A Life Without You

by Shari Low

  A knock at the door made me jump. When I answered it, I saw a tray with a silver cloche covering a white china plate, and a pot of coffee and some pastries next to it.

  I had a vague memory of filling in a room service form when I got back the night before, and ticking the box that requested the tray be left at the door. I must have had a premonition that I’d look like something from the Night Of The Living Dead this morning. I caught myself in the mirror. Correct assumption.

  I couldn’t face the pancakes but I nibbled on the bacon and had two coffees in between showering and getting ready for the day. Right. Forget the notes. Forget the flowers. There was absolutely no point in speculating. I had no idea what was going on but I knew my friend and I trusted her and that was all there was to it.

  Time to attack the day. I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater – Dee used to say April in New York was like the Glasgow version of summer. Sunny, sometimes windy, and just warm enough that you could leave home without the trusty support of thermal knickers.

  I jumped in a taxi to the convention centre, right at the end of W. 34th Street, next to the Lincoln Tunnel and overlooking the Hudson.

  When I arrived, I pressed the ticket I’d printed off from Dee’s email against the scanner and headed on through into a vast hall packed with stands and people. How to do this? Dee had these things down to a fine art, knew exactly what to spend time on and what to avoid. I was a rookie in an expert’s world, so I wandered up and down every row, taking leaflets if something looked interesting, occasionally chatting to someone if they were too persistent for my insistence that I didn’t need more information, and generally winging it.

  For six hours, I browsed, until my feet ached and my head was splitting, but weirdly, it was a soothing experience. No one knew me. I didn’t have to pretend. Or be overly polite. Or explain. I was just one person in a room full of complete strangers, none of whom gave a toss that my life had disintegrated to dust and I had absolutely no idea what I was doing there.

  I wandered some more. I learned about yacht charters, and concierge services, exclusive islands and private jets. I found out there were hundreds of unusual ways to get married, and a couple of interesting ways to die. I sampled gadgets and gizmos, all designed to make a trip easier, more relaxing, more fun or, in the case of the personal security travel sprays, more likely to end in the arrest of an attacker. I saw what the rich indulged in and how far a budget could go, and somewhere along the line, blogs started to form in my mind. I pulled my phone out and started dictating ideas and by the end of the day I had a dozen or so vague concepts that I was sure I could, with Luke’s help, shape into really interesting travel pieces. I wasn’t loving the experience, but I was certainly enjoying it more than I thought I would. This assault on the senses was Dee’s world. But I could, for the first time, appreciate a little of why she adored the buzz of it.

  On the way back to the hotel, I stopped off in an Irish bar for a drink and something to eat. It wasn’t the kind of place that took reservations, so I slid into the one table that was free. It was like countless other Irish bars in countless other cities around the world. Memorabilia on the walls. A fiddler in the corner. Guinness on tap. But it also had a real old New York feel about it, and it was packed out, so I decided that while I was there, I may as well write up something on it.

  As soon as the waitress with long red hair and a Boston accent had taken my order of a large coffee and a plate of stew, I pulled out my notebook and typed up pointers for the blog – the décor, the menu, the staff, the customers, the music – and took a couple of snaps of the pub and the menu on my phone.

  It was late, almost 8 p.m., by the time I got back to the hotel. All I wanted to do was put my feet up and rest my weary bones. I almost succumbed, but I remembered the entry in the diary.

  The Bar at the Baccarat Hotel, 9 p.m.

  Reluctantly, I slipped on a simple black dress, pulled my hair back into a ponytail and headed out for a cab. The concierge had one waiting for me before I even reached the door. I climbed in, gave the address and then watched the city go by as we drove down streets that were still packed with traffic.

  The journey was like a one-way ticket back to the past. Dee and I had first come to New York when were twenty-one and I could remember every exclamation, every laugh, every wild thing we planned to do. And every single one of those wild ideas came from Dee. More and more I was realising that she was the one that made the stars, and I just polished them. I was so, so grateful that she did. A crushing pain twisted my stomach, a wave of grief so strong I had to hold on to the door beside me.

