by Jane Riley
The funny thing is, I think Oliver feels the same.
She knew? How could she?
My past life flooded through me, as if I’d swallowed a bucket of water and spat it out again. And all this time . . .
Thursday
Henry forgot to pick me up after work again. Is he losing his memory because of the drinking? Whatever it is, he’s becoming more and more forgetful and I’m going to have to talk to him properly about it. But the truth is, I’ve fallen out of love with him.
Friday
Henry says he’s giving up. Even though the bottle in the garage is gone, I’ve asked him to go to AA. I don’t think he can do it on his own, even though he says he can.
Saturday
We had a ‘date’ tonight. It was Henry’s idea and he organised it. To be fair, it was a lovely restaurant and we talked about old times, which helped me forget about the new times. He kept professing undying love, as if we were young lovers. I suppose I should be grateful, but I didn’t feel the desire to reciprocate. He’s still off the drink, and he’s been great, really. But he’s lost my trust and he’s not the man I once loved. I don’t have any love left for him any more. I’ve tried to get it back, to find it again. But it’s gone. I’m empty. Even now that he’s been off the drink, it’s not there. And I thought I loved him sober.
Wednesday
I can’t live with Henry any more. I’m thinking of leaving.
What?
I want to be with Oliver.
Sherbet fizzed, confetti burst, rockets fired off around me. I had to read that line over and over and over until I knew it by heart, which shouldn’t have been difficult, but in the state I was in I was incapable of doing anything – standing upright, walking in a straight line, reciting the five times table. I read each word slowly as if each were profound in its own right. I. Want. To. Be. With. Oliver. She wanted to be with me.
It’s probably a stupid presumption to make – that Oliver would want to be with me – but I feel we have a connection. If I wasn’t with Henry, then I could test the waters with Oliver. Oh gosh, did I write that? Does that mean I must leave him?
The diary slipped from my grip and fell on to the keyboard. The computer made pinging noises and the cursor zipped along the screen on a trail of its own. Was this what it felt like to do the hair-raiser ride at an amusement park? Anticipation followed by excitement, ending with projectile vomiting? I jumped a few more pages and continued reading.
Friday
It’s scary to think of leaving Henry or, rather, having to tell him I want to leave.
One month later: Thursday
I hate you, life. I hate you. I went to the doctor today and now I hate him, too. Not really, of course, as he is a kind, gentle man, but I hated what he had to tell me. I hated trying to keep my composure when, inside, I wanted to scream. I hated the receptionist smiling at me when I walked out. I hate the world. I hate everything. Except Oliver. There’s no point in leaving Henry now. Even if I do live longer than they say, I’m still dying. No one would want me. Not even Oliver. Why burden anyone with my desires? And who knows how Henry would react. I’ve got enough to deal with now, as it is. A dying person gains regrets and loses dreams. Life’s shit.
I rested my head in my hand. If only I’d have known.
Sunday
This dying business sucks. I don’t even feel like I’m dying. What’s dying supposed to feel like? If dying means endless crying, then I’ve died. I’m gone. Kaput.
Friday
I hope Oliver finds his soulmate. He deserves to love and be loved. He deserves a family. He’d be a great dad. Maybe if I’d been with him, I’d have been able to have children. But why torture myself with that idea! Henry was good for nothing in that regard. He didn’t even want to consider adoption.
So it was true: Marie loved me as I loved her. We were soulmates without even realising it. We had successfully hidden our feelings from one another, endured one-sided loving that caused us nothing but heartache. Oh, how could we have not known? How could Marie have not told me, and I her? And yet how close had I been to revealing my feelings to her? So close, so terribly close. But I’d been a fool and hadn’t. A tear droplet dampened the entry, smudged and blurred it. Then another and another. My eyes filled with so much water I couldn’t even see the words clearly any more.
‘Oliver?’
How long had Mum been standing there? Multiple lines of the letter ‘d’ filled my computer screen. I took my hand off the keyboard and wiped my eyes.
‘You’re crying? Is it to do with the parcel?’
