by Nina Manning
I looked at myself in the mirror. Red was a colour that didn’t do anything for me at the best of times, but now at almost six months’ pregnant, it made me look hideous. But I was doing it for Eve. My sweet, funny Eve. But now that grief was muddled with my loss of Ben. There were moments of panic – what if something had happened to him, what if he was in trouble – but these just subsided when I remembered my parting words to him and what I had accused him of. Then there was the pain from losing Eve that kept rushing to the surface. And somewhere still within in me, I had a nagging feeling that I didn’t know the whole truth. As much as it filled me with complete despair to think my husband, Ben, the man I loved with such raw emotion, could lie to me, the doubt would not subside. There was something he hadn’t told me. I was too familiar with how much strength it took to cover up the lies. And I could see it all too clearly in the man I thought I knew.
But today, I somehow had to compartmentalise it or I would fall down. I boxed it away, ready to deal with it after the funeral. My feelings for Ben were nudging me every now and again throughout the day, forcing me to ask myself the obvious questions, where was he, why hadn’t he called, why would he say he had to leave so suddenly after Eve’s death? But today my focus had to be with Eve, and saying goodbye to the most precious friend I had ever had.
Out of the speakers came the lyrics ‘Read My Mind’ by The Killers and all around me heads were turning around the room. Smiles came through faces of tears and I watched as Eve’s friends and relatives, felt the same mix of emotions that I was having. Suddenly the song, which had rapidly become Eve’s favourite last year, took on a whole new meaning and I knew that from then on whenever I heard it, it would remind me of the day they cremated my best friend.
Once the coffin had arrived at the front of the room where about sixty people were gathered to pay their respects, I took my place at the front, next to Patrick. I glanced across to the other side of the room where I saw Eve’s mother sitting. Her shoulders and head were hunched over, and her arms were shaking as though she had no control over them. Her lank dark hair was long and hung around her face. She looked thin and malnourished. Her splash of red, as was the dress code for Eve’s day, was a crumpled red blazer over a white shirt and un-ironed black trousers.
The humanist took her place at the lectern and welcomed the congregation. Just the mention of Eve’s name under these circumstances didn’t seem plausible and I felt the hot heavy tears coming. I felt a strong arm around my shoulder. It surprised me and for a sudden moment I thought Ben had arrived. I turned to my left and patted Patrick on his knee. He wasn’t Ben, but it was a comfort.
I had opted not to speak as it felt too raw and, besides, I could already hear Eve’s protests and see her rolling her eyes before I allowed the idea, suggested by Patrick, to embed itself in my head. Patrick read a poem, something about trees and wind, and it hardly seemed appropriate. Not very Eve. But then right at the end, he said a few words that were special and seemed to hold some meaning and I was thankful. He held it together well until just at the last moment his voice broke. I felt my body tense and wanted to reach out and grab him. Patrick cleared his throat, apologised and stepped down from the lectern.
As everyone left the chapel after the service, they each placed the white rose they had been given at the beginning of the service, on the coffin. I waited until last and Patrick and I slowly laid ours down together.
When I felt Eve’s mother approach and touch me on the back, I jumped slightly.
‘Thanks for being there for her all these years.’ Eve’s mum spoke with a lisp; I noted she had a few teeth missing. ‘She looked up to you, you know.’ She patted Patrick on the arm, casually tossed her rose onto the coffin and clomped unsteadily out the door. Patrick and I gave one another a compassionate look. We both knew how hard Eve’s mother’s life had been and how Eve had struggled. It was inconceivable how a woman like Eve, so vivacious and confident, could have been born to a woman like that. But neither of us had ever made judgement. For whatever had happened in the past, and in whatever way she was doing it, today a mother was saying goodbye to her child.
The reception passed in a blur. Sandwiches and crisps were passed around at the pub close to the cemetery. It felt wrong. There was no link here to Eve. It was simply convenience. The look of the bar staff and waiting staff suggested they did this at least once a week. All of Eve’s favourite songs were playing in the background and images flashed up on the pull-down whiteboard of Eve when she was five, Eve when she had graduated, Eve and Patrick huddled together in a tent at Glastonbury, Eve and I on her cousin’s hen night wearing willy-shaped head garments. It all passed in a blur. I walked from table to table. I chatted to people and they felt inclined to touch my growing stomach and comment on the life forming within me as we celebrated the end of another. People made small talk, no one mentioned the fire. No one talked of death, or where Eve was now. Everyone was careful not to slip into conversation about how Eve’s body would be burning to a small pile of dust as they all sat and sipped their lagers and limes and chatted about the fact that ‘at least the weather held off.’ No one mentioned that that was that, Eve was gone and they would never see her again and how that in itself was the saddest thing that could have ever happened.
When it was time to leave and there were a few remaining bodies floating about the pub, taking advantage of the free drink, I approached Patrick who was leaning against the bar. I placed one arm around his waist. I was familiar with the feel of his body and it felt comfortable to do so. I laid my head on his chest, feeling the fascination at the new, sudden closeness I had adopted with my best friend’s boyfriend.
‘You did so well today, Pat. Well done. Eve would have been so proud of you.’