  Tears came next, tripping down my face, and I turned, looking outwards, so the driver wouldn’t see. I was a woman, in a cab, breaking her heart because too much was gone and there was no way of getting it back. Pete was as dead to me as Dee was. I’d never understand it, never comprehend what went wrong, but I was absolutely sure there was no way back. Yet, if he appeared at my door – our door – and told me it was all a mistake and he wanted me back I’d forgive him in a heartbeat. Dee would be furious about that. She’d tell me to man up. Have some self-respect. She’d say he didn’t deserve me. Yet we both knew he did. At least, he did back then.

  The taxi veered to the left, and stopped in front of a glass building fronted by huge topiary balls in black square planters. I quickly composed myself, and while the driver was sorting out change from a twenty, touched up my foundation. Couldn’t go charging into a suave hotel looking like I was suffering from a debilitating allergy.

  Inside, the foyer was elegant and classy, but it didn’t prepare me for the sumptuous magnificence of the bar. The black and white tiled floor, the deep red of the walls, the exquisite beauty of the chandeliers. This was so far from my usual hang-out destinations, but again so perfectly Dee. She would love every inch of the glitz and glamour.

  I swallowed a sudden wave of sadness and took a seat at the bar. Come on, Jen. You can do this. I ordered a gin and tonic, looked around, taking snapshots of the room so I could recreate them in words for our readers. All the while, strangely, searching for something familiar, a reason to be here. That’s when it struck me. Why had Dee put set times on her visits to the Jazz Club and here? I’d just assumed the Jazz Club opened at 8pm, and that’s why a time had been noted, but a hotel bar like this one would be open from early evening at least. So why 9pm? Was she meeting a friend? I checked my watch. It was five minutes past. I scanned the room again. Almost every seat was taken by an impeccably-dressed reveller. Many people were standing, deep in conversation, laughing, whispering. I knew no one. Recognised not a soul. I stayed for an hour, enjoying the buzz, but all too aware that I was an incongruous sight, sitting alone, in an epicentre of social interaction. No one spoke to me. No one gave me a second glance. No one offered the slightest hint as to what my best friend in the world would have been doing here. Not meeting a friend then. Another explanation for the pre-determined time occurred to me. Perhaps she’d just heard that’s when the bar was at its atmospheric best. Yep, that must be it. And she’d have been right. It had been an interesting experience, but I had all I needed now to write it up.

  I paid my check, and headed back outside, where a uniformed man held a cab door open for me once again.

  I hadn’t wanted to come on this trip but maybe it had happened for a reason.

  Or maybe this all belonged to Dee, and by being here, carrying out her plans, doing what she loved, all I was doing was walking in my best friend’s shoes. And I wasn’t sure where they were taking me.

  Chapter 19

  Luke

  There was a train thundering past my window. Had to be. Except, I didn’t live near a train track. It must be thunder. I forced one eye open and all I could see was darkness. Shit. Where was I? And what had I been drinking last night? I tried to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and realised my beverage of choice must have been superglue.

  I tried to press the rewind button. It was fuzzy but eventu
ally it kicked in like a movie I was seeing for the first time. Mark and me in the bar. Callie and Lizzy had arrived. I remember thinking it was weird seeing her in civvy world. At work she was all smart suits and power dresses, and even on work nights out she dressed sharp, but both she and Lizzy had been wearing skinny jeans and T-shirts, Callie’s black, same colour as her leather jacket, Lizzy in blue jeans and a red T-shirt, with a short white jacket. They both wore heels that would give you altitude sickness.

  I’d made the introductions and we pulled over chairs.

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Callie had offered.

  The first round had been beers. Then tequila. Then shots. More tequila. I remember laughing. Lizzy was a nurse and had endless stories about the bizarre happenings in A&E. Callie held her own by taking the piss out of everyone we worked with, and doing it in a way that was funny even if you didn’t know them.

