by Katy Colins
‘You need to get yourself on Tinder,’ Freddie had returned from the bathroom, waving his lit-up phone screen in my face, the brightness blinding me for a second.
‘Ah, Tinder,’ Brendan said wistfully, before sticking his reddened face into his wine glass as Mum glared at him.
‘Right! Present time!’ Mum shrieked. ‘Freddie, put your phone away now. This is family time.’
Freddie muttered but obeyed, and slid his phone into the pocket of his tight chinos.
‘Grace, Brendan and I got you this.’ She rummaged in the tie-dye pillowcase thing that acted as a handbag. I’d have palpitations thinking about her gallivanting off to the next country on her travels with such a badly designed bag; a pick-pocketer’s dream. She pulled out a slightly crumpled gift bag that had a boiled sweet wrapper stuck to the back and an almost perfectly spherical tea-stain ring in the top right-hand corner.
‘Whoops,’ she picked off the wrapper and dropped it to the floor. ‘Right, well, happy birthday my little Gracie.’
‘You really didn’t have to…’ I started to protest as I cautiously took the packet off her and peeled it open. Last year she’d got me a clunky handmade Tunisian shell necklace. It was still in its bubble wrap, sitting patiently in the half-empty Tesco Bag for Life that was destined for my next trip to Oxfam.
‘Oh…’
I wrapped my fingers around a red and yellow hand-woven cotton bracelet. The type of thing you’d give your school friend when you were about thirteen. A tiny peace sign was threaded in the centre, next to a small metal disc that was engraved with my name.
‘It’s personalised! Do you love it? Put it on!’
I smiled tightly and let her tie it around my wrist. I could cover it up with my watch without hurting her feelings.
‘There’s something else in there too!’
The other gift was a yellow plastic radio in the shape of a bumblebee. Two slim silver antennas had been coated in black paint, it’s bulbous behind was covered in wire mesh for the speakers, and two thick black stripes over a sunflower-yellow body were the dials. There was no kind way to put it…
It was hideous.
‘It’s a radio! Isn’t it funky!’ Mum beamed, clapping her hands together. Freddie scoffed into his pint glass. ‘I picked it up at this market in Latvia and thought it would really brighten up your house. It’s about time you added a touch of personality to that place. It’s so very… sterile.’
‘Perfect for Grace then,’ Freddie said with a smirk, before Mum told him to be nice to me as it was my birthday.
Neither Mum nor Freddie visited my home very often. In fact, Freddie had only been once for about five minutes, when he was waiting for his friend to pick him up for a football match and it was chucking it down with rain. Whenever Mum was back in England, she sporadically popped in for a cup of tea but preferred to stay at the hotel near the library as she could fill up her bag with all the miniature toiletries. A low-cut top was all she needed to get a discount on a room from the male receptionist.
‘Right, wow. Thanks.’ I forced a smile, running my fingers over the chubby bee radio. There was no doubt in my mind it would be destined for the Bag for Life too.
‘My gift is… on its way,’ Freddie muttered. Code for he’d completely forgotten.
‘It’s fine. My birthday was ages ago and I really didn’t expect anything anyway.’
‘Is there really no one on the scene?’ Mum pushed. Now presents were out the way she clearly hadn’t given up on the previous conversation.
‘No. I’ve told you. I’m fine like this.’
‘You not worried about, well, you know… tick-tock, tick-tock?’
This usually happened after a bottle of wine. She would grill me about my lack of a nice young man. She would be slurring about missing out on grandchildren in another few glasses, mark my words.
‘Mum, please…’
‘I thought you said Grace were only twenty-seven? She’s got plenty of time for babies and all that.’
‘She’s thirty-three! And not getting any younger, may I add!’
I could see Brendan doing the maths in his head, working out Mum’s real age, a fact as unknown as the location of Cleopatra’s tomb. She’d been clinging onto her early fifties for the past few years.
‘You’re ancient, Grace,’ Freddie unhelpfully joined in. ‘You may as well stop being so picky and go for the next bloke that walks in here.’ He never got a grilling, despite only being three years younger than me.
