by Sarah Tucker
Phone rings. It’s Mick. Bad news.
Chapter Twenty-One
Losing Doreen
Instead of going to a wedding at the beginning of August, I am attending a memorial. This is not something I expected. Yesterday Fran, Valerie, Carron and I sat in the middle of Green Park, on a thirty-degree hot sunny summer’s day and had a picnic of salmon sandwiches, chicken fillets, olives, fresh figs, dried apricots and dates, Chablis and grapes, just like we always do on Doreen’s birthday. Only Doreen isn’t there this time. She wasn’t there to mark time, or boss us about, or to be late, to tell us how wonderful Jane is, or how well her kids are doing at school, or how sexy her gym instructor is or how Mick is wonderfully endowed. She’s not here. There’s a dreadful gap. We still laugh and talk about her, sometimes as if she was there, half expecting her to say ‘oh shut up talking about me’, but she doesn’t. She just lets us talk about her with overwhelming affection and indelible sadness.
We promised each other there would be no tears and there weren’t. Only tears of laughter at our memories of her exploits. Of her trying to have sex with a ski instructor but getting stuck in her outfit and feeling very frustrated. Of her trying to seduce a famous rock star, but on meeting him realising he was a wrinkled prune rather than a worthy prince. Of her quiet kindnesses, organising for Carron to have an all-expenses-paid romantic weekend away with her new man to Prague, and Valerie to have a £150 a night nanny so she could sleep the first few months of her baby’s life.
The picnic scene was set to perfection when I took a photo of us all. All except Doreen. Valerie has brought Nelly who is gurgling at her breast. Carron tells us about her wonderful new man who wants to marry her, but she thinks it’s too soon and is on the rebound and doesn’t want to go there. And Fran’s bump is starting to show. She’s very proud of it. She’s always been a stick and now she looks like a stick insect that’s eaten a ladybird. Although I don’t know if stick insects actually eat ladybirds, but you know what I mean.
We talked about how Fran had explained to Daniel that she didn’t feel right about getting married and wanted to call if off. And how Daniel had not understood but felt if she wasn’t sure it was for the best. And she said it was for the best. He said he only wanted to marry someone who wanted to marry him and knew he was the right one but she obviously didn’t. She agreed. Although I think he didn’t want her to because he told her that she was no spring chicken and doubtless would be a spinster for the rest of her life. So he’s not bitter. At least that’s one divorce I won’t have to deal with.
Fran explained how she and I had cancelled everything to do with the wedding and explained to everyone about why it was cancelled, and everyone agreed it was the right thing to do. If you’re not sure, it was the right thing to do. Fran is such a sensible girl, they said, that she knew it was the right thing. Some claimed she had last-minute nerves, but not many. Most of her friends said that they felt it wasn’t right, but never said anything, because it wasn’t their place to. So they kept quiet. And I thought isn’t it strange how many people keep quiet because they think it’s the right thing to do. And sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t.
And they asked me about Joe. How I was getting on with Joe. I said fine. And that I thought I was falling in love with him, because I thought about him a lot, but it was early days yet. And I missed Doreen jibing me about the sex and asking me pointed questions about how big he was and how much energy he had. She was crude but she made me laugh and I wanted to laugh that day. I so desperately wanted her to be there to see Valerie and how she was with Nelly, and how Carron was and how much weight she’d put on since Le Pont, and how Fran was. They all looked glowing and happy and I know Doreen would have been so very happy for all of us. And she couldn’t be. She couldn’t be happy for all of us because she wasn’t there.
The actual memorial service was different. No one laughed. There were over a hundred and fifty people there and everyone cried. Some cried very noisily, others quietly. But they all cried. I spoke and read a poem about a ship passing into the distance. It being like life passing into death, and that death was a continuation of the journey, only that we couldn’t see that person any more, but we knew, could sense they were still there. And everyone cried more and mentioned afterward how wonderful my speech was.
And Mick was there. And Jane was there. And Doreen’s children were there. Even her gym instructor was there. And they all looked very sad and very ashen and very shocked.
As I listened to others talk about her, I remember going into the hospital with her, and Fran, and sitting down in the waiting room and she was laughing and saying how she didn’t like her breasts anyway and she should have had a boob job and that this wouldn’t have happened if she had. And how Fran told her about the baby and she said she should have it and that she would support her in anything she did. But that she thought Fran would make a better mother than she would a wife and that most women would and do.
I remember how she went into the surgery, and was there for several hours having a scan and came out grey and unsmiling and said that she had to go to hospital immediately. And that immediately meant later that day. And that she may only have a few weeks to live. Probably. And that she had so much more to do. So much more to do with her life and she couldn’t fit it into two weeks. And that she had an action list like mine, like the one I’d read on the way to EuroDisney, but thought I would find it silly. But that she wanted to bungee jump and learn Spanish and learn to fly. And she didn’t want to be stuck in hospital for those two weeks, she wanted to be with her children and Mick and her family and friends.