  At one point Lizzy had headed outside for a cigarette and Mark had gone to keep her company. Callie had asked if I was going to do a runner again like I had last time we’d gone for a drink. Shit. So she hadn’t forgotten about that. I’d assured her I didn’t even know where all the exits were and she’d laughed at that.

  Mark and Lizzy came back. More tequila. More shots. His arm was around the back of her chair and there was no distance between them at all. Every now and then she’d lean into him and he didn’t move away.

  More tequila. More shots.

  Closing time at the bar.

  Mark’s phone buzzed. Val, asking what time he’d be home. The girls had thought that was hilarious.

  ‘I live not far from here,’ Callie had said. ‘You’re all welcome to crash at mine.’

  I pressed stop on the rewind. My heart was beating faster. What the fuck had I done? Dee would kill me for staying out all night and… It took a moment to remember and then the reality check sucked my lungs dry. My wife was dead. My wife was dead. My wife was dead. Oh God. I felt a tear slide down the side of my face from my eye to my ear. I didn’t wipe it away.

  The rewind button went down again. Mark had texted Val back, saying he was staying at my house. More hilarity. More ribbing over the sad truth that he was nearly forty and lying to his mum about where he was spending the night.

  We’d walked, stopped for burgers from a snack bar that had probably been warned by the council for breaking every hygiene law known to man, then we’d got back to Callie’s home. A flat. One of the new ones on the waterfront. All minimalist and leather and glass.

  More tequila.

  Mark and Lizzy had gone out on to the balcony. Callie and I were in the kitchen.

  Panic rose again. Oh God, Dee, I’m sorry.

  We were talking.

  ‘You never asked me about what we were discussing earlier,’ she’d said.

  ‘What were we discussing?’ Right then I had trouble remembering my name.

  ‘The demise of Justin The Wonderman Accountant.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So what happened then? Come on, I’m getting in touch with my feminine side. Look at this interested face,’ I’d said, carrying on the joke from earlier. Clearly that one synapse of my brain wasn’t swimming in tequila.

  ‘I was attracted to someone else,’ she said. ‘So I decided that Wonderman wasn’t for me. The Lycra shorts didn’t do it for me anyway.’

  ‘So what does?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do it for you?’

  Jesus Christ, what had I been thinking? Nothing. It hadn’t meant to be a come-on. Just a natural progression in a drunk man’s brain, from one sentence to another.

  ‘You,’ she’d said.

  Fuck. I lost the power of speech right about then.

  ‘I know you’ve been through a terrible time and I know it’s too soon, but when you’re ready to think about moving on, you know where I am. Three desks along from you.’ More giggles. All hers.

  I remember thinking she was beautiful. And I remember thinking I wanted to hold her, and feel someone else. Even if that was all it was. Just to hold someone.

  ‘I really, really want to kiss you,’ she’d said next.

  Bloody hell. Seriously? I was a messed-up, psychologically damaged, grieving mess, and she was flirting with me?

  My drunken self wanted to hold someone, but that was it. I hadn’t kissed another woman since the day I met my wife. Dee Harper was my wife. And yes, she was dead, but I was still her husband and there was nothing I wanted to change about that and, oh fuck, the pain. The room began to spin as I panicked, my head suddenly hurt and my stomach churned.

  ‘S’cuse me, I…’

  I’d staggered out of the kitchen, found a bathroom, threw up, then staggered back out. Callie was in the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, mortified.

  I expected irritation, maybe embarrassment, but instead, she looked at me knowingly, like she understood somehow.

  ‘You can sleep in there,’ she said, softly, pointing to a door. ‘The spare room. You’ll be quite safe.’

  A smile from her, then a grateful one from me.

  I’d gone in, crashed on the bed, fade to black.

  That was it. I pressed stop on the rewind button once again.

  The relief was all-consuming. I hadn’t touched anyone else because I knew I couldn’t. I belonged to Dee. Touching someone else would mean she wasn’t there anymore, that she wasn’t coming back, and I wasn’t ready to make that a reality. How could I? I didn’t even remember a time that I didn’t love her.

