by Nora Valters
It sparks my interest. “Who’s Maya?”
“A New York office colleague who I was working with on the project. It’ll be some stupid question about some minor part of the contract. She can wait until Tuesday.”
And with that he turns back to making his curry, humming to himself.
Maya. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman? I wonder. Akshay has some serious moral principles, and there’s absolutely no way he would cheat on me, or cheat on anyone. But I’m curious. I sit on the sofa, pick up my phone and search Maya, New York, and the name of his management consultant firm. She immediately pops up under the people section of the firm’s website. Yep. She’s a beauty. Of Indian heritage like Akshay and a similar age to us.
The smallest ding of jealousy sounds between my ears, but, as the smell of my fiancé’s incredible cooking wafts from the kitchen, I know he’d never do anything to hurt me. He’s the man I plan to marry, and he’s the man I plan to have babies with. I never felt ready to start a family until I met Akshay.
It all feels so, so right.
4
The following morning, I stare out the window into the garden. The Manchester mist soaks everything with a fine rain that flies in from all directions. The bleak, grey sky reflects my mood. The funeral is to be held at the same church where Mum and Dad married, the one Mum still frequented every now and then for Sunday service and community events.
It’s not for a couple of hours, but I’m all ready to go in my black dress, black heels and black jacket. A heavy, hollow ball of grief swirls in the pit of my stomach, and I have a stabbing pain right in the centre of my chest, which hurts every time I breathe in.
Akshay potters in the kitchen, cleaning up after our breakfast. He likes to keep it spick and span in there, primed and ready to cook the next meal.
It reminds me of Mum. She loved to cook, too. A memory comes to me then of when Mum first bought me a McDonald’s. I’d never been a fussy eater as a child, wolfing down whatever food Mum or Auntie Joyce or Grandma put in front of me. Grandma used to tell me I had hollow legs and that’s where all the food went, as I polished off third helpings of her delicious veggie pie.
But that changed when Dad remarried. I had a short-lived rebellious phase at twelve that soon passed. But for a while I acted out, did a number of things I’m not proud of, and stubbornly refused to eat anything Mum made, telling her I’d rather starve. And I did. I got visibly thinner. I fainted during PE at school.
Then one night Mum came home from work with a paper bag full of – previously forbidden – fast food and said, “I guess you won’t be wanting to eat this then, either.” Of course, I ate. And we talked. And Mum listened. I got a lot off my chest about Dad’s new wife – my new stepmum. And at that moment I thought my mother was the kindest person I’d ever know. She would rather I eat junk than starve. The next evening, and every time after, I ate whatever she made for me.
Oh, Mum, I miss you. I rally myself. I was distraught when she passed, and I need to hold it together for the first part of the funeral, to greet relatives and to give the reading. Then I can let rip. I’ve got waterproof mascara on, but I doubt that’ll help. And three packets of tissues in my handbag. Will that be enough? I go through to the utility area and fish out another packet from the drawers next to the washing machine and drop it in my bag.
As I do, I see my phone flashing. It’s on silent. I don’t want to speak to anyone right now. I gave all the guests specific instructions and directions so no one would need to bother me. Directing Great-Uncle Bob from Blackpool is the last thing I can handle right now.
My curiosity wins out, and I look at the screen. Finn. The senior account director on my team and in charge with me out of the office for the day. He’s unflappable and reliable, and I know he wouldn’t call me on the day of my mum’s funeral without a very good reason.
I answer, “Finn? Everything okay?”
“Lauren, I’m so sorry to bother you today, but it’s Imani. She hasn’t shown up for work. I’ve tried calling her, and she’s not answering. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’m slightly worried in case she’s been in a car accident or something. She’s not on the work-from-home rota for today, so should be here by now.”
I hear exactly what Finn is actually saying: Imani is no doubt perfectly fine but hasn’t bothered to rock up for work yet – even though it’s nearing 11 a.m. on a Monday. She’s come in late before, but never later than 9.45 a.m. It’s obvious she’s taking the piss because I’m not in the office today.
