Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  “I’m exaggerating. It’s not that bad. Good night, Harry.”

  He leans over, turns my face toward his, and briefly kisses me.

  He cups my face in his hands and his mouth meets mine. My body relaxes, as though there has been no heartbreak. No pain. I am here with him, right where I should be, and the thrill of our first kiss comes flooding back . . .

  * * *

  —

  I’m celebrating in a city bar with my team. It’s one of those bars with lots of glass and chrome and the newly fashionable exposed lightbulbs with designer filaments. We’re celebrating winning an employment dispute. It’s a significant victory, so the company is paying for a night out.

  “That guy keeps looking at you,” says Aoife.

  “Don’t be silly . . .” I glance over fleetingly. I know who she’s talking about. I’ve noticed him too. Hard not to. He’s very handsome. “It’s definitely not me he’s looking at.”

  “It totally is. He’s been ogling you for ages.”

  I was vaguely aware of it but thought I was being crazy. “Should I do something about it?” I say.

  “Yes! Smile back at him!”

  “I can’t. That’s way too obvious.”

  She lets rip a boozy cackle. “For goodness’ sake. Men only understand obvious.” She has the confidence of youth and beauty.

  “I feel too awkward.” I’m talking under my breath, like all of a sudden he can hear me even though he’s on the opposite side of the crowded, noisy bar.

  “What are you two talking about?” says Pattie.

  “Shhh,” I say. “Keep your voice down.”

  Aoife is enjoying this. “Don’t look now, Pattie, but the guy over there keeps giving Jennifer the eye.”

  “Don’t look,” I say, sharply.

  Too late.

  He picks up on the fact that we are talking about him. Smiles and raises his glass. I turn away, mortified.

  “Shit,” I say. “He knows we know.”

  “Smile at him, Jennifer.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  As if to save me, Mia comes back from the loo. “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Aoife is not going to let anything go. “No way. Not yet. The boss has a task to perform.” Mia looks confused. Aoife nods her head at the sweet spot. “See the fit guy over there?”

  “Don’t look!” I say.

  Too late.

  “He’s been making eyes at our Jennifer.”

  “And you were thinking of leaving?” says Mia. “Go get him!”

  I fish into my bag for the company credit card. “We’re leaving.”

  “For God’s sake, woman, what have you got to lose by smiling at him?” Aoife is like a dog with a bone. “Smile!” she instructs. “Do it for us. Do it to prove to you can.”

  I look. I smile. I feel ridiculous.

  Blow me down, he gets up and wanders round the bar to our huddle. I want to fall through the floor, beyond embarrassed.

  “Hi. I’m Harry,” he says, cool as anything. “Can I buy you all a drink?” Close up he’s even more handsome. Too good for me. What was I thinking?

  “Thanks, but I’m just going,” says Pattie.

  “Me, too,” says Aoife.

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “No, you’re not,” says Mia. “You have to pay the bill. We three have to dash. See you in the office tomorrow.”

  And with that, they bundle up their stuff and leave.

  I watch them go, feeling I’ve been left behind with a prize, not necessarily a good one. Like being left with a box of Krispy Kremes.

  Harry leaps onto the barstool next to me, all confidence, no self-consciousness at all. I smile, feeling tongue-tied and pathetic.

  “I’m Jennifer,” I say for want of anything more original.

  “Nice to meet you, Jennifer. Is it your birthday? You looked as though you were celebrating.”

  “Were we being that loud?”

  “No!” he says. “Not at all. You just seemed very happy.”

  “Oh, right. We’ve just won our case in an employment tribunal. I’m in HR. Are you bored yet?”

  “Not quite but carry on like that and I could be.” He flashes an amused smile. He has a nice mouth, good teeth but with one crooked incisor, as if the rest have refused it room. This is a relief. Otherwise he’d be too perfect. “Congratulations!” he says. “For winning.”

  “You’re too kind.” I flick my hair. I never flick my hair. “So what do you do?”

  “I’m an art curator.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yeah, really. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Oh no, of course I do. It’s just . . . I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  He laughs. “What would you have guessed then? Insurance salesman?”

  I’m flustered. “No! No! Absolutely not . . . I just wasn’t expecting something so different. I mean, you’re here and you’re not a banker. You must be pretty unique.” I might be digging myself into a deeper hole.

  “Thank you. I’ll take that. I am a pretty unique art curator. But I do work for a few of the big city banks. So you were almost right.”

  “I’m glad I was wrong to be honest.”

  “Do you have something against bankers?”

  I pull a face. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He laughs. “So I guess you don’t work for a bank then?”

  “Construction company,” I say. “I think that probably puts paid to any further discussion about my job.”

  “Not at all. You have an important role to play in people’s lives. I just buy them paintings.”

  “Maybe but in the end, HR is HR and paintings are art. You bring joy. Oh my God! Listen to me. I think I’ve had too much champagne.”

  “And I was going to offer you another glass.”

  I smile. “Rude not to,” I say. I’m enjoying this.

