by Jane Riley
‘You’ve always had it together, you know,’ he continued. ‘You’re composed and annoyingly sensible and you can work around death every day. I sure as hell couldn’t.’
‘I don’t know how to do anything else.’
‘But why would you want to? You’ve got a job for life. People aren’t going to stop dying, are they?’
‘They may be dying but they’re taking their business elsewhere.’ I looked away. Felt my eyes well up again. I didn’t want to cry in front of Andy when he’d just told me how much he admired my composure. Lightning lit up the living room, highlighting for a few seconds the dust on my coffee table.
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ he said, ‘is that you’re number one. If you don’t care enough about yourself, who will? You need to believe in yourself. Believe that you have the power to turn things around, fix your business and your love life.’
I took in Andy’s words. I’d never thought of myself as having power, the option to make change rather than have change forced upon me. The thought of it gave me the shivers, as did the second flash of lightning, which was like a whip across my neck. Around us rain intensified into one thunderous applause.
‘Jeez, you still don’t like thunderstorms, do you? Remember that time, years ago, when I’d persuaded you to try golf and we saw a storm approach? I’ve never seen you run so fast back to the clubhouse.’
‘My sister, remember?’
‘Oh yeah.’
We didn’t speak for a few minutes but listened to the thunder grumble under the weight of clouds and the rain easing to a polite clap, until it sounded as if it wasn’t clapping at all. Andy looked at me thoughtfully, then said gently, ‘Look, I think you need to move on from the past and try something new. It doesn’t matter what. Go on a date, change things up at work . . .’
I got what he was saying but it was hard to get Marie’s diary out of my head and to stop wondering exactly what she had written, imagining the words, her words about me. I probably didn’t look as enthused about Andy’s suggestions as he’d have hoped because he then read my mind and said, ‘Are you still thinking about the diary?’
I nodded.
‘I know it was great to find out about Marie’s feelings for you, but the thing is,’ he whispered, as if scared someone else might hear, ‘she’s no longer with us.’
I nodded again but couldn’t speak. I was on the verge of choking up once more. I couldn’t admit to Andy just how much I loved her, how I had wanted her to be my girlfriend, my wife, my forever woman. It would have sounded pathetic. Feeble. As if I were a loser who couldn’t even fall in love with someone who was single and still living. For I was scared – scared about the future without Marie in it. I had become so consumed by the reason for her unhappiness and whether I could ask her out that I hadn’t contemplated a future without her, which may sound fanciful, possibly even preposterous, yet that was the sum of it. And now I was left bereft, lost, future-less. All sense of purpose gone, poof . . . I sighed, unable to give any sort of response that would have been acceptable to Andy in that moment.
‘Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out how you would have liked,’ Andy continued. ‘But now it’s time to move forward. We’ve got to rethink your future, get you out of this funk.’ I loved the way Andy included himself in my problems. He didn’t need to do that, but it meant a lot. I nodded to show him how much I appreciated his words of advice, even if it all seemed too hard. It was like I was wedged between two rocks and couldn’t get out. I knew I wanted to get out but not how I would do it – only that I wanted Marie alongside me at all times, which, sadly, didn’t appear to be part of Andy’s future for me.
‘What I think,’ Andy advised, ‘is that you should be over the moon to find out how Marie felt about you but accept it’s time to move on. And if you don’t want the business to go under, do something about it. Try something new. That goes for your life, too. Sometimes change requires getting out of your comfort zone.’
I pondered Andy’s words, which I knew were intended to be wonderfully inspiring, then clinked my empty beer bottle against his. ‘Thanks, Andy,’ I said.
‘You’ll be right, mate, I know you will.’
