by Shari Low
I got up and wandered back the way I’d come, passing Space Nk, then Tiffany’s. I’d done breakfast, so now I was ready for the second part of the task. A description of the interior of the store would be great for the blog, but I had no intention of making a purchase. I wasn’t much of a shopper. Or a jewellery person. I always wore the little diamond studs Val got me for my twenty-fifth birthday, never taking them out. My mum’s wedding ring was on the third finger of my right hand, a tiny part of her that I loved to keep close. And around my neck, a gold chain Pete had bought me last year for Christmas. I should probably have that melted down now. Or at least replace it with something that meant a little more than a tribute to a guy who walked away.
As I reached the door, I realised my timing was perfect, as it was held open by a tall, dark-haired man who was leaving.
Inside, a handsome guy in a smart suit was behind the counter. ‘Morning, m’am,’ he greeted me, with a smile that showed his parents had invested in a great dental plan. ‘What can I get you?’
I had absolutely no idea. Instinctively, I touched the chain around my neck. ‘I was just thinking about replacing this,’ I said.
‘A necklace? Certainly. Let me show you a few.’ He guided me around the shop, pointing out chunky silver toggle chains, gorgeous wishbones, beautiful curved bows, regaling me with the stories of the collections in each case, Return To Tiffany, Tiffany Infinity, Keys, Atlas, and even stunning leaf-inspired pieces designed by Paloma Picasso. Every item in the shop had beauty and a distinctive class, but nothing spoke to me until… I saw it, in the glass display that held the 1837 range, a fine silver chain, with two interlocking circles, one silver one gold. That was us, Dee and I. One silver, one gold, different but connected in a way that couldn’t be broken.
If the lovely chap serving me noticed the tears that sprung to my eyes again, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he boxed up my necklace in that perfect little blue box, tied a bow around it and popped it in a blue gift bag.
I handed over my credit card, not caring that this was more money than I’d ever spent on any single item except my house and my car.
He handed me back the card and the gift bag at the same time, and I managed to get back out on to the cobbled street before two tears fell. It was strange. We’d only ever been to New York together once, over a decade ago, and it wasn’t a place that held huge sentimental value for me. Everything and everyone we loved was back home. But standing here, I’d never felt so close to Dee, to the point where I could almost feel her beside me.
Eventually, I dragged myself away and retraced my steps back to the hotel, collected my stuff, then headed to the airport. Traffic was light so I made good time, and the flight left right on time.
As we hit cruising altitude, I reached into my bag, took out my little blue box and removed the chain. I took off the necklace that Pete had given me and replaced it with one that signified love instead of betrayal.
I lay back, closed my eyes and worked my way back through the trip. It had been sad, confusing, lonely, interesting, fun. The old Jen would have hated it, been desperate to get home to Pete, or to beg Dee to join me. The new Jen knew she didn’t have that option and in some ways maybe it was good to move forward. Maybe I needed to let go of the past. Dee would have demanded it. It made me smile as I thought how much she’d have loved the last few days. I know I didn’t do it justice – she’d have been out every waking hour, exploring and experiencing everything she could find. I just hoped she was proud that I’d stepped up and carried out her plans. I’d gone to the travel expo she attended every year, and then I’d visited the places in her calendar.
The jazz club… Boozy, decadent, the strangeness of sharing such an intimate environment with a collection of strangers I could barely see in the darkness.
The bar at the Baccarat Hotel… Grand, beautiful, like an elegant throwback to a bygone era.
Breakfast At Tiffany’s… I reached up and put my fingertips on the two adjoining rings. Dee and I. I tried to imagine what this morning would have been like if she’d been there. We’d have walked arm in arm from the hotel to Greene Street, and she’d have bitched the whole way there about the fact that taxis were invented for a reason. It was one of her great contradictions. She would run for ten miles but she wouldn’t walk anywhere if there was another option. We’d have bought those hot dogs, and sat there in that doorway people-watching, making up identities and backstories for the people who passed by. Then she’d have pulled me up, teasing that it was time for me to restart the diet, before linking her arm through mine again and steering me into Tiffany’s. She’d…
My daydream paused the moment that door to the jewellery emporium opened.