I shrugged and closed the diary.
‘Is it about Marie? I know you were fond of her.’
I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to explain my lost romantic opportunity, how my love for a married woman – colleague, even – was an unrequited love turned requited posthumously. I couldn’t even tell Mum I had commissioned a candle of Marie. Or that my version of a sensible slice of cake was very different to hers. Or that I couldn’t stand the way she bought tissue holders, as if covering them in gauche floral boxes would disguise what they really were – snot receptacles for the grieving.
She came around to my side of the desk and rubbed my shoulders. I appreciated her trying hard to offer me comfort. Demonstrative hugs and affection didn’t come as naturally to her as did protecting me from the world and telling me what not to do, rather than what to do.
‘If you want to talk, I’ll listen,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, but still, I couldn’t.
She let her hands rest peacefully on my shoulders and said, ‘You know, Oliver, sometimes life has a strange way of showing us it cares. And the act of accepting this can be the hardest thing to do.’
That was profound. It was like Mum knew what had been going on all along. Or did she have some sixth sense that only she could tap into? Or was it just that she knew her son? I had no bloody idea. What I did know was the regret I was filling up with. Marie’s, mine. It was a regret far worse than eating a whole pizza when half would do or confessing to a deceased client that you fancied their daughter. Despite Mum’s words, life was unfair. No matter how many axioms or glib phrases of consolation she spouted, life sucked.
La Lumière de Marie
After Mum quietly dusted her way out, I must have sat there for a good twenty minutes doing nothing. Just staring, feeling sorry for myself and blubbering intermittently like an old tap spluttering into action.
Then I heard the clink of Jean’s nifty new spectacles chain. My life may have turned upside down but everything else was carrying on just as it had been. I wiped my eyes, slapped a cheek and pretended to be doing costings on the calculator.
‘Knock, knock,’ Jean said softly. ‘Can I come in?’
I nodded. From the way she spoke and then tentatively came in, I suspected Mum had enlightened her on the parcel as much as she was able to.
‘Are you alright, Oliver?’
I nodded again, put the calculator back in the drawer.
‘I’m sorry to bother you but you have a visitor. It’s that girl. She’s back peddling her candles. I can send her away if you like?’
My heart skipped a beat, as it does when you’re about to see the one you love reincarnated as a candle, the one whose lost love you were now grieving. For a minute, I couldn’t speak, fearing another outburst of waterworks.
‘Why don’t I say you’re busy?’ Jean suggested.
And yet, Edie had Marie’s candle. What if it brought Marie back, if only for a brief, aromatic moment? What if it was our love reincarnated? ‘No, Jean, it’s OK. I’ll see her.’
I wiped my eyes again, put the diary in a drawer and waited for Jean to bring Edie in.
‘Oh hi, Oliver, I almost didn’t recognise you,’ she said.
The disguise! ‘Yes, sorry, not my usual attire.’ I ruffled my hat-flattened hair and brushed down the top, which had a tendency to resemble an expanding parachute. ‘Please, have a seat.’
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to bring you your friend’s candle. It’s all done.’
You could argue that Edie’s arrival could not have been more timely, given my distress at reading Marie’s diary. Then again, there was a case for it being very bad timing indeed. For now it felt as if everything rested on this candle. I yearned for Marie so much that it had to be her. It had to conjure memories of her in a way that other things couldn’t. I needed Marie with me and this was the best I was going to get. Edie reached into her handbag and took out a candle wrapped in tissue paper. I closed my eyes and willed the tears to stay away. My stomach was a cluster of moths trapped in a light. She placed the candle on my desk.
But wait, I wasn’t ready!
‘My apologies,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘I didn’t offer you a drink. Tea? Coffee? Water?’ I stood up to get her a drink in order to stall the lifting of the lid.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said.
I stared at the candle with its creamy wax, shiny silver cap and label with a flowery font and floating angel. ‘So, here she is, then.’
