The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock

by Jane Riley

  As it turned out, it wasn’t.

  ‘No you weren’t, because I’ve just been to your work and you weren’t there and never had been there. I spoke to your mother, who was polishing the coffins.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, kicking myself for being dishonest. Mum always said lies came to no good. Yet if I told Caroline the truth right then, would that make me look better or worse? Somehow, I suspected worse. How did I tell Caroline I was trying to protect her from her own jealousy? That I was trying to avoid a situation just like the one we were now in. Even though I knew I shouldn’t have lied, I didn’t like the way Caroline was reacting and I wasn’t sure how best to pacify her. ‘Were you stalking me?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘But you’ve just been to my work.’

  ‘I was going to surprise you. But all I’ve done is found you out.’

  ‘Found me out about what?’ I said, pointlessly, in retrospect.

  ‘That you’ve been somewhere else, that you lied, that you’re hiding something.’

  I sighed. This charade couldn’t continue. Caroline was getting herself all worked up like a washing machine on a spin cycle. I had to come clean. ‘OK, so I was making candles with Edie, the candle-maker. You know how I was telling you about them?’

  ‘You were doing what?’

  ‘It’s true. Here . . .’ I said, getting Edie’s number up on my phone. ‘You can call her, if you like.’

  ‘I’m not going to call her.’

  ‘Please.’ I waggled the phone at her.

  ‘You could have spent the afternoon with me.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agreed, ‘but this was business.’

  ‘On a Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘I work odd hours,’ I said, but it wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Oh, forget it,’ she said, and turned around and left.

  My wonderful afternoon had plummeted to the depths of horribleness.

  I went to the kitchen to make both a cup of tea and pour a glass of wine, unable to decide which would make me feel better, and to work out what to do about what had just happened. I sat at the kitchen table and started with the tea. I kicked myself for having perpetrated the lie in the first place. I shouldn’t have done it – didn’t even know why I had done it, other than to prevent Caroline getting jealous. And even that was silly because there was nothing for her to be jealous about. I get that she may have wanted to see me but did she have to go stalking me at work? And why couldn’t she be more understanding about the nature of my vocation? I did work unconventional hours and had last-minute call-outs at odd times of the day and night. I felt guilty and responsible for making her unhappy and wished neither of us to feel this way. The more I thought and the more tea I drank, the more I realised I felt less inclined to be defensive about my profession yet again, even though it pained me to have Caroline think badly of me. I was trying to make us as an ‘us’ work, but it seemed constantly fraught. I started on the wine. Marie had been giving me so much, and Caroline, for a time, had too, but now it seemed as if she was taking it all away, making the air between us tainted and strained. Her niggling and prying sat uncomfortably with me and, in turn, were making me do things – i.e. lying – that I didn’t like to do. It was as if we were in some domestic drama which at any minute could take a dark twist and become a domestic noir thriller. Dear God, what was happening to my life? I felt so hopeless and helpless all of a sudden; panicked and anxious, nervous and stressed.

  Then I started crying. I expelled sobs so loud they would have woken the morgue had I been there and had it been full. I sobbed, gulped, spluttered, couldn’t seem to get a grip. I poured more wine, slugged, slurped, sobbed some more. It didn’t seem to help. Get a grip, Oliver, get a grip. You’ve cried enough already this year, you fool. This realisation only made me cry more. I was a yacht in a storm, a speeding car veering off the road, cake batter in a mixer. Listing, reeling, weaving, churning. I’d thrown caution to the wind, flung off an inhibition to implement some of my newer resolutions, yet where had it got me? I was nearly forty and my life was being hijacked by a woman whose hazel eyes were actually a terrible shade of bright green. In an effort to get a handle on my life, I’d let it get out of control. Someone, please, change the forecast, put a foot on the brake, flick the off switch. Someone, please . . . Help!