The guy who had been leaving when I went in. We’d passed in the doorway, and at the time I was too caught up in the spontaneity of the moment to register him, but now I realised there was something familiar about him. I racked my brain. Home. Work. Customers. Nothing. A celebrity? Someone who’d been in the press? Still nothing.
New York. Stood to reason that it would be someone I’d already seen there, but what were the chances of meeting the same person twice in a city that size? Pretty slim to none.
I ran through the staff I’d encountered at the hotel, the workers in the places I’d visited, even the hot dog vendors.
Aaaargh! This was beyond infuriating.
The drinkers in the Irish pub. Nope, nothing. The shadowed faces in the audience at the jazz club. Nothing there. Then… Bingo. There he was. I was waiting for a taxi as I left the jazz club, one stopped, I stepped forward, and he got out, held the door open and did a jokey bow. “After you,” he’d said.
I’d climbed in, said thanks and he’d smiled before heading towards the club door.
It was the same man I’d passed leaving Tiffany’s. I was sure of it. Not one hundred per cent, pick him out in a line-up sure, but positive enough.
How could that be? What were the chances of bumping into the same man, twice in two days, in one of the busiest cities in the world?
Coincidence. It had to be.
But…
I had a feeling the odds would be up there with me winning the lottery while stuck in a lift with Matt Damon.
So. Maybe not a coincidence? A whole new set of unanswerable questions began to ricochet through my head.
Was he there, at the club, and then at Tiffany’s, looking for Dee? Did they have plans to meet? Was he a business contact? A friend? Something else? Something… more?
Why had she never mentioned him? Was it because there was nothing to tell? Or was there something she felt unable to share? I paused before the next escalation of that train of thought. I didn’t want to go there. I felt hopelessly disloyal even contemplating the possibility. But was there even a tiny sliver of a chance that Dee was meeting him because she was doing something she shouldn’t?
And how could I possibly know for sure when the only person who could tell me was no longer here?
Chapter 21
Val
Don’s snoring was like the rumble of a train as it trundled through a stretch of line with many tunnels. Loud, quiet, loud, quiet. Once upon a time it would have driven me mad and sent me storming off to the spare bedroom. Now I lay right next to him and barely registered it. It was there, in the background, almost comforting. Not that I’d ever admit that to him of course. I still gave him a dig in the ribs every now and then, when the volume was getting so loud the neighbours might start to worry that the street was being invaded by marauding bears.
I caught the time on the digital alarm clock as I slipped out of bed. 3.16 a.m. I’d been dozing off and on for a couple of hours but I wasn’t going to get back to sleep now. I looked in on Mark as I passed his room. He’d been sound asleep in bed all day after coming home looking rough as a badger’s arse from Luke’s house. I was glad for them that they got on so well. They were good for each other. Though the irony wasn’t lost on me that our Dee’s brother and husband only really becam
e friends when she was no longer here to see it. Where was the sense in that?
I went downstairs, stopping at the pile of clothes I’d ironed in the afternoon, pulling out a pair of jeans and a long, thick jumper. Comfort clothes.
Silently pulling them on, I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t going anywhere. Strange how we can try to fool ourselves into believing something to be true. I was like the alcoholic that slipped a bottle of gin into the toilet cistern but told myself I wouldn’t drink it.
Of course I was going out, and of course I knew where I was going. It had started because those aisles were the only place I could keep my mind busy, where I didn’t have to think about anyone else or put a brave face on it, where I wasn’t trying desperately to keep the blind bloody fury at bay, to stop the anxiety from choking me and hold back the screams of rage.
That was then. Now it was all about him, the one who had caused this, taken my girl from me. I wanted to bump into him, to know him, to see his evil face. But I couldn’t find him, so for now, this would have to do.