“I’ll try her, Finn. Don’t worry. I’ll have another chat with her later in the week about her timekeeping.”
“Sure. I hope it goes well today. See you tomorrow.”
We say bye and hang up. I scroll through my contacts and dial Imani’s mobile as I walk back through into the kitchen. Akshay sees me and taps his watch. It’s nearly time to leave. I nod and walk back to the sliding glass door to stare at the garden again.
It rings and rings, and I ponder what choice words I’m about to use. Finally, a groggy voice answers.
“Yeah?” Imani says.
“Imani, it’s Lauren. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “Fine.”
“Why aren’t you in work?”
“What time is it?”
I hear a rustle and a man’s voice, and then Imani says, “Shit, is that the time? Had a wild weekend, you know. Overslept.” There’s a groan, and I can hear Imani glugging some water – or what I hope is water. “Hang on,” she says slightly brighter. “I think I’m working from home today.”
“No. You’re not. I checked that with Finn.”
“Oh.”
“You need to get into the office ASAP.”
“Urgh,” she replies.
“Imani, this is unacceptable. Everyone else manages to get up and into work for 9 a.m. Your contracted hours are nine until five thirty. This is not the first time I’ve had to remind you of your timekeeping.”
Imani fake-coughs. “I’m sick.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Yeah—” cough “—think—” cough “—I’ve got the flu.” Cough, cough. “Really bad.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
“Fine,” she snaps and then mumbles to the other person in her bed – I imagine her doing an unsuccessful job of placing her phone against her chest to muffle the sound, because I hear loud and clear. “It’s just my stupid boss ruining my life again.”
“Imani!”
“Yeah. All right. I’m getting ready now.” She sighs, then hangs up.
I stare open-mouthed at my phone. Imani has been allowed to take liberties since she joined because she’s Madeline’s favourite and has a level of protection from the MD, but not anymore. I didn’t want to hire her in the first place a year ago. Madeline overruled my preferred candidate to offer the job to Imani. She’s smart and charming when she wants to be – winning over many journalists and influencers – but is unbelievably lazy. And rude.
Akshay puts his arms gently around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Time to go, sweetheart. Ready?”
I inhale deeply and turn. Sod Imani; screw work. Today is all about saying goodbye to my wonderful mother. Everything else is unimportant and can wait.
“He’s a good’un, that one, isn’t he?” Diane, my dad’s second wife, says, nodding towards Akshay.
He’s busy bringing out all the Marks & Spencer nibbles, plates, and napkins and laying them on the dining room table. He told me very firmly that he’d organise all the refreshments and that I was to mingle with my family and take all the time I needed to speak to relatives and friends of my mum.
Akshay is from a large family, and he’s in his element, loving big gatherings. I once got him to write a family tree out for me so I could remember who was who and all the names of all his cousins and extended relatives. Although I now know everyone in his immediate family, I still refer to that family tree before we attend larger events.
“He certain
ly is,” I reply with a smile towards my fiancé, who is now taking hot drink orders.
“No wonder Judy adored him,” Diane says.
“She did.” I feel the familiar grief-hitch in my chest but tamp it down. “He was devastated that he was in New York when she passed away and didn’t get to say goodbye in person.”
Diane sympathetically pats my hand, and I smile weakly at her. My stepmum is a petite, neat, smiley woman with a sociable, likeable and jovial character. We’ve always got on fine. She’s never tried to mother me, and I’ve never tried to be her daughter. I’d describe us as friendly. Not friends, not close but a perfectly amicable relationship.
After meeting and greeting all the guests at the church before the funeral, delivering my teary speech, crying a river while sat in the pew, conversing with everyone outside the church and hearing “What a lovely service” about a hundred times, I feel a peculiar kind of exhausted. Wide awake and functioning but a zombie on the inside.
We drove in convoy back to our house, and the guests are still piling through the front door after finding parking in nearby roads. The congregation fitted nicely into the church, but is stuffed into my open-plan living area and back garden with a queue for the downstairs loo forming in the hallway. My auntie Joyce has taken charge of opening the front door and greeting guests, and seems to be thoroughly enjoying chatting to everyone.