  We drink Moët. He asks me about my taste in art and I say I like Warhol and Monet and Hockney, then panic that I’m being too clichéd, but he talks me through the background to their histories and I’m hooked by his knowledge, held by the sound of his voice. He could talk about anything and I’d be hooked. We are huddled together, not allowing anyone to invade our world, only emerging when they start to close up the bar. I hadn’t noticed the time; I realize that at least two hours must have passed.

  “There are some Hieronymus Bosch paintings I need to see at the Saatchi Gallery,” he says. “Would you like to come with me?”

  I have no idea who he’s talking about. “Yes,” I say, thrilled that he’s not going to leave me wondering if I’ll ever see him again. “That would be great.”

  “You haven’t a clue who I’m talking about, have you?”

  “None whatsoever!”

  “Don’t worry, I can tell you everything you never wanted to know about him. How about Sunday?”

  “Sounds good,” I say, trying to sound casual while my flushed cheeks are giving the game away.

  Harry insists on paying for all the drinks including my team’s. Won’t hear of it when I remind him it was a work celebration and I have the company credit card. He takes my number. “I’ll call you,” he says. “But save Sunday afternoon for me. And don’t google Hieronymus Bosch.”

  “I can’t even spell it, let alone google it.”

  “Good. I want to see your reaction when you see his work for the first time.” He flashes that smile.

  “I definitely won’t google. I won’t google ever again.”

  He hails me a cab and as I’m about to get in, he pulls me back and kisses me. He has the confidence of a man who knows how to kiss. I am putty.

  * * *

  —

  And here we are sitting in his
car, kissing, and I am putty all over again.

  Later, in the quiet stillness of the early hours, I lie on my sofa, staring at the ceiling, reliving our evening. I go over and over it, reexamining everything Harry said, every promise, every word. I knew it. I knew it. I allowed my friends’ negative view of him to influence mine, and I panicked, presuming him guilty for the sake of my pride. But he’s back in my life and I’m grateful.

  Eventually, I crawl up to bed and fall asleep. In my dreams I’m being held in someone’s arms. I look up expecting to see Harry only to see my mother. She’s smiling at me, welcoming me in, but I tell her I’m not ready to join her yet. She nods as though she understands. And then she lets me go.

  Day 68

  Olivia has been given a private appointment in a bridal shop in Mayfair. That’s what you get when you’re in fashion. I’m relieved she’s already there when I arrive, otherwise I’d feel awkward and out of place, the way I feel in smart hairdressing salons. She rushes toward me and gives me a huge, excited hug.

  I can’t help but notice her engagement ring, a beautiful solitaire diamond with emerald baguettes.

  “Wow, it’s gorgeous,” I say, as I grab her hand to give it close inspection. “That man’s a keeper! Does it feel real now?”

  “Almost. Trying on a dress will definitely make it feel real.”

  The personal assistant is charming. She helps Olivia choose from the abundance of dresses available, pointing out styles that might suit her as she flicks along the clouds of silk and chiffon, and hanging the ones Olivia likes on an allotted rail. I sit down, quietly observing her excitement.

  “Can I offer you ladies a glass of champagne? Or maybe you’d prefer still or fizzy water?”

  “Champagne for the bride, please,” says Olivia.

  “Still water would be great, thank you,” I say.

  “You okay?” whispers Olivia. “You’re very quiet. Have I been insensitive? Shoving my ring down your throat?”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I love your ring. I’m simply enjoying the show.”

  The assistant returns with champagne and water. “Oh, that’s one of my favorites,” she says, looking at Olivia who is admiring a cream satin off-the-shoulder dress embellished with feathers.

  Olivia turns toward me and holds it against her. “How do I look?”

  “Oh, Liv,” I gasp. “It’s beautiful. It’s a yes from me.”

  “Okay. I’ll try on all of these, please,” she says, pointing to the rail she has been amassing.

  The assistant gathers up half the frocks. “I’ll take these through first. Come this way into the private salon where it’s more comfortable.”

  Olivia throws me a look. “Ooooo,” she says, picking up her champagne. “Come on! We’re going fancy.”

  We are shown into an extravagant room, decorated with a crystal chandelier and several gilded mirrors, in the style of a French boudoir.

  The assistant hangs up the dresses then pulls a pink velvet curtain in front of Olivia who makes a huge show of disappearing behind it to change. Through the chink of light, I catch a glimpse of her in sexy cream-colored lingerie. I’m wearing big black knickers. Underwear says so much about where you are in life.

  She comes out suddenly transformed in dreamy organza. She looks like a film star. The dress fits her body perfectly then kicks out at the knees with wave upon wave of translucent cream fabric.

  “Oh, Liv! You’re a vision,” I say. “How are we ever going to choose? You’re going to look stunning in all of them.”

  “Jennifer is my biggest fan,” she tells the assistant. “And I am hers. We’ve known each other for years.”

  “How lovely.”

  “It is,” she says. “Special.” My heart swerves.

  She checks herself in one of the mirrors, biting her lip, like she can’t believe it’s her reflection. She does a twirl, examining herself from every angle. “It’s gorgeous,” she says. “But not quite right. I’m sure we’ll know ‘the one’ when we see it.”

