanted to bail, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if I chickened out.

  I was struggling to grieve for Patrick and I felt awful. I hadn’t cried once. What sort of monster did that make me?

  *

  The funeral was on Friday morning, but I got up early and went into the office first to make sure nothing urgent needed my attention. Mike was in, too, which first surprised and then worried me.

  I popped my head around his door on the way out. ‘Everything okay, Mike?’

  He didn’t look up from his monitor. ‘Yep, all good here. You?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  He stopped typing and turned towards me, frowning. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. You’re wearing black. It’s the funeral today and I forgot.’

  I tugged the hem of my skirt down. ‘It’s okay. I won’t stay too long.’

  ‘Take all the time you need, Zoë. Not much happening.’ He leant forward. ‘Is Marcie going to be there?’

  ‘I honestly hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘If she is, will you talk to her?’

  ‘You want me to doorstep her at a funeral?’

  Things must be worse than he was letting on; Mike wasn’t usually this cold.

  ‘You said you’d do whatever it takes.’

  ‘While still being a decent human being.’

  He didn’t seem to hear me, much less notice my anger. He went on: ‘What does she care about Patrick? She bloody well fired him, didn’t she?’

  I took a breath to calm myself. ‘Well, I doubt she’ll come to his funeral, then.’

  *

  I was still irritated when I arrived at the chapel in Kensal Green cemetery. What the fuck was wrong with Mike? How could he suggest such a thing? But my anger was being slowly filtered through dread. The finances must have been more desperate than I thought. I wanted to run away, not be at the funeral of my mentor with the almost certain demise of the magazine we both loved hovering on the horizon.

  But I was already in the chapel now; people had seen me and
the service was due to start any moment. There were fewer people than I expected, and a quick glance around confirmed that Marcie was definitely not here. I was relieved, but sad at the same time.

  Had they fallen out so badly?

  Of course, there would be press here, and being in public was the last thing Marcie wanted. She probably couldn’t have come even if she’d wanted to.

  Justin led the humanist service, his voice strong and unwavering. He was a former singer; used to masking unwanted emotions. He not only managed to keep his tears at bay, he made a couple of jokes that pierced through even my grief.

  I didn’t get too close when we all trudged out to the burial plot. It was windy now and grey clouds were gathering overhead. This was the real business of death. Not the flower-filled chapel, but here, in the cold, as six pall-bearers solemnly lowered Patrick into a hole in the cold, hard earth. How could this be right? How could a man with such energy and vitality be snuffed out? My limbs felt heavy with grief, but my own tears still didn’t come.

  The wake was in a nearby pub. I hovered awkwardly, a small glass of wine in my hand, attempting small talk with people I usually laughed and got pissed with. But not today. After half an hour I left. The mood was too jolly; I needed quiet.

  When I left the pub, instead of heading towards the bus stop, I retraced my steps back to the cemetery.

  I walked slowly, reading the names and dates engraved on the headstones. Vera Edwina Edmunds, loving wife, and mother to James and Rosemary was thirty-four when she died – the same age as me.

  I kept walking, not caring which direction I went, but after a few minutes I realised that I was approaching Patrick’s grave. It had been filled in now; a brown rectangular scar on the green grass around it. A woman was standing in front of it with her back to me. She was wearing a long dark coat and her hair was hidden under a felt hat that looked familiar. She turned her head slightly, and I gasped.

  It was Marcie Tyler.

  21

  Torn

  No one else was within a hundred metres of us. It was just me and Marcie, standing with her back to me a few precious steps away.

  I closed my eyes, in the vague hope that I could magic her away. If either she or I weren’t here, then I wouldn’t have to make this horrible choice. Because, however angry I had been at Mike’s suggestion, now that she was in front of me, I couldn’t just walk away while there was a chance, however small, that all my professional troubles could be solved by one short conversation. All I would be asking for was sixty minutes, at a place and time of her choosing. Was it really so wrong to approach her?

  I took a step forward, then stopped. She was grieving. I couldn’t intrude.

  But I might never get this opportunity again and I’d kick myself if I didn’t try.

  I took two more steps, but she must have heard me because she spun round like a startled cat, her green eyes narrowing.

  I froze. I couldn’t move forward, but I couldn’t back away.

  She broke the silence first. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Her voice sounded raspier than last time, and the words I was about to say died on my tongue.

  She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to speak. The sun had come out now, and it caught a tear that was halfway down her cheek.

  ‘I, um, thought I’d left my umbrella here, that’s all.’

  Marcie frowned, but I didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, I started walking in the direction I’d come from, my fists in my coat pockets and my heart thumping against my ribcage.

  I went back to the office, not caring that I was still wearing my black skirt and blouse, or that my heels were pinching my feet. It was lunchtime and most people were out – including Mike. I hadn’t decided yet whether I’d tell him I’d seen Marcie or not. I wouldn’t bring it up myself, but if he asked me directly, was I prepared to lie?

  The afternoon passed slowly, but the others could tell I didn’t want to talk and they left me in peace. Ayisha popped out at one point and came back with a Mars Bar which she quietly slipped onto my desk. Someone from the trade press phoned to ask me to write an obit for Patrick, but I let it go to voicemail.