‘I think you’ll like it. I hope you’ll like it. I spent quite a bit of time preparing the scent, adjusting the fragrances so it was a subtle combination of the smells you suggested.’
What would I do if it wasn’t Marie? If it smelt like something else entirely, something unpleasant, like saccharine talcum powder, or the cloying scent of a two-pound shop? It didn’t bear thinking about. I picked it up. It had a reassuring weightiness to it, as if it were solid, dependable. Then I had to remind myself that it wasn’t Marie at all: it was just a candle. A candle that hopefully smelt of something nice, like one of Marie’s favourite flowers, if nothing else. But who was I kidding? I didn’t want that. Was Edie aware how much I didn’t want that?
I smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘This is it,’ I said, as if a dollop of lightness would hide my trepidation. Edie chewed her lip, waited. She was probably urging me to hurry up. Hurry up, you fool, because if you don’t like it, I’ll flog it elsewhere.
With an exaggerated gesture of a pantomime actor, I removed the lid. A burst of something zesty and citrussy with a hint of roses and a sweetness I couldn’t name hit my nose and carried me out of my office and into the local church where Marie was creating exquisite, no-expense-spared flowers for the service of a well-known personality who had unexpectedly and controversially passed away. Fusty, oak-scented pews were overrun with lilies, stocks, hydrangeas, roses, fern and eucalyptus leaves. Sarah was also there, helping Marie, and the organist arrived at the same time to practise his pieces. There was a frisson of tension in the air as we all knew our contributions had to amount to something spectacular. For this was no ordinary funeral: it was high profile, under the beady eye of the media, and a family name that reeked of money and infamy.
I picked up some of the sprigs and smelled them. So fresh and invigorating was the pine scent of eucalyptus and the heady smell of the lilies and stocks that together they created another aroma entirely. I surreptitiously dropped a fallen leaf into my jacket pocket and chatted to Sarah about how long it would take them to finish. It was when Marie cheekily called out a song request and the organist obliged that we all relaxed. Sarah started singing. Marie locked arms with me and we fast-waltzed stupidly by the pulpit, which ended in a spray of laughter and enthusiastic clapping by the minister. What I took home with me that day was not just an abundance of joy in my heart but, on my hands, a delicate bouquet of flora and foliage and the subtle residue of Marie herself.
I inhaled again, just to be sure. Why, yes, Edie had nailed it. There she was, darling Marie, escaping like a genie in a bottle. I put the lid back on to keep her in. My head swooned. I thought I might pass out. It wasn’t a good look for a funeral director who’s seen all manner of passings to faint from the smell of a candle. I steadied myself with the desk against the subtle spin of my office swivel chair.
‘It’s incredible,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve got her.’
‘Have I?’
I half lifted the lid and stuck my nose in for a third time. ‘Yes. Yes, it is Marie.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ Edie said, visibly relieved. ‘Please, take it home and light it. Make sure it smells as good when it’s lit.’
‘Why don’t I do it now? Wait there, I’ll find a lighter.’ I rushed out to the kitchenette to get one. ‘Here we go.’ I ran back, holding the lighter aloft, and lit the candle.
I closed my eyes and breathed her in.
‘She was a florist, you know,’ I said. ‘Whenever I went into her shop, depending on what time of the year it was, I’d be overcome by the most spectacular of smells.’ I was wandering, physically in my office and mentally back to the past. I couldn’t help myself. The candle was having the most peculiar effect on me. ‘Her shop was like a degustation menu at Botticelli’s down the road, a feast for the senses. Even the water she sprayed over the plants to keep them fresh added scents to the air. An aroma of a rainforest, freshwater rivers and rain after a sun shower.’
Then I remembered where I was, who I was with. I hadn’t meant to babble on about Marie like I had. I hadn’t even told Andy how much I loved Marie’s shop. My face reddened. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on.’
‘It’s OK,’ Edie said, touching my arm. ‘Take a moment to remember your friend.’
Her hand stayed on my arm as I took a moment, as she suggested. Neither of us spoke and I thought I would actually cry once more. But, thankfully, after a long minute where I recovered myself, Edie started talking again, with impeccable timing.