For a breather before doing the rounds, I stand with my immediate family: my dad, Keith; my stepmum, Diane; and half-brother, Toby. My mum and dad remained friends after their amicable divorce and, although it tore at my seven-year-old heart for them to split, they were both much happier without the other.
So, five years later when Keith announced he was marrying Diane, Mum was delighted. And when Toby came along three years after that, she was doubly delighted – she loved children – and often babysat for Toby. By that point I was fifteen so helped her to care for my baby bro, although at the time I was desperately jealous of all the attention suddenly lavished on him from every corner. Judy and Diane got on well, so all happy families, really.
Dad looks longingly out the window at the smokers in the garden. He quit when he turned fifty and replaced that habit with beer, as his protruding belly and ruddy cheeks would testify. He sighs and looks back to us, scratching at his closely cropped, balding grey hair with his ex-smoker’s always-busy fingers. He knits his bushy eyebrows together over his blue eyes, which look so much like mine.
“Akshay’s a great chap with a well-paying, secure and respectable job,” Dad adds, and we all know where this is going.
I glance at Toby and hope he won’t react. My brother is super chill and usually any kind of criticism bounces off his laid-back exterior shell. Although, I know he’s a sensitive soul deep down, and every one of Dad’s digs wounds him deeply.
Toby smooths his palm over his impeccably styled curly blond hair that’s long on top and short at the sides and straightens his black tie into the collar of his black shirt. He oozes style. He has a street urchin look about him with carved-out cheekbones and dimples, brooding blue eyes and a chiselled jaw. But his face is slightly asymmetrical, and he has a crooked tooth, which is a good thing, as otherwise he’d be simply too beautiful to look at. That quirkiness adds to his attractiveness.
He has tattoos on his forearms, on show as he rolled up his shirtsleeves when we arrived back at my house, a pinky ring, a chain necklace and an earring in the top of his ear. He’s effortlessly cool, but with a warm, genuine and unpretentious smile. I’ve been to his bar and watched his female – and male – customers swoon when he serves them.
Today is clearly not a day that Toby is letting things slide. He rolls his eyes. “I have a well-paying, secure and respectable job, Dad.”
“A bartender is not a respectable job,” Dad replies.
“Just leave it, Keith,” Diane warns.
“I’m not just a bartender, I’m a mixologist,” Toby says with pride.
“A what now?” Dad says.
“I create most of the new cocktails on the menu. If it weren’t for me, that place wouldn’t be doing half as well as it is.”
Dad tuts. “Anyone can pour vodka and then orange juice into a glass.”
“Cocktails are a bit more elaborate than that these days, Dad,” I say, thinking of the smoking concoction I always order at Toby’s bar.
“And I’m a drinkstagrammer with a big following,” Toby says.
“A drink what?” Dad replies.
“Cocktail culture is huge on Instagram,” I pipe up in support of Toby.
But Dad isn’t having it. He shakes his head. “You should’ve stayed at university. You dropped out of a law course to sling drinks.” He tuts, still not accepting Toby’s decision to leave higher education a few months ago.
“It wasn’t for me,” Toby states.
“You didn’t even give it a chance!” Dad blusters.
“Enough,” Diane says.
“I’ve entered the mixologist of the year competition. I’m pretty fucking good at it.”
“You could’ve been a pretty fucking good lawyer. But I guess we’ll never know now.”
Toby sighs. Unexpectedly he blurts, “Nothing I do is ever good enough for you, is it?”
His face colours, and his eyes rim with water. I know it’s the emotion of the day that’s riled him up. He loved my mum, called her Auntie Judy.
But Dad doesn’t reply to Toby’s question and ploughs on. “Lauren managed to get through university and land on her feet in a decent career with decent prospects.”
I cringe. This is the only bone of contention between my brother and me. Toby’s belief that Dad favours me. I don’t believe it, and it’s rarely brought up. But Toby is clearly on one today, and Dad isn’t helping matters.
Toby’s nostrils flare. “I have prospects! I plan to open my own bar, my own chain of bars, one day.”