I crept down the stairs and closed the door silently behind me. We lived in an end terrace house and had to cut down a path, past the other houses in the row, to get to the car park area, so when I switched the engine on, I knew that I was too far away for the noise to wake the sleeping menfolk I’d left behind.
It took me longer than expected to get there and I nodded to the security guard as I passed him at the door. Up one aisle. Down the next. Up one aisle. Down the next. I went as slowly as possible, making every moment last, stopping to stare at products I had no intention of buying just to drag the time out. Eventually, I got to the till. An older gent rang each item through.
A sirloin steak, onion rings, thick cut chips, a peppercorn sauce, a banoffi pie, custard.
‘Looks like you’re going to have quite the party there,’ he said with a wink.
‘Looks like it,’ I agreed. I wouldn’t tell him the truth. I’d learned it made people uncomfortable. Better to just smile and nod. Smile and nod.
Bag packed, I paid cash, then headed towards the exit. Only, I wasn’t leaving. Of course I wasn’t.
I carried on past and headed to the café, because this wasn’t my usual store. It was her store. Darren Wilkie’s mother. I had no idea if she’d be here, didn’t even know if the café would be open. Most of them weren’t at this time of night. But I’d come anyway because I’d become so consumed by anger and a need to know about her family, that it was impossible not to.
As I reached the first table, I saw that it was open and it already had customers. A bloody priest, or maybe a vicar, sat at a corner table speaking to a young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty. They didn’t look up. If I was religious I might see the man of the cloth’s presence as a sign of some kind of divine intervention, but any religious notions I’d had died when my girl took her last breath. How could any God do that?
Unable to answer, I went to the deserted counter, picked up a mug, put it on the chrome tray of the machine and pressed the button for a black coffee. The noise must have alerted the night worker, as I heard footsteps coming from the back area.
It wouldn’t be her. Of course it wouldn’t. There must be a whole team of staff that ran this place. But even as the thought ran through my mind, I knew it would be.
She looked tired. Maybe a little frazzled. Her burgundy hair, straight out of a bottle, was pulled back in a ponytail and there was a whole lifetime of weariness etched in her face. The edges of her fingers were yellowed with nicotine and she had the skeletal frame of someone who lived on cigarettes, vodka and not much else. I hated her on sight. No wonder she’d raised a vile piece of scum that killed my girl. Had she even tried to teach him right from wrong? Had she ever instilled in him the importance of making good decisions and treating other people with respect?
The liquid in the cup began to ripple and I tried desperately to steady the tremors of my shaking hand.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ It was her. The mother of the boy who killed Dee. She was talking to me, her voice tired, raspy, but softer than I expected. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
‘That’ll be £1.50 then, please.’
I’ve no idea what she thought about why my hands were shaking. Or the fact that I seemed incapable of speech yet was looking her straight in the eye. I’d thought about this moment so many times and yet now I had nothing to say. This wasn’t the place or the time. I wasn’t sure, didn’t know enough about her or her wretched family.
I managed to give her the exact money, took my cup and my bag of groceries to a table and sat down. For the next half hour I watched her when she wasn’t looking. I saw her clean tables, wipe down the glass-fronted cabinets, mop the floor and refill the salts, peppers, sauces and sugars.
And I hated her.
With every bone in my body I seethed and cursed her, because if she hadn’t given birth to that monster then my Dee would be alive today.
There was so much talk now about feelings after something like this happened. About ‘moving on’ and ‘letting go’ and ‘gaining closure’.
There would be none of that for me.
My daughter was dead and I was angry and bitter and I made no apologies for the fact that I couldn’t imagine ever letting that go.
Chapter 22
Jen
May 19th. It would have been Dee’s thirty-second birthday.