‘Smell is more powerful than people realise,’ she said gently. ‘Its memory never fades. When you smell something once, it stays with you for the rest of your life. That’s why I started the candles. I wanted a way to remember my father, who’s in the last stages of Parkinson’s. I thought how amazing it would be to have something for Mum and me to remember him by other than photos or memory. Something that triggered a sensory message.’
‘I’m sorry about your father,’ I said, remembering Dad’s folder of appropriate phrases.
‘Thanks, but the stupid thing is, I can’t seem to get him right. Mum said I was wasting my time, but when I made Grandma Edna and Monty she changed her mind. She liked them so much, she thinks they could work.’
I nodded. Thought about the kookiness of the idea and yet how evocative the candles could be, how powerful it was to have the person you missed embodied in a scent. Then I did something I have never done before. I made a decision on the spot, an act of spontaneous impulsion spurred on by the pure joy Edie had given me. By how she had made Marie come alive again. I couldn’t believe the rush of decisiveness that came over me. I’d reached the dizzying heights of spontaneity, all thanks to Edie.
‘Alright, let’s do it. Let’s make candles that smell of the dead. Let’s give others the gift you have given me.’
Edie leapt out of her seat and clapped her hands. I thought she was going to hug me, which would have been very awkward indeed, considering we were about to embark on a business transaction. Resisting the urge to get back into character and do a hip-hop hand gesture in jest, I pretended I was in the suit I should have been in and offered her a hand to shake and tea and biscuits instead.
‘Oh, Oliver, thank you. I’d love to stay and talk about it more but I need to get back to work,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘I wasn’t expecting such a quick decision.’
‘Neither was I.’ I laughed.
‘Let’s set another time. And please, use the candle to think of nice things about your friend. It’s meant to give light, not darkness. You don’t need to be sad.’
‘Thank you, Edie, I will.’
After Edie left, I disappeared into the morgue on the pretence of checking up on a client so I could contemplate in peace what I had just agreed to. I pulled up a stool next to seventy-six-year-old Mr Johnson, whose family was still debating whe
ther he should wear the wetsuit he liked to surf in or the suit he had bought for his daughter’s wedding, which needed another outing to justify the cost, and told him about the candles.
‘I reckon they could be our signature offering,’ I said, leaning on the coffin. ‘They would set us apart from the others, don’t you think? Yes, Clock & Son would not just be the place you went to leave this Earth, it would be where you went to be remembered. It would be the start of your new beginning. We would become a funereal candle conglomerate like there has never been before. What do you think, Mr Johnson?’
Feeling Mr Johnson’s silent approval, I got off the stool and returned to my office. The delicate fumes of Marie greeted me at my desk. They curled through the air as if beckoning me to the light that Edie was talking about. Now, not only did I have Marie’s diary and her words of love, I had a candle to bring her back to life, which I think Marie would have been pretty delighted about, too.
Salsa Dancing
It was this that helped me turn up to my first date with Caroline. I put Marie in a mental box called ‘Love that will not get me down’, Caroline in one called ‘Getting out of my comfort zone’, and the salsa dance class into a box called ‘Trying something new without making a fool of myself’. Anyway, just because I was in love with Marie didn’t mean I couldn’t socialise with Caroline. Categorising these aspects of my life helped compartmentalise them emotionally and keep me focused on my resolutions. Not that it stopped me fearing the experience of learning to dance with a woman I didn’t know. Normally it would have sent me running for cover into the mortuary, making up an excuse about having a last-minute call-out or a stubbed big toe that needed resting. But this time I resisted. I wanted to impress Marie with my new dance moves.
Caroline met me at the entrance. ‘This is going to be fun,’ she said. She was dressed in what appeared to be a tennis outfit – a short white pleated skirt, pink polo shirt and black salsa dance shoes. I looked less sporty in my suit trousers and short-sleeved shirt, as I was hoping to emulate the dress of a male ballroom dancer.