Patrick rubbed my back. ‘Funny cos the only person I’ve wanted to see all day to talk about it with is Eve.’
I flipped my head back and gazed at Patrick. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’
It didn’t seem right that Patrick and I should go our separate ways at the end of the day. Even though all I wanted to do was sleep and I imagined Patrick wanted to do the same, it seemed ludicrous that we should do it under separate roofs thirty miles apart on today of all days.
Patrick booked a car, and we wearily said our goodbyes to the bar staff and climbed into the waiting black taxi with its loud chugging diesel engine. Neither of us spoke a word on the journey back to Patrick’s flat. There were no words that seemed at all appropriate. I was carrying a weight of disbelief and I knew Patrick was feeling the same. The word ‘lost’ is often used when referring to someone dying; people will regularly say ‘I lost my husband’ or ‘I lost my mum.’ I had lost Eve, yet lost was also exactly how I felt as well. We drove away from the pub that had no association with Eve yet all the while I felt a tug to return there. As though I wasn’t ready to give up the day.
The taxi pulled to a halt outside the block of ocean-facing flats. Even in the low light of the taxi I could see Patrick pay the driver with several notes more than he needed to.
At the communal door Patrick gave a thin smile and motioned for me to lead the way to the second floor.
‘I was going to go and try and get my old classes back tomorrow. I know it’s probably too soon and everything but I need to do something. I can’t just sit around. Now the funeral’s over, there’s an empty space and it’s getting wider every minute. I need to start filling my life with something, or I know I will go mad. I can’t sit around on my arse not doing anything. And I know it’s a bloody cliché and I just hate myself for saying it, but it’s what Eve would want.’ I could hear the tired tension in my voice as I rambled on, casually walking around the lounge. Suddenly I felt very conscious of being here, alone with Patrick, having only ever been here with Eve. I eventually stopped my pacing and slinked into a spot on the sofa next to the sunken pit where Patrick obviously had a penchant for the area slightly left of the middle.
I let my head fall against the back of the so
fa. Patrick sat down carefully next to me, his rear neatly filling the spot. Silence filled the space around us.
Patrick spoke first. Slowly and carefully. ‘I’m going to mourn her good and proper.’ He began. ‘That’s what Eve would have wanted me to do anyway. She said so once. “I hope you will grieve properly for me if I die. I don’t expect you to get out of bed for a month”. Didn’t expect it to actually happen though, did I? Now I have to fulfil her wish.’
I smiled both at what Eve had said, as I could visualise her saying it the way Patrick mocked her voice, and also at the prospect of Patrick setting up camp in bed for a month on his dead girlfriend’s wishes.
‘I see you have brought supplies.’ I nodded at the bottle of brandy in front of us on the coffee table.
‘Ah yes, a gift from our girl. She gave it to me at Christmas. I was saving it for a… well, like you do. Course, those days never come. I’ve realised that now. Every day was special with Eve. Every moment a celebration.’ He looked at me. ‘I’ll make you a herbal tea, shall I?’
I nodded and let Patrick’s words hang for a moment, hating the reality of them. Hating that time couldn’t be reversed and how we should have lived a little longer in those moments; felt them a little harder.
‘It’s nice in here. You’ve made it really cosy. I’ve not been here for a while,’ I called through to the kitchen where I heard the kettle starting up. I looked around at several pieces of modern art hanging from the wall. There was a large red fluffy rug that spread the length of the room. There was a small electric faux fireplace in the corner which Patrick had switched on when we arrived.
There were two framed pictures of Patrick and Eve on the small table next to the sofa and one on the coffee table. I imagined that Patrick had been looking at this particular one a lot recently as it looked out of place sat amongst the coasters and books.
I liked the feel of Patrick’s place. It felt like home. It felt like Eve.
‘I can’t take credit for any of it. Eve did all this.’ Patrick pointed around with one hand as he handed me a steaming mug of peppermint tea. He clicked on a small black wireless radio, instantly soothing orchestral sounds escaped the tiny speakers and punctured the too-silent room.
‘I like to listen to Classic FM,’ Patrick told me as though I would question it.
‘I miss music,’ I said.
‘Oh, how so?’
‘Annie doesn’t play music. I only heard carols at Christmas, from a record player. She has no TV, no radio. It’s very quiet. I mean, in a way it’s nice but I need the distraction of music.’
‘Take that with you then.’ Patrick gestured to the radio. ‘I have another one around somewhere.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘It’s really very Eve in here, isn’t it’ I looked up at the Oriental fabrics hanging loosely in sections from the ceiling.
‘Sure is. Thought she was going to break her bloody neck trying to attach those things. She loved to take a risk.’ Patrick looked at me. ‘You don’t think she did anything stupid that night, do you? To cause the accident?’
I immediately shook my head. ‘No I don’t. She was popping back to get her purse. That was all. What could she have possibly dreamt up to do that would have caused her death?’
‘The explosion, that’s what killed her.’
‘Yes, the explosion.’ There was panic in my voice, the blame was bearing down hard on me. I thought back to a few weeks ago when I had promised to get the cooker fixed.