  By six I was the only one left on the floor. It was just me and the hum of sleeping computers.

  The ping of the lift meant the cleaners were arriving – my cue to leave. But to go where? I didn’t want to sit in an empty flat. My head felt numb, but my body felt electrified, like the two were disconnected.

  There was a tap. The door between us and the corridor was always open – why would anyone knock?

  I looked up. Nick was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a black suit and tie – funeral attire.

  Shit. He had been there too.

  Was he here to give me an earful for daring to address Marcie?

  He didn’t look annoyed, but he rarely wore his emotions on his face. The professional side of him was always in control – never a speck on his shirt or a wrinkle in his suit. A man with his life in order, while mine was in chaos. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to deal with him.

  He walked over and pointed to Gavin’s empty chair. ‘May I?’

  I nodded – what else could I do? But instead of sitting behind Gavin’s desk, he slid the chair round until it was level with my desk. And it was only as he sat down that I noticed he was holding a bottle of Gordon’s gin.

  ‘That’s Patrick’s favourite,’ I whispered, my throat tight.

  ‘I thought we could pay our respects to him.’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out two plastic cups. ‘It’s all I could muster at short notice. I don’t suppose you have any crystal glasses lying around?’

  ‘All the crystal’s being polished, I’m afraid.’

  He smiled. ‘Then we’ll just have to rough it.’

  He placed the cups on the edge of my desk, next to a proof of ‘Shit Lyrics’. The gaudy headline made me wince; it suddenly felt disrespectful. Had Nick noticed? He hadn’t appeared to; his eyes were on what he was doing: unscrewing the bottle and pouring us both a generous measure.

  He handed me a cup. ‘To Patrick.’

  ‘To Patrick.’

  I wasn’t a fan of neat gin, and it burned as it went down, but at least its fire was melting some of my numbness.

  ‘I saw you today,’ he said, swirling his drink, ‘in the cemetery.’

  Here it was, the reason he’d come – to tell me off about hounding Marcie.

  ‘We must have missed each other,’ I said, tensing.

  Nick watched me as I took another sip of warm gin, but his own cup stayed on my desk. ‘I appreciate it.’

  He was thanking me? ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Marcie needed her privacy today, and you respected that.’

  I’d done the right thing by Marcie, that was what mattered, but for some reason, it also felt important to get his acknowledgement.

  He looked tired today; not quite as perfectly clean-shaven as usual. ‘Marcie’s in a bad state.’

  Without thinking, I placed my hand on his knee. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Nick didn’t flinch; he didn’t blink. His eyes were the same emerald green as the bottle of Gordon’s and they suddenly felt achingly familiar – like we’d known each other in a different life.

  His gaze was unsettling; I needed to concentrate on something other than his face.

  ‘We’ve done this funny feature called “Shit Lyrics”.’

  Nope. Not better.

  He broke eye contact, and downed the rest of his gin. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. ‘You’re busy,’ he said. ‘I should go. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He stood, and I suddenly really wanted him to stay.

  ‘I might need one more shot, before you go.’

  ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘It was Patrick’s—’

  ‘—favourite drink, I know.’

  ‘No, it’s his actual bottle.’

  Everything went still. ‘This is . . . his bottle?’

  He no
dded. ‘He gave it to Marcie years ago. I snuck it out so you could have it.’

  A ball formed in my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

  Hot tears welled but before I could stop them, they were streaming down my face. I dropped my head so Nick couldn’t see me cry.

  He was standing, but instead of moving away he took my hand, pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me.

  I clung to him, properly sobbing now. But each falling tear made me feel lighter. It wasn’t the grief that was lifting, just my resistance to showing it. I was finally crying and the relief was overwhelming. I hadn’t realised how much I’d needed a simple hug. At the funeral, people had pecked cheeks and patted backs, but the contact had been fleeting and unfeeling. Nick’s embrace was warm and solid.

  His pristine suit jacket was getting wet with my tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. After a couple of minutes, he pulled back gently.

  ‘The gin’s better off with you rather than Marcie – a recovering alcoholic.’

  I managed a smile and wiped my clammy cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Nick.’

  *

  I stayed in the office an hour after Nick left, dumbly staring at my screen, but not managing to work. Every time I looked at the bottle of Gordon’s, I felt peaceful, but I couldn’t explain why. The dread that had pooled in my stomach was easing, and even though I’d originally wanted to stay at work because I didn’t want to go home to an empty flat, I now craved sanctuary – away from an office that was full of things that reminded me of how close the magazine was to folding.

  I had a bunch of missed calls on my phone, including a couple from Simon, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone. For once, I just wanted to look after myself. A warm bath and an early night sounded like bliss.

  I must have needed sleep more than I realised because I nodded off on the tube home and only woke up at the end of the line in Ealing Broadway. I then had to backtrack to Shepherd’s Bush and I was ready to collapse as I pushed open the door to my flat at eight o’clock.

  But with a sinking heart, I realised I wasn’t alone.

  I should have checked my messages because then I might have known that Simon was back early. Instead, I was only finding out now that he was standing in my kitchen and simmering onions in my new Jamie Oliver frying pan.