  I drank more wine and then found myself on the floor, curled in a corner against the cupboards, as if that were a perfectly reasonable place to enjoy a fine wine by yourself on a Saturday afternoon. Why use chairs when you had the floor? The thought made me laugh one of those crazed, waterlogged guffaws. I wiped my eyes and nose with the back of a hand, had some more wine. Thoughts sloshed. Nothing made sense. Had I crashed, overturned, over-mixed?

  At some point I must have had a vision of myself from above and realised the pointlessness of being in the foetal position on the kitchen floor, particularly when there was a collection of crumbs lining the skirting board that needed sweeping up. I got up and staggered to the sofa, flopped like a rag doll. I lay there, weak and helpless yet relieved the tears had subsided.

  That’s when I started thinking – properly thinking, the way I liked to do when trying to work things out, when I was able to mull things over without any distractions. I thought about what Edie had said earlier about feeling handcuffed by her boyfriend. I thought about how Andy told me I should care more for myself. I thought of what Marie had written in her diary about hoping I’d find a soulmate. I thought of Lily and how she didn’t even get the chance at life and finding a soulmate. They were thoughts I’d never fully processed before. It was all very well writing lists of resolutions and dreams I wanted to happen but maybe it took a woman like Caroline to make me realise what it was that I didn’t want. I sat up as a feeling of calmness came over me. Yes, that was it. I had to remember what I didn’t want as much as what I did want. Instead of calling out stupidly, pointlessly, for someone else to help me, I had to help myself. I got up to find my notebook of resolutions and a pen. I would write a new entry: all the things I didn’t want.

  Then it came to me in a burst of lucidity, as if my eyes had just snapped open, as Mr Lowry’s had at his pre-viewing viewing. It was a realisation of such clarity that I didn’t know how I couldn’t have realised it before. I did not want to be officially or unofficially going out with Caroline. Not even to ease the pain of loneliness. Not even to help me try things I didn’t think I wanted to do. Not even to rekindle a semblance of romance I so yearned for. Not even to imagine a life of happy families. Being with Caroline may have eased my loneliness and helped me try new things but it was as wrong for me to lead her on as it was to pretend to myself that she was the one. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried, but a soulmate wasn’t any old soul who happened to turn up and fill a hole. They were the one you wanted to be with for the rest of your life. And I realised then that I did not want to be with Caroline for the rest of my life.

  I dusted myself off, splashed water on my face and ordered a taxi to take me to Caroline’s. Who cared if I was tipsy? Who cared if I looked as if a storm had hit and my eyes were red and puffy? Who cared if my clothes, which had been ironed, now looked as if they hadn’t? I had to do the right thing.

  I knocked on her door.

  She opened it ever so slightly. ‘I don’t want to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Please. We need to talk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just give me a minute. Please.’

  ‘One minute? Is that all it’s going to take?’ I nodded. ‘Well?’ she said, opening the door ever so slightly more. Her eyes were as red and puffy as mine.

  It was a shame I hadn’t given myself more time to prepare what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. When I could have rehearsed before a deceased client or at least with myself, talking to the room and summoning up the confidence to stand up for myself. All that came out was, ‘This isn’t working, is it?’

  ‘I thought you’d come to apologise.’
/>
  ‘It’s true, I have.’

  ‘So do it.’

  ‘I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t mean to hurt you but . . .’

  ‘But . . .?’

  I looked her in the eyes, gulped away my nervousness. ‘But I need to be honest with you. I need to be honest with myself.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Caroline. I don’t see a future for us,’ I said, as assertively as I could.

  ‘What?’ Her face dropped.

  ‘I don’t think we’re right for each other.’ For the second time in the space of a few weeks, I was standing up for myself, and it felt good.

  ‘No, no, no, Oliver. We’re so right! I can’t believe you’re saying that.’ She flung open the door and wrapped her arms around me as if trying desperately to pretend I hadn’t said what I had. I felt so bad for her, and kind of bad for myself, as it would have been great if we had worked out but I had to follow my heart. I had to stick to my resolve. So I didn’t reciprocate her hug; I couldn’t reciprocate her hug.