I felt better after Andy left. He may not have solved anything but a tiny weight had been lifted; more of the cloud had dissipated. I found my yellow notebook and skimmed previous pages. It was alarming how many times I had written Thou shalt ask Marie out – not that I’d repeatedly penned the phrase but that I had never done it. The words were hollow, whimsical notions of an apathetic daydreamer. Somehow I had to turn from fantasiser to doer; I had to banish the clouds and find the blue sky. I edged across the sofa so that I was no longer sitting in my usual spot in the middle. The seat cushion was firmer, less sunken closer to the end. I could still watch the television, even if it meant a slightly angled view, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Plus, there was the sofa arm to lean into if I wanted and more room to stretch my legs without having the coffee table immediately in front. I sat there for a minute enjoying my new position, then did the only thing I knew how to do. I found my notebook of resolutions, turned to a fresh page and wrote a new list. But, this time, I felt more determination than I ever had before; my pen strokes were more defined, the lines etched deeper, the resolutions formed with stronger resolve.
Thou shalt enjoy the feeling of knowing you were loved and not let it get you down.
Thou shalt try something new.
Thou shalt get out of your comfort zone, maybe even take a risk.
Thou shalt not let Clock & Son go under.
I read them over one more time and smiled to myself. Marie would have been proud.
PART TWO
I must stop pretending I have a busy social life.
I must stop buying so many ties, especially ones featuring galaxies.
I must stand up for myself.
I must get a life.
Can you ‘get a life’ or does life find you?
The Invitation
The next day I woke up drained but reinvigorated. This time I was determined to try my new resolutions, and number one was the easiest place to start. Marie had loved me and I loved her and that joyous feeling was going to help get me through the challenge of the other resolutions. I returned to work as if I had never been away and brushed off Jean’s words of concern and Mum’s questioning looks. I even rejoiced in doing an embalming because it was our first death in two weeks and so cause for celebration. At home, I restored my books to the bookshelf in colour-coded groups and my notebook of resolutions to the drawer in my bedside table. I didn’t even mind when Edie returned with another candle sample. My mood had lifted and I was happy to humour her.
‘This is La Lumière de Monty,’ Edie said. She lifted the lid and waved the candle under my nose. She really did have a lovely face, warm and welcoming, and was wearing a striking black dress with flowers, a print like glossy, fashionable wallpaper. ‘What do you think?’
I leaned forward to sniff. A pungent smell of something unbearably sweet evaporated up my nostrils. ‘And who is this?’ I asked.
‘It’s my cat.’
‘Meow,’ I said, which I hadn’t intended to; it just came out.
‘It’s an unusual fragrance, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s my secret concoction. The point is, I can make pretty much any scent you like. Obviously, recreating the aroma of cat is tricky and I wouldn’t normally do animals, but when you get it right, you really feel as if your pet or relative is with you when you burn it.’ She smiled, as though this were a totally normal thing to say.
‘Well, it’s certainly unique,’ I said, wondering how to let her down gently. ‘You’re like my florist, who was very creative. She could turn any idea into a bouquet.’
‘For me, making candles is a welcome change from the very uncreative pharmaceutical world in which I work.’ She laughed. ‘Look, I know you’ve already heard my sales pitch, but I would love the opportunity to make these for your clients. You see, s
mell is so powerful. When you become aware of your sense of smell and the smells around you, everything comes alive. Life comes alive. Most people aren’t aware, and they’re the ones not living. Things become more nuanced – that’s what a famous perfumer once said, “more nuanced”. When you want to remember someone fondly, all you want is the sense that they’re still with you, the sense that the nuances of them are still alive.’
Then Jean walked in. ‘Ah, Jean,’ I said. ‘This is Edie, the candle-maker I was telling you about.’
‘What do you think of this one?’ Edie said, shoving the candle under Jean’s quivering nose.
Jean tilted her head skywards as if trying to decipher the source of the scent. ‘Potent, but nice,’ she said.
‘It’s my old cat. She was a grumpy old thing by the end, but loyal and surprisingly affectionate.’
‘Isn’t that lovely?’ Jean said, before turning to me and tapping her watch. ‘You have a client shortly, Oliver.’