‘Ooh yes! It could be fate, bringing them together!’ Mum clapped her hands and the three of us glanced towards the door. Brendan still stared at Mum, looking utterly perplexed.
‘Wait – not them.’ Mum dismissed the group coming in with a wave of her hand. ‘That’s a bunch of women.’
‘Unless… ‘Freddie raised an eyebrow and gave an unsightly smirk.
‘I’m not gay,’ I said to my glass. No one else was listening. They all had their eyes trained to the door of the bar, like a dog waiting for its owner to return.
‘Him! That one!’ Mum squealed. Freddie collapsed into a fit of laughter. In walked a man who must have been there for his first legal drink. Angry red spots burst across a painful shaving rash.
‘I don’t think –’
‘Grace! Go and talk to him!’ Mum bellowed, yanking my elbow.
‘No, I –’
‘Go on. Go and talk to him, it’s not going to kill you!’
‘I said no.’ I roughly pulled away from her grip. ‘Can we leave it please?’
‘Ooooh! Touchy!’ Freddie’s voiced raised an octave or two.
Brendan was gently rubbing Mum’s hand, frowning at me as if I’d intentionally hurt her.
‘Sorry, Mum, I said I didn’t –’
‘It’s fine, Grace. I just don’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life. But, whatever. I’m only doing it because I care. I’m going to the ladies’.’ She scraped her stool back and wobbled off.
I was half listening to Freddie waffle on to Brendan about the outrageousness of United’s Premier League position, and half wondering what possessed a man in his late fifties to wear a single silver earring, when I felt my heart stop. I blinked hard to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me but when I opened them again he was still there.
On the other side of the bar was Henry. My Henry.
The air left my body.
What the hell was he doing here?
‘Grace?’
I heard my mum’s loud voice behind me, apologising to the couple of girls on the next table for spilling their drinks as I roughly knocked past them.
Henry is here! I fought my way through the dancing crowd. The band had started up again with an energetic cover of a Bob Marley song. Elbows and hips were blocking me from getting to him. I stopped still and tried to hover on my tiptoes to get a better vantage point. Where had he gone? He was right there a second ago.
‘Grace! Where are you going?’
Mum was still calling after me but I couldn’t stop. I had to get to him.
Henry is here. Henry is here.
My feet were moving without my brain thinking. What was he wearing? He didn’t own a stripy polo shirt; he must have bought it recently.
Annoyingly, he looked good in it. He had always looked good in anything. Questions roared across my mind as I forged forward.
‘Alright, love!’ said a man with cauliflower ears and a receding hairline, smiling a toothy grin at me. ‘You won’t get served standing there.’ He’d spilt some of his pint onto his tan loafers. He wasn’t wearing socks.
‘I’m not trying to get served.’
I craned my neck to see where he’d gone. He couldn’t have just disappeared. He was right there, I was certain of it. I felt funny, not sure if I wanted to vomit or cry at how overwhelming the feeling was.
‘You want us to hoist you up? You might have a better chance of catching the barmaid’s eye then?’ The man nudged me. His equally enormous frien
ds turned round to see who he was talking to.
‘He was just here…’
‘Who? Who was here?’ I could see him pull a face to his mates out of the corner of my eye. A booming laugh and a meaty hand slapping his back. A waft of offensive BO. ‘You alright, love? You’ve gone a bit pale.’
I shook my head.
It wasn’t him.
My eyes had deceived me. Henry’s doppelgänger, who actually didn’t look very much like him after all, was laughing with an older woman at the bar. The hair colour was almost the same but his face was all wrong. That cheeky smile, the cluster of freckles and the confident way he held himself were all missing.
Waves of heat rose to my cheeks. It was much too hot in there with all those writhing bodies jostling around me. Henry wasn’t there, of course he wasn’t. How utterly ridiculous of me to think that after all these years he’d show up in this place. As if he’d be hanging out in a dive of a bar in Ryebrook on a Friday night. What planet was I on? I blinked back the tears threatening to overcome my gritty and tired eyes. I had to get out of there immediately.