  Then she stepped away and stared at me, her demeanour changed. She put both hands on her hips and looked as if she were at a shoot-out and whoever got their gun out quick enough would win. ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you?’ she asked, her voice quieter, sadder.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Then I said something which sounded ridiculous in hindsight. ‘It’s been fun, Caroline, but here’s where it ends.’ As if we really were in a Western and I had the last word. The only problem was, I hadn’t figured out how the scene would end and, as there was no director to shout, ‘Cut!’ I had to improvise. ‘I do hope you find your soulmate,’ I added, taking a cue from Marie. ‘You deserve to.’

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening,’ she said through quivering lips and disbelief in her eyes. Then, it seemed she was unable to look at me any longer. She ran back inside and shut the door with as much speed as five hundred million sperm racing to get to the golden egg first, which was an unfortunate analogy, as the only thing my sperm were doing was retreating with cheer.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said again, but this time to the door. As much as it was unpleasant being the bearer of bad news, I couldn’t help but feel an enormous amount of relief as I turned to leave. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, to whom I did not know. Perhaps I had been thanking myself for finally standing up for what I wanted and having the courage to act. Not just that but making the right bloody decision for once. I had single-handedly rescued myself from a woman who was not for me. I could not – would not – enter my forties chained to the wrong woman.

  I raced home and picked up the wine bottle still on the bench. There was enough left for at least two generous glasses. In fact, who cares about a glass? I thought, and took a slug straight from the bottle. Ha! I took another. I usually deemed it uncouth to drink wine from a bottle, and still did. But on this occasion, I thought I could bloody well do what I wanted.

  ‘Here’s to myself,’ I said out loud.

  Then I threw the rose and the vitamins in the rubbish (but kept the Lindt balls because it would have been wasteful to throw out perfectly good chocolates that could satisfy a craving at a later date), and went to fetch the notebook to finally write that new entry . . .

  Thou shalt not let others decide things for you.

  Thou shalt not go out with the first woman who shows interest in you.

  Thou shalt not sacrifice your own happiness for someone else’s.

  Thou shalt not drink wine from the bottle ever again.

  I was so happy I heated up a leftover slice of pizza in the microwave and thought, To hell with how many days it’s been in the fridge! It hit the spot quite nicely. After I’d washed my hands several times to get rid of greasy pizza residue, I went to the wardrobe and fossicked in my jumper drawer to find the diary. There it was, exactly where I had left it. I pressed it to my chest and let out a sigh of relief. Here we are again, Marie, here we are again. Ah, the comforting effects of cheesy pizza and Marie’s words: I want to be with Oliver. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d read that entry, but it was one I never tired of.

  Sigh.

  PART THREE

  . . . in which I really must nail some of my resolutions.

  I must do what’s right for me.

  I must stand up for myself.

  I must FACE MY FEARS.

  Paperbacks and Pineapples

  I arrived at work on Monday filled to the brim with relief. I decided to put what had happened with Caroline into a box labelled ‘The Past’. My time with her could be called a lively experience – a bit of fun mixed with undesirable moments of anxiety. Even so, I found it hard to concentrate at my desk and it didn’t help that we’d had no deaths and no one asking about our services. The only consolation was Edie calling to say the candles had set perfectly and smelled amazing.

  ‘I can deliver them whenever you like,’ she said.

  Thank goodness I had something else to focus on.

  ‘Excellent, Edie,’ I said. My only hope was that the customers liked them. I knew I couldn’t pin all my hopes on the candles to revive the business but, right then, they were the only things that seemed to be working. ‘I’ll let the clients know and see if they can come in today. Do you think you should be here, too? We can introduce you as the candle-maker.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  I coordinated a time with both Fran and Pete that also suited Edie and aligned with when Mum wasn’t going to be here. I was so filled with nervous anticipation that I tidied my desk and ate an emergency Mars bar I found in the bottom drawer and half a peanut slab that was also there. Edie arrived fifteen minutes before the first appointment with the man whose mother was still in refrigeration waiting patiently to be cremated. I noted how she looked as radiant as a well-polished silver scalpel, as well as her continuous use of excellent time-keeping.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘who’s coming in first?’