It was a cunning ploy, but I was happy for her to define an endpoint to the meeting. Yet after Edie had left I couldn’t help but think about what she had said. About keeping alive the memories of someone who had gone. About the nuances of smell. About the promise of being remembered for ever – or as long as a candle’s burn time lasted. I may have been basking in Marie’s love, but how long was that going to last and when would my memories of her begin to fade? Already she was becoming blurred at the edges, her voice muffled by the sound of my voice trying to find her. It was happening too quickly and I wasn’t prepared for her to dim (as if I would ever be). I didn’t even have a photo of her. The only one I’d ever had was a newspaper clipping from when she won a floral award several years ago, but that got thrown out when Mum was on one of her spring cleans. I’d had a phone message from her that I’d listened to repeatedly until it got wiped by mistake. It may have only been, ‘Hi, Oliver, can you call me when you get a minute?’ but, still, it was her voice and it was comforting to hear. And that was it. All I had were fuzzy memories.
But what if there was another way to capture her? Could Edie actually be on to something?
I grabbed a pen and paper and indulged in a moment’s fantasy. If Marie were a candle, what would it smell like? Which scents would I pick for her?
The first one that came to mind was sweet peas. If I had to pick a smell that represented Marie, it was sweet peas with their candy-like scent of summer. What else? Freshly cut leaves, slightly damp, crisp and new. Her hand moisturiser, with its subtle nose of honey and lanolin. I drummed my fingers. Ah, yes, rosé wine. She loved a glass over our lunchtime meetings, twisting my arm (not very hard) for me to join her. And what was the fragrance I smelled when I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek? She never wore perfume, claiming it reacted with her skin, so it must have been some sort of cosmetic. Powder, perhaps, or face cream? Edie was right: now that I was thinking about it, it’s all about the nuances. And I couldn’t forget zest of mandarin. It was her favourite fruit.
I sat back in the chair and let the front legs lift off the floor as if I were a kid at a school desk. How glorious to be remembering Marie in this way. How wonderful to think there was a way to keep Marie alive. It was an outlandish notion but one I couldn’t get out of my head. Could a candle of her be just what I needed to prove I was achieving resolution number one? I could light it on my fortieth birthday. It would be the only candle I’d need.
As I envisioned La Lumière de Marie, tinged a pale lavender colour, like that of a ruffled sweet pea blossom, my phone lit up with a text.
Are you free next Saturday night? Andy wrote.
I replied in the affirmative and wondered if I still had Edie’s business card. It wasn’t in my letter holder or under the notepad.
Good. We need to get you back into the real world, Andy wrote.
There it was, wedged between Roger’s resignation letter, behind the pencil holder.
Dinner party at ours, 7.30.
Trust Andy to still be looking out for me. A dinner party at his may not come under any of the other resolutions I had written, but it would counteract the old one of trying to stop watching infomercials. Plus, it would give me a wonderful reason to enjoy a night away from my flat and maybe even allow me, if the occasion arose – or even if it didn’t! – to refer to where I lived as a bachelor pad. I sent him two emojis (a champagne bottle and a party hat) and returned to the list of scents I had created for Marie. I needed another indulgent moment remembering. I closed my eyes and inhaled. But all I got were the faint remnants of Jean’s perfume and a whiff of cold coffee from the mug by my computer. What if Edie really could make a candle of Marie? I could have her surrounding me wherever I cared to put her. At work on my desk or in the viewing room, at home by my bed or on the coffee table, as a reminder of our love for each other. Was there any harm in finding out? No one else needed to know. And if the candle was not reminiscent of her, I could give it to someone as a present or donate it to charity. I reached for Edie’s business card in the letter holder and ran my fingers over the embossed wording. This called for action, not procrastination. Perhaps this was resolution numbers two and three both at once! Who cared if it contradicted Andy’s advice; he didn’t understand how much Marie was helping me move on. Would I have entertained Edie’s business idea if not for Marie? I don’t think so.
In a rare moment of decisiveness, I dialled Edie’s number and, before I had time to change my mind, I was discussing candles that smell of the dead – or, more precisely, of the woman I loved. The adrenaline rush I got from making such a rash decision without consulting anyone, overanalysing or delaying, required an immediate lie-down. When no one was looking I attempted a mindfulness moment on an empty embalming table.