‘Hey, come back darlin’, I won’t bite!’
‘Unless you want him to!’
I ignored the looks and irritated tutting from strangers as I pushed past. Jeers of laughter followed by wolf-whistles were drowned out by the terrible music. I fought my way to the doors, inhaling lungfuls of cool air as I tumbled outside.
I scurried past the huddle of smokers flocked under one lonely heater, holding my breath so as not to be permeated by their poisonous fumes. I’d call Mum later and tell her I wasn’t feeling well, apologise for not saying bye. Thanks to the drinks she was putting away, I doubted she’d even remember my dramatic disappearance by the morning. For the first time in a long time I yearned to be anaesthetised by alcohol too.
Chapter 7
When you break up with someone it’s normal to ricochet between emotions; all the books told me that. Except this wasn’t a clean cut break-up. He’d just disappeared, and there were still so many things left unsaid. I’d tried. I really had. I hated feeling like that, struggling to pick myself up and get back on track. Usually baking helped, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to give one of Ms Norris’s recipes a go. Cleaning was the next best solution, but even that didn’t seem to be working.
I decided to call Maria. She was the only person who knew about Henry, and I could trust her not to judge me. Others wouldn’t understand. Surely I should feel OK by now. But it was like my head and heart hadn’t read the rulebook which contained the exact date you should move on after a traumatic break-up. As time had passed, I’d forced myself to see less and less of Maria, as seeing her meant being reminded of him. Every time we met, his name wasn’t far from slipping into our conversation. That’s just the way it was.
I dialled her number.
‘Grace? Wow. Long time! How are you doing, hun?’
I let out a breath I’d been holding. Her warmth radiating down the line immediately washed away any of the doubts I’d had at making this call out of the blue.
‘Hi! I know, it’s been a while…’
‘Everything OK?’
I sighed deeply.
‘Stupid question. Of course not. Why else would you be calling me?’ Her light tinkle of a laugh softened the dig.
‘Are you around for a catch-up? I could really do with seeing you… as soon as possible.’
I could hear a rustling of papers in the background. I winced. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous that she would want to see me, especially after such a long absence.
‘Oh, hun, I’m so sorry but I’m really busy at the moment. Work is manic, you know how it is.’
Of course she was busy, what was I expecting?
‘Maybe I can move things around and give you a call back so we can organise a get-together soon? It would be good to see you again.’
I felt dejected. There was once a time when we were so close that she would have cancelled whatever was in her diary for me. Clearly too much time had passed. I tried to stay positive that she was a woman of her word; once things calmed down for her she’d be in touch. Until then I needed to keep busy and I knew exactly what to do to fill the time.
*
I curled my feet up under me, pulling my laptop closer, and logged in to Facebook. I needed to start my prep on Abbie Anderson.
As a model, she had a significant online presence, so I imagined it would be easy to discover lots of details we could incorporate into her funeral. I typed her name in the search bar and hovered my finger for a second before clicking.
I was soon looking at the life of a dead woman. Her profile picture was a flawless selfie, and luckily her account was not set to private. The last photo she had been tagged in before she died was a group shot. Four smiling faces around a dining table, each holding their wine glass up to the camera. A woman with a selfie stick in her outstretched arm to capture them all.
Shona Fitz nee Limbrick is feeling happy with – Greg Fitz, Abbie Anderson, Callum Anderson. Just found this on my phone! What a great night!! Had to share!!
Callum’s name didn’t come up in bold blue like Abbie or the others, which meant he wasn’t on Facebook. I stared at the photo, imagining their life, being a guest at one of their dinner parties. Owning a selfie stick. The men probably moaning as the women giggled at the effort of drunkenly trying to steady their hand to get everyone in the shot. It had received ninety-four likes.