And I remember how she spent time with all of us in those next two weeks, and we made time for her and returned to EuroDisney and went on all the rides, including Small World, and how she wasn’t as well and loud this time, but how she laughed. And she took her kids, and how they laughed. And how she refrained from using the F word.
And how we weren’t there when she died, but the last time she saw us all together, when she was a shadow of herself, she said she didn’t regret one moment of her life. Not one. And that we shouldn’t either. And that she was proud to have known us and will be watching over us—either under our feet or up above, tripping up all our enemies and making sure we were safe and happy and well, and stayed fit and sexually active. And that she would be our guardian angel, for us and our children. And that we must help Mick look after her children and look after Jane. And that everything would be fine. That everything would be fine. And that cancer was horrible, and someone should find a cure for it, don’t you think.
Mick told me he was with her when she died. She died at 9:32 a.m. on a Sunday morning, at home, in her bed, and the birds were singing outside and it was due to be a warm day, a very warm day and she was in her Harvey Nicholls nightie and she was in the foetal position. And that she looked so peaceful when she died. He told me he felt her looking down on him when he sat by her side, stroking her cheek. Her cold cheek, but she had looked in so much pain and she seemed very contented and at peace. And that he had cried and that he very rarely cries but that he cried and was pleased the nurses left him alone. And that she had left strict instructions with Jane about what to do, what flowers, where money was to go, who was to be invited, what music was to be played, and what food was to be provided at the reception, who was to read and what was to be read.
He told me in one quiet moment between the two of us at the reception. ‘Hazel, I am absolutely desolate without that woman. I’m finding it hard to breathe at the moment. I’m taking each day as it comes. She was so beautiful, in the prime of her life, and such a fighter, she was such a fighter, Hazel. Such a fighter and she couldn’t beat this. She couldn’t beat this. I’m not a spiritual person but I believe she’s still here, with me. She told me she would be. She told me she’d be watching me if I slept with anyone unsuitable after she copped it, as she put it. I laughed of course. But I’ve spent most of my time crying, and am exhausted, and that’s
during the night. I’ve been with the kids during the day, who’re very upset but they can’t see their daddy upset. They can’t see their daddy upset. And, Hazel, I miss her, I miss her.’
Man of millions, ruthless with other men and money, sobs in my arms. He’s like a little boy who’s lost his mummy. And I hold him tight, very tight, while he trembles with inconsolable pain and stroke his head over and over again, and rest him into my shoulder, into the nape of my neck like I used to with Sarah when she hurt herself at school. And I tell him everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What Are You Wearing?
I’m fizzing. I’ve had six Beroccas and it’s only just gone ten on a Monday morning and I’m buzzing like a bee on heat—if there is such a thing. I’ve got to decide what I’m wearing for the New York trip. Okay, it’s in a week’s time so why am I sweating now? Usually I pack the night before and usually I don’t give a fuck. A tight blue suit. A little black dress with jacket for the evening. Anything by Ghost that is squish-up-able, but this time I’m going with Joe. So I’m looking long and hard at my wardrobe. The green Paul Smith skirt and top, very boho chic, and the Franke boots—all from Blue Lawn, best shop in the world in one of the dullest places in the world, Chetley. Yep—but the boots are heavy which means I’ll have to take them in hold. Or wear them, but they don’t go with the suit. Mind you, I could wear the Paul Smith for the journey. No, it would crease. Then Chine—lacy number and Love Sex Money, which says it all. Knickers all lacy and French and La Perla or Victoria’s Secret. I can buy more Secrets out there. Oils, aromatherapy and others for the body. All things Dermalogica. Hair highlighted and trimmed. Underarms, half leg and bikini line waxed—care of Angie.
‘So, how are you, Hazel? Did you pull with the arrow. Did Cupid’s bow get to anyone?’
‘Well, sort of.’
‘Someone special or one of your bubblegum men as you call them.’
‘No, more substantial than bubblegum.’ (Bubblegum men equals men who are sweet and juicy for the first few moments, then just become tasteless and hard work, artificial and wear you down. The only resort is to spit them out or stick them somewhere where no one can see them.)
I tell her about Joe. About Fiona. I tell her that he is bright and handsome, and I think quite romantic, and he works in my office and he’s twenty-nine. That we have chemistry and that he’s intelligent and sexy and fun. And that we haven’t even slept together yet, but we’ve had text sex. And that we’re taking it slowly.
She listens without interruption. She’s the only person I know who doesn’t interrupt me. When I’ve finished she tells me I’m right to wait but that will be very difficult and I better make my arrow look good just in case (she’s like a little girl, rather sweet actually—getting very excited about the prospect of this man Joe slowing stripping off my underwear and gazing upon her work as though it’s a da Vinci). She asks if I feel ready to fall in love again.
‘Are you ready to fall in love again, do you think?’
‘I would love to fall in love again. I’ve spent the last seventeen years making sure Sarah is well adjusted and happy in her home. I’ve focused on creating a little haven for her and for me and it’s worked. I have a group of friends who I love and trust and who love and trust me. And I have my health. I’ve done stuff and have an imagination and drive to do a lot more. Before and after I’m forty. But I’ve felt for such a long time that I don’t need a man. Women don’t need men the same way men need women. I’ve lived by the rule. It’s become my mantra. I don’t need a man.’