Dad harrumphs.
My brother continues, “Why are you always comparing me to Lauren? We’re different people on different paths. I know she’s your favourite and can do no wrong—”
Dad opens his mouth to reply, but Diane cuts them both off.
“Would you two stop playing silly buggers, for goodness’ sake,” she commands, and this time they listen to her.
Dad points out the sliding glass door into my garden and changes the subject. “Do you want me to come and fix that fence panel at the weekend? Must’ve been a nasty gust of wind took that down. Don’t remember the weather being that bad our way. Can see right through to the garages at the back there. No good, no good at all.”
“I’m going to help Akshay. Can I get anyone a drink?” Toby says in a conciliatory tone.
He gets on well with Akshay, bonding over their mutual disgust of celery and especially drinks with celery, namely the Bloody Mary. They can talk for hours about fine wine and expensive spirits, Akshay being partial to whiskey.
I’m about to request a milky cup of tea with a naughty spoonful of sugar, and book Dad’s DIY skills, when a far-too-bubbly-for-a-funeral voice behind me stops me short.
“Oh, hey! There you are.”
Toby freezes. I slowly turn. And wince.
Before me is Jenna. She looks stunning with a thrown-together vibe, but I know, from what Toby has told me, that it’s taken her hours to get ready. She’s wearing black. Not because it’s a funeral but because she always wears black and not in a goth way. She looks super cool.
Her arms, hands, and fingers are heavily tattooed, and she drips with gold jewellery. Her ears are adorned with so many different-sized hoops and piercings that she tinkles when she talks or laughs. She has a nose piercing and wears numerous rings, bangles and necklaces, and a chunky gold watch that must weigh her arm down.
Her light-green round eyes sparkle in her round face, which is almost chubby and doesn’t quite match her slim figure. She’s wearing a ton of make-up, as usual, and I suspect she looks like a completely different person with none on. Today she’s g
one for a ’90s vibe with brown overlined lips and nude matte lipstick. Her thick, bushy eyebrows match her dark chunky roots, the rest of her bob-length hair being dyed dark blonde and perfectly tousled. She’s very fresh, very now. And I understand why Toby was with her. They looked perfect together.
A quick scan of my family’s puzzled faces confirms they are thinking the same as me: Toby and Jenna are no longer together, so what is she doing here?
Dad takes charge of the situation. “Ah, Jenna, love, what a surprise.”
Toby’s now-ex girlfriend bounces closer to our little group and squeezes herself next to Toby. He purses his lips, unimpressed, but Jenna doesn’t notice.
“I met Judy a couple of times and wanted to pay my respects. She was such a wonderful woman. I’m so sorry for your loss, Lauren. I slipped in at the back of the church – oh my goodness, did I bawl at such a moving service – and followed everyone over in a taxi but got talking in the garden to a couple of your second – or maybe third, they weren’t entirely sure – cousins, Lauren.”
She gives a little chuckle, then continues, “They recognised me from my YouTube channel. So I asked them to make sure they click Like. It’s all about the likes! Like, like, like, I said. They asked me for a selfie with them, and the lighting was perrrrfect. So I got them to take a few of just me. I’ll post a muted funeral look later. Although, of course I won’t say ‘funeral’ – gosh, how sad – maybe ‘subdued’ or ‘low-key’. Yeah, that’s it. A low-key look for low-key occasions.”
She holds up a nearly empty glass of white wine. “This is my third drink. Akshay made sure we were topped up.” Then, beaming up at Toby, she adds, “I wanted to make sure this one was okay. He really loved his auntie Judy, didn’t you, boo.”
I glance at Toby. He imperceptibly shakes his head and widens his eyes at me. It’s enough to tell me that he definitely didn’t invite Jenna and definitely doesn’t want her here.
Jenna is oblivious though. She continues to babble without pausing for breath. “Your cousin was so sweet, Lauren, saying she’d watched a few of my full-face make-up tutorials. My lilac eyes one and the all-drugstore-brands one. That’s a clear favourite. Everyone loves a bargain.”