There was an album from their honeymoon a few years ago. Seychelles, baby! I clicked on it. Abbie wearing a barely-there white one-piece with impractical holes cut out of it, posing effortlessly on a plump cream sun lounger, an idyllic white sandy beach and turquoise clear waters in the background. A shot of her drinking a martini with dramatic bug sunglasses on, looking away from the camera. Callum diving into an infinity pool, beads of water on his tanned torso as he froze mid-air. The two of them, noses pink from the sun, cuddled together, and grinning over a table full of seafood. They looked so utterly happy together. He looked so different from the man I’d met.
I couldn’t help myself, clicking on the photos that she was tagged in. Abbie wearing a burgundy mini dress with what looked like a cape attached to it. Her legs up to her armpits. I tried not to compare the size of my non-existent thigh gap with hers. Abbie in blood-red spike heels and leather-look leggings. Her face painted in white powder with a drop of crimson falling from her bottom lip. Plastic fangs in her mouth. A black velvet choker around her slim neck. Sharp collarbones and jutting ribs.
If looks could kill!! Ready for a hair-raising night to raise money for Princess Power!
Princess Power was a local charity for young women with terminal cancer.
Abbie’s slim, tanned arm wrapped around two attractive men wearing hot pink Hawaiian shirts. Thick gold cuffs on her wrists, her hair slicked back against her skull and a fierce pout at the camera.
Hula night, bitches! – With Owen Driscoll and @ ModelsZone
Her modelling agency, by the looks of it.
The same guy, Owen, the one with the sculptured cheekbones and glossy black hair, appeared a few more times in selfies, arty black and white modelling shoots and goofy backstage candid pics. They looked great together. Abbie had checked them into different places across Europe, probably when they were working on shoots together.
Another shot: Abbie in cargo shorts and a coral vest top, cheering at the camera from the ruins of Macchu Picchu.
We made it! #Blessed #YOLO
Abbie underwater, snorkelling past a shoal of fish, the same bright colours as her bikini.
Trying to Find Nemo! #JustKeepSwimming
Abbie jumping on an enormous plush hotel bed in a cute denim playsuit.
Paris is always a good idea!
There was a short video clip of her bending her lithe body into some impressive shapes on a beach in Turkey, taken by a drone by the looks of the crazy angles. She’d tagged in a yoga retreat company.
Th
e only way to find zen – with @yogawarriors. Can’t wait to return next year!
It was like a car crash on the other side of the motorway. I couldn’t look away. My fingers danced on the cursor wanting to see more and more. Within twenty minutes, I’d inhaled seven years of her life.
Right, I needed to work out ways to incorporate what I’d learnt into a perfect goodbye. I pulled out a notepad and began to jot a few ideas down. She clearly enjoyed yoga and a holistic lifestyle, so maybe we could dot incense sticks around the chapel? Having such a strong online presence, maybe we could create a photo montage as a visual memento? She clearly loved to travel, so maybe this could be something to work with?
I glanced around my bare flat, aware of a strange gnawing feeling in my chest. There wasn’t a photo, personal knick-knack or random bit of clutter in sight. I bet Abbie had lots of interesting trinkets from her exotic adventures dotted around her house, each with a fascinating story. My cleaning to-do list stared back at me forlornly from the coffee table. The budget-but-practical IKEA furniture suddenly seemed impersonal and even the two duck egg cushions that came with the sofa (in the January sales) looked drab. It was as if I was seeing through someone else’s eyes for the first time. I blinked rapidly and told myself to stop overthinking things. These items were chosen for their durability, not their ability to catch dust.
What I couldn’t escape from was that I was the same age as Abbie – we even had the same birthday – yet it was clear to see from her Facebook page that I’d barely led a fraction of the life that she had. I shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I couldn’t compete with her glamorous job, exotic travels, handsome husband and enormous posse of good-looking male and female friends. I shook my head. Two women, the exact same age, living in the same town, but completely worlds apart.
Abbie looked like the type of woman who always had perfectly polished toenails, who wore perfume every day – not just for a special occasion. She clearly had the upper arms of a yogi, volunteered her time for charity, and had seen the world, ticking off country after country that I could only dream of visiting. I bet she could speak at least one foreign language, made fresh healthy juices each morning, and was the person you realised was absent from social events.