‘Well, they pretty much said so, Daisy. They can’t completely be sure, but it’s the only plausible reason. How much have you been told? I know you’ve been out of it a bit. Best way, I say. But I’ve spoken to the police. I’ve had my own liaison officer.’ Patrick gave me a sympathetic look. I felt ashamed for being drugged out of my head for the last fortnight whilst Patrick carried on dealing with everything. ‘But she might have been trying to do something. With the oven?’ Patrick continued.
‘I know, Patrick, I know.’ I needed him to stop speaking about that night. I couldn’t think about it. I cast my eyes over the bottle of brandy. ‘Can I just have one glass? For Eve’s sake?’ I pleaded. I needed something to take the edge of the anxiety.
‘Yep. Why not,’ he grunted as he lifted himself from the sofa. ‘I’ll get some glasses.’
Patrick got stuck into the bottle too easily, I cradled my one glass making every mouthful count whilst we chatted and reminisced about Eve. Every now and again I would cry and Patrick would instantly put a hand out to comfort me, seeming to refrain from showing any emotion himself. He must have been hurting, but the years at an all-boys school had taught him to hold everything in.
Patrick poured himself another glass. I swirled the dregs around my glass then took the final mouthful, letting the warm liquid trickle down my throat. I looked at Patrick. His eyes were sparkling in the low lighting of the room, his cheeks reddening from the heat and alcohol. His face looked more appealing with the weight he had lost over the last few weeks. He was watching me intently. I smiled self-consciously.
I held his gaze for a moment then held my empty glass out to clink with Patricks. ‘Here’s to us and to getting through today.’
Patrick clinked my glass. Then he stood up and took me by the arm. I looked hesitantly at him. Patrick seemed to morph into a competent sober man in front of my eyes.
‘Come on, I will show you to my finest suite, it’s in the west wing. I changed the sheets just yesterday.’
I let myself be escorted but protested. ‘Patrick, I couldn’t. The couch is fine.’
‘Me and that couch have spent many a cosy night together. Besides I could sleep in the kitchen sink tonight and I wouldn’t know the difference, whereas you and that baby need a proper bed.’ Patrick opened the door to his bedroom. There was a musky smell of deodorant that had been sprayed many hours previously, but besides that there was a perfectly comfortable-looking double bed. On the bedside table was another framed picture of Patrick and Eve.
‘Do you think Eve will mind?’ I said as I edged my way into the room, already looking longingly at the bed.
‘She wouldn’t have it any other way. Now in you get. You need a straight head on you if you’re going to try and do any business tomorrow.’
‘I miss her,’ I said as I felt my face crumble.
‘I know. I know.’ Patrick put his arm around me. ‘It’s so damn hard without her.’
I wiped my eyes and blew out a breath.
‘You know sometimes, Daisy,’ Patrick spoke soberly, ‘I think I loved her too much. I mean if that’s possible. I know she loved me and you said how she felt about me but I loved her furiously, with so much passion, sometimes I had to conceal it because I feared I may damage her.’
Patrick kissed me on the head, then turned and walked back to the lounge, leaving me with his parting words lingering in the air.
Annie
I missed Ben terribly. When he left me for her the first time, I was angry, then I felt there was hope. But this time I felt even more betrayed. If time away was what he needed then he could have it. Getting married so soon and then months away from becoming a father was all too much for him. It was a stupid mistake and he needed to realise that. I knew I had suppressed his innate abilities as a child by not letting him play with friends or have the kind of upbringing that you read about in an Enid Blyton novel: biking off at dawn with a ham sandwich and a bottle of ginger beer and returning when it was just getting dark. No, I kept him close by, watched his every move and made sure he was never in the way of trouble or danger. I had to. I had no choice. But somehow, he still felt he needed to prove himself he was capable without me.
Daisy thought she had shown him that in their short time together, but Daisy was a fool. She thought she could bring out his independence, make him feel he was capable. Then what did she do? She threw it all back in his face. I didn’t hear exactly what she said to him that day before he left, but I got the gist of it. She pushed him
away with her accusations. But he had already seen what she had done, I showed it to him in black and white. He was a sensitive soul. He can’t handle that kind of stress in his life. No, he needed to be somewhere where she couldn’t get to him and busy his brain with all her white noise and anxiety. My boy needed time alone and to be as far away from that wife of his as possible.
Grace
On the third cooking lesson I arrived with a renewed sense of confidence for Jenny. She had perturbed me last time with the little one’s bruises. It did upset me to think of tiny helpless tots who were mistreated and the thought of that happening to little Mikee made me very sad indeed. I wondered if the kids were happy. What kind of life were they going to have? I wondered about Jenny and how she could carry on as though nothing was happening and, what kind of person that made her. But today I allowed those thoughts to subside and instead I let the mellow aura that seemed to ooze from Jenny so naturally lull me back to a state of admiration.
The babies still weren’t coming, so I satisfied my urge to create and nurture something through any form of cookery I could master. The day that Emily gave us a crash course on bread making was the day that I was saved. I was on the brink of crumbling. My husband was barely uttering any words to me and I had noticed that some of his larger possessions were gone. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he himself became as elusive as his stack of classic films and antique encyclopaedias.