The Dinner Party
By Saturday I was tripping the light fantastic, to quote the song ‘The Sidewalks of New York’, whose tune I only recently discovered at the funeral of a hundred-and-one-year-old tap-dancing hobbyist. A dinner party in itself wouldn’t normally induce such a reaction in me, rather it was the realisation that I was about to attend a social occasion the likes of which I had not enjoyed for months. Months! I did not put going to the pub after work with Andy or having dinner at Mum’s in the same category. Hadn’t Andy said I should be looking after number one? I felt so buoyed by the idea that I went to the barber’s to get my beard taken off. I flossed my teeth and decided to indulge in a celebratory steaming of my underwear. Marie would have been proud.
That evening I stood in my freshly steamed white Jockey Y-fronts and striped socks, wondering what to wear. It wasn’t like I had to impress anyone. Andy’s wife, Lucy, was as relaxed on the clothing front as Andy, embodying what I’d call a polished gypsy look, and their other friends who were coming, Simon and Sue, whom I had met several times before, dressed on the casual side as well. They were creatives, after all. No, tonight I was dressing for myself, the man I wanted to be outside of the business. A man who could move on from wearing track pants after hours. A man who was tripping the light fantastic in the warm glow of reciprocal love.
I pulled out two shirts from the wardrobe and stood before the mirror. My stomach waved a cheery hello. I sucked it in, but it wouldn’t disappear. Maybe I should try dieting again. I could decline dessert or the cheese platter if I could show some self-restraint. My arms and shoulders definitely had the unfortunate padding of a man too used to snacking on leftover barbecue sausage. I stood up straighter, wondering if I would ever see muscle again. I angled sideways, but my profile reminded me of an egg with legs. Sure, the socks didn’t help and maybe my underwear could be updated, but would there ever be a time when I looked as if I had stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad? Was there any point in even trying? The best I could probably hope for was an affiliation with Old Spice.
Time to dress, to cover up the egg. I picked a light blue linen shirt whose sleeves I could fold back for a more smart-casual look and a pair of dark denim jeans, my latest purchase, bought when I was fantasising about asking
Marie out. This would be their first outing.
Andy and Lucy lived in a narrow terrace with a brick facade and wrought-iron railings. On the street-front veranda huddled a herd of pot plants, two cane chairs with faded cushions and a low-dangling wind chime. Lucy may have been tidier than Andy but she was no minimalist. Her love of bohemian and vintage items en masse meant there was never just one of anything. Inside, rows of books lined the hallway, plants filled corners, Turkish rugs covered the floorboards and an array of mismatched mugs hung on hooks in the kitchen. There may have been clutter, but it was organised, clean and welcoming. Dodging the hanging macramé pot-plant holder, I pressed the doorbell.
‘Hey, Oliver, great you could come,’ Andy said, slapping me on the back. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A bit better, thanks, Andy.’
‘Excellent.’
I followed his flapping shirt tail down the hallway. A fug of spiciness cloyed the air – possibly Moroccan. Already I was looking forward to Lucy and Andy’s wonderful cooking and selection of wine. Lucy welcomed me with a big kiss, her dangling earrings hitting my cheek.
‘You remember Sue and Simon, don’t you?’ Andy said.
We exchanged greetings. Simon was a fellow photographer and Sue a watercolour artist.
‘And this is Sue’s sister, Caroline.’
‘Hello, Oliver,’ Caroline said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
I looked around for a partner. There didn’t appear to be one and no one else was mentioned. I glanced at her ring finger. Empty. It was a pleasant change to not be the only single person amidst a room full of couples. We shook hands rather formally, but her warm smile helped soften the formality. It was so engaging that I think I lingered longer on the handshake than was socially acceptable. I then turned my attention to her other physical features: mid-length brown hair, well-plucked eyebrows, tanned skin – possibly recently exfoliated – and half a thumb length of visible cleavage. I sensed Caroline was doing the same to me, which is why long handshakes are usually inadvisable.