  ‘Pete, the book man.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m nervous.’

  ‘Me, too. Silly, isn’t it?’ Who would have thought – me, nervous about candles? I didn’t like to tell her that if Pete and Fran disliked their candles, then I would be pulling out of the venture, that I may as well concede defeat against Green Light Funerals and that I wouldn’t try anything new ever again. Beautiful, bubbly Edie didn’t need to know any of that. ‘Do you like books?’ I added, for want of something else to say.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve always got a book on the go.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, thinking of the autobiography on my bedside table which I should probably finish instead of reading Marie’s diary every night.

  ‘I read to my dad when I can, too – usually once a week,’ Edie said. ‘Parkinson’s has affected his cognitive ability, which is so sad, as he’s always loved to read. At the moment we’re into spy novels.’

  ‘If you’re looking for more, I’ve got a couple of Jeffrey Archer thrillers you can borrow.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She nodded.

  ‘It’s a lovely thing you’re doing,’ I added.

  Edie shrugged. ‘He’s my dad, you know?’

  For a minute, I thought she might cry and, while I was more than happy to console her and was fully stocked with tissues, now was not the time, so I changed the subject. ‘How was the rest of your weekend?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. I caught up with some girlfriends on Saturday night and popped in to see my parents on Sunday with some baking.’

  ‘And your creation?’

  ‘Passionfruit custard squares.’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ I said, with a lightness in my voice that made it sound as if I’d had a perfectly normal weekend that didn’t involve breaking up with my girlfriend and reading my dead paramour’s diary once again from cover to cover.

  ‘I suppose you have to be on call a lot of the time, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, but I try not to let it g
et in the way of things.’

  I was about to ask her if she’d bought any more cake stands when Jean appeared. ‘He’s here,’ she said.

  Edie stood up. I waited at the door and Pete loped in. I made the introductions and let Edie discuss the candles.

  ‘We weren’t sure whether to focus on the scent of a single paperback or the aroma of an entire second-hand bookshop,’ she said. ‘There are subtle differences between the two but the candles are meant to be triggers, not exact replicas. We’ve done one of each so you can choose.’

  Pete looked nervously at the two glass jars filled with wax.

  ‘You know, she was reading Dickens when she died,’ he said. ‘Great Expectations. It lay open on her chest. She’d been holding it so tightly I could hardly get it off her.’ He shook his head at the memory. I got ready with the tissues. Waited. Then the moment passed. Edie stepped forward and told him which candle was which.

  ‘This one is meant to be an entire second-hand bookshop,’ she said. ‘Every fusty book and dusty shelf with a hint of incense and notes of nutmeg, clove and sandalwood. And this one, an old paperback that’s been read and reread, had tea spilt on it and greasy fingers leafing through it. It’s got fragrances of aged paper with vanilla overtones. Are you ready?’

  He nodded. She lifted the lid of the first one. He leaned in and inhaled.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said.

  Then the next. Edie’s hands were clasped in prayer at her lips and I had a sudden urge to hold them myself. Nerves really were getting the better of me.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Pete said.

  ‘Do you like them?’ Edie asked.

  ‘Do I like them? I love them.’ His words soared to the ceiling in delight. He leaned forward again, tilted the lids and let his nose edge in, as if he were smelling a decent bottle of red wine. ‘It’s uncanny how realistic they are.’

  I couldn’t help but grin. I thought my face might crack.

  ‘Which one do you prefer?’ Edie said.

  ‘I like them both. Mum would have loved them both.’ He shook his head again. Sniffed again. ‘If I was a betting man – and I’m not – I reckon the first is the one she’d have picked. Can you do twenty?’