  Another thought, pushing those ones out of the way.

  I wasn’t ready now, but I couldn’t live my whole life like this. At some point I would need to make changes. To think about other things. To get some kind of life back. There was going to come a time to let go.

  But not yet.

  Chapter 20

  Jen

  My case was packed and ready for me to nip back and collect later. I finished the coffee I’d ordered. Nothing else this time.

  I had no idea what to expect from this morning but I was thinking that Breakfast at Tiffany’s would almost definitely involve shopping. Dee loved the Tiffany’s brand. Last time she’d been in New York, she’d treated herself to the eponymous heart-shaped stud earrings. The time before, the bracelet in the same style. Before that, a trademark chain with the heart and toggle. She had at least five or six pieces from the collection. No doubt she’d planned to add another trinket on the morning visit.

  I pulled out my iPad and double-checked the opening hours and address. I knew it was 5th Avenue, but I wasn’t sure of the exact number. I clicked on her entry in the Google calendar. 97 Greene Street. I was sure it was 5th Avenue. I checked again. It definitely said 97 Greene Street. A quick Internet search gave me the explanation. There was another Tiffany’s at Greene Street. I had no idea. I checked the opening time – 11am. I had plenty of time to kill, so I decided to walk. It would take around an hour, but at this time in the morning, even on a Sunday, a cab probably wouldn’t be any quicker.

  At almost exactly 11 a.m. I rounded the corner, strolled down a cobblestone street, past Dior, Louis Vuitton, Anna Sui, and there it was – a beautiful cream façade, planters outside bursting with greenery, awnings in Tiffany blue reaching out over the windows.

  I perched on the edge of one of the planters and watched as people went by, some on their way to work, but most just out strolling, papers or iPads under their arms, walking dogs, holding hands, jogging, sometimes in pairs, his and hers running tights. They were probably wondering why I was smiling, but it brought back a random memory of last Christmas, when Luke and I had decided, in a moment of conspiracy, to buy Dee and Pete matching running tights. The first time they’d met up to go for a jog, I’d let Pete answer the door to Dee, and it had taken them a moment to realise there they were in co-ordinating outfits. Luke and I had thought it was hilarious and they’d been good enough sports to go out like that. They’d done ten miles looking like somethi
ng from Barbie and Ken, Olympic edition.

  It took a few moments before I could bring myself back to the present. OK, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I was where Dee planned to be, but breakfast? I scanned the street and that’s when I saw it. A hot dog stand was already set up and serving about twenty yards down the street. Of course. One hot dog a day in New York – her Big Apple rule. The thought of a hot dog for breakfast, or brunch, didn’t appeal, but still I headed over, bought one, lathered it with ketchup and mustard, just the way she loved it, then I found a shady spot in a doorway, and ate it slowly, making sure that if she was watching me, she got to savour the moment. When it was done I looked heavenward, as I did a dozen times a day, and smiled.

  I hoped she was looking down and I hoped she wasn’t too pissed off with me over the notes and flowers. Before I’d left this morning, I’d called down to ask reception if they knew who’d sent them. I drew a blank on both. There was a florist’s number on the bottom of the card, so I’d called there too, only to be met with a brick wall of ‘client confidentiality’. What the hell was going on? Was it a huge mistake or… I’d stopped. Enough.

  I wasn’t sure if Dee would be laughing at my ludicrous suspicions, or horrified that I could doubt her for a single second. I hadn’t really. Sure, the thought had flashed through my mind, but I’d immediately dismissed it. Dee loved Luke. All this strange stuff that had happened would have a totally innocent explanation, and maybe one day I’d find out what it was. Maybe I’d discover who sent them and why there were no emails or calls to find out if they’d been received, no names or numbers left, no further attempts to contact her some other way. Or maybe I’d never know. All that mattered was that I was here and doing what she would have wanted me to do, keeping her legacy alive. Perhaps in a way, me being here was Dee’s way of forcing me to keep going. Maybe.