  “I saw Harry last night,” I say, which stops her in her tracks.

  She throws me a look in the mirror akin to horror. “Harry?” she says, spinning round, hands on hips like she’s been left at the altar. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Now!” I say.

  “Bloody hell.” She walks up and down, unable to resist giving a bit of a sashay. “Okay, hold that thought. I want to be able to concentrate entirely on you when you tell me about him. We’re discussing this over lunch.”

  “Fine by me.” I say. “I want to concentrate entirely on you.”

  She turns to the assistant. “Is it okay if Jennifer takes photos? I did check with Venetia and she said it would be fine.”

  “She told me. It’s completely fine,” says the assistant.

  “Thank you.” She turns to me. “Can you use your phone in case I inadvertently show one to Dan?”

  I laugh. “Of course.” She stands in front of me in each dress, giving different poses. I pretend for a moment that I am present at her big day. I could be sad, but Harry is back in my life and I am determined to stay happy.

  * * *

  —

  The receptionist at the Arts Club is gracious and welcoming. The place smells of glamour and wealth; of expensive candles layering the air with the scent of cinnamon and cloves; of heady aftershave and rich perfume. I’m sure it’s lovely, but for me it’s a bit overwhelming. I feel giddy.

  We’re shown through to an elegant room, buzzing with the hum of conversation, following the sharply dressed hostess’s Louboutin red-soled clip clip, across a polished black-and-white marble floor. We pass a sumptuous bar, its leather stools occupied by young off-duty bankers still in their regulation suits, eating oysters, drinking champagne, their faces glued to their smartphones for fear of missing out.

  The place is gleaming with money, full of Russians, Americans, Arabs, and Europeans. I feel as though I’m being gifted a parting glimpse of Olivia’s glittering world. We’re shown to a table. Our order is taken.

  “Right! Tell me about Harry?” says Olivia.

  “He phoned me.” I’m smirking.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of days ago maybe. Invited me out for a drink.”

  “And you didn’t call to tell me immediately?”

  “I knew you’d worry about me.”

  “Why? Should I be worried?”

  “No. He was amazing.”

  “Great,” she says.

  She swigs some champagne and eyes the breadbasket. “There are no carbs in French bread, are there? What the heck.” She takes a piece and starts buttering it. “So define amazing in relation to Harry.”

  I tut. Olivia will never like him. Not even now that he’s called me. “He seemed genuinely concerned for me. Really kind. Just lovely.”

  She chews ravenously. “Well, who’d have thought it? Old Harry’s crawled out of the woodwork and he’s doing the right thing. Not necessarily what I would have expected.” Her words sound so brittle that if you could hold them in your hands they would snap. “So where’s Melissa? Dumped her, too?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Still the commitment-phobe then?”

  I glare at her.

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “Take off those rose-tinted glasses. He has issues, does he not? I mean, let’s not eulogize the jerk. He’s nearly fifty, he’s never been married, and he was a shit to you. You were broken for months after he left. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Thanks for the memo,” I say. “Has it occurred to you that maybe we all got him wrong? That he wants to be there for me? To look after me. And I want that too.”

  She grimaces. “Does he?”

  “Yes!”

  She tilts her head with surprise. “Oh, right. Ignor
e me. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She drags her teeth across her bottom lip. “Ach, Jen. I’m such a big mouth. It’s just, it’s kind of weird. Like I’m still angry with him. And it’s been odd trying on those wedding dresses and . . . knowing you’re not going to be there . . . And . . . I don’t know. Harry. Of course it’s good if he’s going to be there for you. I’m pleased. Honestly, I am. I know how much that piece of shit means to you!”

  I scoff. “Thank you, I think.”

  The waiter puts down our salads.

  Olivia picks at some lettuce. “I just want the best for you,” she says. “Go carefully.”

  “I know. You’re like a parent. You say the harshest things but only in my best interest.”

  “Well, someone needs to. Now, can we check out the photos? We need to decide which of those gorgeous frocks is the one for me.”

  We debate over each dress as we eat then enter our separate worlds of contemplation. She sighs intermittently and polishes off her champagne and orders another glass.

  “You’re drinking quite a lot,” I say. “Is everything all right?”

  “You’re not drinking. That’s why you’re noticing. Anyway, I’m fine. More importantly, are you okay? Because, if I’m honest, you look tired.”

  “That’s my permanent look. Get used to it.”

  “We should get you home,” she says.

  “I’d rather be out with you than contemplating my navel at home, that’s for sure.”

  She flops back in her seat and stretches out her long legs. “Shit, Jennifer! We’re making this feel so normal, I almost forget the horrible reality. It’s like we’re starting to believe alternative facts.”

  “Maybe we should. Whatever helps.”

  “True.” She fiddles with her engagement ring, gives a little smile. “The letters have helped, haven’t they?”

  “They have. Thank you. You were my inspiration.”

  I almost start to mention that I’m going to a reiki healer with Anna Maria tomorrow, but then I think again. I know Olivia will say I’m mad, and not long ago, I would have agreed. But what if I’m not mad? What if Anna Maria’s the one who’s got it right?