We met at the cemetery at 10am on a morning that was as overcast as our moods. Don and Val. Josie, Luke and me. Mark had flown back to Australia to join his boat, but he’d announced on the day he left that he was going to head straight back here after his stint was over at the end of June. He said he wanted to support Val during the court case, but I wondered if it had anything to do with Lizzy, the girl he’d met on a night out with Luke, and dated a few times before he left. I wasn’t sure. He’d said it was just a casual thing.
I turned to Val. It was hard to believe that the woman standing next to me was the same woman who had danced on tables last Hogmanay doing a jig to celebrate the New Year. That she had been bright and boisterous, full of life and absolutely irrepressible. This Val, four months after her daughter had been killed, was several stones thinner, almost shrunken, in size and in personality. Beside her, Don was showing the effects of the last few months too. He’d aged ten years, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. In the old days, they’d hold hands, they’d bicker, they’d flirt and they’d laugh, but now it was like they just coexisted. Not that Val would admit that. ‘Och, we’re fine love,’ she’d say when I asked. ‘When you’ve been married as long as Don and me you learn to just get on with it.’
Luke was another one who’d dropped a couple of stone. His dark wavy hair fell down over the collar of his shirt and he was smarter than I’d ever seen him in the suit we’d gone shopping for last weekend. I knew Dee always loved him in a suit, but his old ones were falling off him now, so he’d ask me to go with him to the gents department of a big swanky store to pick a new one out.
‘Special occasion?’ asked the bright, fifty-something woman with the dark red, chin-length bob who served us. ‘No wait, don’t tell me, I can always guess…’
Oh God. Please don’t.
‘It’s… It’s…’ she’d worked up to it, as if the ether was in the process of delivering some vital piece of information. ‘You’re getting engaged!’ she’d announced triumphantly, waiting for us to marvel at her powers of perception.
‘Sorry. Way off,’ Luke had said with a kind smile, happy to leave it at that. Unfortunately, Betty the Suit-Selling Psychic didn’t get the message.
‘You’re going to a wedding.’
Blank looks.
‘A christening? A birthday?’ She must have registered a flicker of change in our expressions. ‘See! Although, I have to say, I usually pick up on it long before the fourth guess. So whose birthday is it then?’
‘My wife,’ Luke said. I had absolutely no powers of intuition, premonition or p
sychic talent, but even I knew what was going to happen next. Just our luck to get the chattiest shop assistant in the city on the one day we’d have appreciated a monosyllabic paragon of disinterest.
Right on cue, she turned to me. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. Is he taking you somewhere nice? I hear the restaurant in that Blytheswood Hotel is an absolutely treat.’
‘I’m not his wife,’ I told her, hoping her dodgy psychic powers would pick up the subliminal message I was sending her, along the lines of, ‘Stop, please, in the name of all that is holy, stop right now.’
‘Ah I see. Working today is she?’
Luke decided it had gone far enough and threw in the ultimate conversation stopper. ‘She passed away.’
‘She…Oh.’ Poor woman had been mortified. She’d hastily picked up a tie Luke had been considering. ‘I’ll just see if I can get this in blue.’ And off she’d bustled, face the colour of the scarlet tie in her hand.
‘Do you think Dee set that up to totally mortify us both?’ Luke had said.
‘I do indeed,’ I’d replied. That’s how we talked about her now, like she was still here, still a part of us, involved in everything we did.
I wondered what she was thinking now as she watched us lay flowers, white roses, in front of her headstone.
After a few moments, Josie, Val and I moved back to sit on the bench that they’d had installed in front of her grave. Don and Val came here ever Sunday, Luke and I every few weeks.
‘In the name of God would you look at that!’ Josie said, gesturing a few graves along to the left. It was the opposite direction from the way we’d come in, so we hadn’t noticed it, but now I realised that satellites in space could probably see the apparition. A huge stone, with gigantic feathered wings attached to the back of it and flashing lights decorating the top of it. Yes, they were flashing. Either they were solar-powered or this was a case for those ghost-hunters off the telly.