‘Perhaps you were too fussy? Perhaps your standards were and are too high?’
‘Perhaps,’ I reply, ‘after the divorce I took a step back and pondered long and hard about what I wanted. I looked at myself and realised that I attracted the sort of men I did because of the person I was. I recently saw photos of myself that David dropped off for Sarah and thought, hey, this is so not me anymore. I’m probably a free spirit, a bit of a control freak and can be quite feisty, so I’ve tended to attract men who need fire and lack the sense of fun and freedom I have. I’ve also attracted really arrogant types and because I’ve come across as quite vulnerable—something I’ve been told by many men is highly provocative—I’ve also attracted bullies and men who are insecure themselves. I’m still a free spirit, and have lots of energy, but I’m not vulnerable—or as vulnerable anymore and I don’t find arrogance attractive like I used to. I find it boring.’
‘So to answer my original question, are you ready for love?’
‘I don’t know, Angie. There’s more to life than love.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes, there is. There’s children and friends and work and I remember the counsellor telling David and I that we needed more than love to save a marriage.’
‘No, you needed more than love to save that particular marriage. And, if you ask me, which you sort of are, that was a stupid thing for your counsellor to say at a stupid time. I’ve been through it, Hazel, but I still believe, between you and me, love wins over hate and anger and jealousy and fear. That’s not just a big screen myth. It does conquer all. Just sounds naff to say it these days.’
‘But the men I’ve loved, love in such a selfish way. They’re restless. And if they’re not happy they just move on, they don’t persevere.’
Angie looks at me, spatula with green gunk in one hand. My legs are splayed as usual and I, as always, find this such a surreal meeting.
‘Hazel, from what you’ve told me about this Joe, he doesn’t sound selfish and is anything but a bully. You’re the one who is restless. You make them restless. And you allow them to be selfish. They can’t be selfish unless you let them. As for your men moving on, they enjoy the thrill of the chase. You enjoy the thrill of being chased. That’s natural.’
‘I know. But I’m not sure I want to be caught. When I’m caught, all they do is sit on me, eat me and then move onto the next kill.’
Angie applies a strip of wax and rips. Bless her.
‘There’s a few good ones out there,’ she says calmly.
‘Mmm, I remember the end scene in that film Sweet Charity. The one where Shirley MacLaine played this night club dancer and thought she’d met someone who was noble and handsome and kind and loved her for her, and could be strong enough to deal with her past. He wasn’t able to. He let her down. And I remember her sitting in a park in the last scene, in tears, and a hippy came up to her—you know a sixties flower power hippy—and gave her a flower and said, “Love”. She looked up and smiled and the credits rolled and the line said And Charity Lived Hopefully Ever After. I was only ten when I first watched that film and I didn’t really understand it, but I understood that bit, and my heart ached for her, because I knew she was right. That life was like that. And that love was like that. And that all you could ever hope for was hope.’
Angie applies some more green gunk and rips again.
‘The best you can do is hope because there is no guarantee in love. And I have always been driven to believe if you want something enough, if you really, really want something enough, you can get it. But love doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t endure. You see evidence of that every day in your job, Hazel. But perhaps have you ever thought, perhaps you don’t want it enough? Not really and now, perhaps you do. Perhaps your subconscious, if not your conscious, is telling you it’s time. You’re ready and open to it. And you have to be ready and open to it.’
‘Do you think I’m honest with myself?’
‘Do you?’
‘I think I’m brutally honest with myself. Sometimes I daydream, but in general, my work is very much about living in the real world, with real issues, but being aware of how powerful emotion is and the role it can play in making a reality of its own.’
‘Your job has probably slowed down the process of being able to accept love, romantic love into your life again.’
‘That is
an understatement. I hear women, and men, tell me stories about their marriages. And some of them are amazing. You think, why the hell did they last that long? Why are they still together? And they look at you and say “I loved him” or “I loved her” and nothing, absolutely nothing they have said, suggests that they loved this person or that person loved them. And they don’t see that.’
‘So you believe you’re blinded by love?’
‘No. I feel perfectly sane before and after I fall in love, but while I’m in love, I’m blinded by emotion. And that’s not good because it affects my judgement.’
‘You don’t see love as a good thing?’
‘No, just an inconvenient one. That’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s good that you realise it. Though it does mean, as you put it, that it will take a very special kind of love to convince you that you should value it as a part of your life.’
Angie rips again. Fuck, this still bloody hurts second time round and it’s not supposed to.
‘I don’t want the pain again. It’s the only thing I really remember about my time with David. I forget most things, but that unique feeling of pain. Never goes away. The look on Sarah’s face. The claustrophobia of hate in a house which was no longer a home. All these things.’
‘But that is the past, Hazel. And Joe is new. And he is a possibility. And he is young. And he sounds different. Give him a chance and listen to him. Listen to what he says.’
‘Yes, I know if he says he needs space midafternoon on a Saturday or he is confused, I’ll know.’