I stand up. I’m wobbly. And then I feel it. A sudden cramp, more intense than ever before and I lean over the table, holding on to my stomach. “Shit!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just . . . well . . .” I’m trying to breathe. “. . . I have a cramp.”
“Here. Breathe into the bag.” He opens up one of the paper bags and thrusts it over my mouth and nose.
I hold on, my hand over his.
“Slowly,” he instructs.
I slow down my breathing, feeling woozy with pain.
In. Out. In. Out. The bag expands and contracts.
Eventually the pain starts easing.
“It’s fine,” I say, slowly straightening up. “It’s gone. That worked.” I let out a sigh of relief and let go of his hand and he scrunches up the paper bag and puts it in his pocket.
“You were starting to scare me,” he says. Then I see his eyes fall to my stomach and his expression changes. “Don’t you think you ought to get to a hospital?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. Honestly.” I pull my coat across my stomach. “Shall we go for that walk?”
“I think we should.” He looks wary. “No more cramps?”
“No more cramps.”
“But you’ll let me know if anything changes.”
“I think you’ll know.”
We cross the road, vigilantly checking every which way for cars and lunatics, back through the gate into the park.
“I don’t know your name,” he says, with a hint of embarrassment. “We never exchanged names, did we? We didn’t bother with minor details like that.”
“I know. Funny that. I’m Jennifer.” I look across at him.
“Leo.”
“Leo,” I repeat. “Hence the good hair.”
“You believe in that stuff?”
“No.”
“Thank God!”
A group of women walk toward us.
“Morning!” they say.
“Morning!” we reply in unison.
“Lovely day.”
“Yes,” we say. It feels almost familiar, as though walking together is what we do.
“So what do you do, Leo? Isn’t that always the next question everybody asks?”
He takes my hand and slips my arm through the crook of his. Totally easy in himself. “I’m a writer. I freelance. For TV. Radio. Anyone who’ll have me, in fact.”
I’m quietly thrilled. A creative, I think. My child will have the gift of creativity. I’ll take that! I examine his face side on. He has a kind face, good nose. His hair is still long and shaggy. Maybe even longer and he seems warm and open even behind his dark beard. In my recklessness, I’ve chosen well.
“And you? Are you working?” he says. “Or are you just a lady in waiting?”
I cough awkwardly. “You mean for this?” I say with as much casual dismissiveness as I can muster.
He nods.
“Well, I’m waiting for this but I’m still working. I’m in HR.”
“How many weeks?”
“Oh, gosh. I’ve been in HR for years.” I laugh at my mistake and he laughs, too. “That’s not what you meant, is it?”
“No,” he says.
I fumble. “Um, twentyish, I think.” I’m stalling, obfuscating—well, lying actually—hoping it will put him off the scent and the timing won’t register.
“You were so accurate about your death, seventy-nine days if I recall, but on this you’re kind of—ish-ish.”
“God! You remember that detail.”
“Hard to forget.” He smiles. “That wasn’t exactly an everyday conversation. Pretty memorable.”
“I guess it was,” I say.
“So you and the father, you’re together? I think that’s the next question everybody asks.”
“Why is that?” I say. “Why does that matter so much?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It probably doesn’t anymore in this age of anything goes. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
He deserves some kind of explanation. I know he does. If not the truth, then at least something to quell his curiosity. But the words elude me. I’ve not come prepared. I don’t want to lie, but the alternative is too terrifying.
“Actually,” I mumble. “It didn’t work out.” Not a lie. A half-truth.
“I’m so sorry. That’s shit.” He shakes his head. “Men!” he says and I laugh awkwardly.
We continue walking, quietly taking in the surroundings, and I’m so aware of him, aware of his smell, his warmth, his tread.
“You with someone new, then?” he says, breaking the tranquility.
“You’re very inquisitive.”
“I’m a writer. I’m interested in people.”
“No,” I say. “I’m doing this alone.”
“Entirely? The father not interested at all?”
I nod noncommittally.
“You all right with that?”
“Yes.” I hear myself say it out loud and it feels right. “Yes, I am!”
He’s scrutinizing me again. “You’re cool,” he says. “Good for you.”
“What about you?” I venture. “Are you with anyone?”
“No,” he smiles. “I’m like you. Doing this alone.”
I laugh. Probably a bit too eagerly. I’m aware of how pleased I am to hear he’s single. Then I pull myself into check. No expectations! I shouldn’t get too pleased.
“I love this view,” he says. “Could stare at it for hours. In fact, sometimes I do. Just stand here and stare. Let the world rush over me. It clears my mind. Opens up my thought process.” He turns to look at me. “I’ve thought about you a lot, you know.” I feel my eyes widen. He tilts his head. “Does that make you feel uncomfortable?”
“A little.”
“Well, I have. You certainly made an impact. I’ve often wondered what happened to that woman on the heath with the great body and the gorgeous face who was too young to die.”
“Now that does make me feel uncomfortable.” I feel my cheeks color. “Well, now you know.” I hold my hands wide open as if to say Here I am.
“May I?” he says. He puts his hand out, waiting for permission.
THIS IS SO INTENSE.
“You may,” I say and in that crazy intimate moment, feeling the warmth of his hand on my belly, on his baby, I want to tell him. I so badly want to tell him the truth.
He looks at me as if in awe, then steps back. “Amazing,” he says. “I saved two lives today. Superhero me!” He goes into Superman pose and I laugh with relief. He’s stopped me from blundering in.
“So, Superman. Have you got kids?”
“No,” he says. “One day, though,” he adds. “For now I’m enjoying being an irresponsible creative. No obligations. No ties. It suits me. I can fuck beautiful women in the park and watch as they walk away. And then I can save them.” He says this with a flourish of his hand, then catches my look. “I’m kidding,” he says. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one I’ve ever done either of those things to.”
I raise my eyebrows. “As a rule, I don’t go around throwing myself under people or cars either.”
We continue our stroll and my arm slips back into his. “So,” I say, taking a leap of faith. “When you wondered about me, what did you . . . wonder?”
His face becomes thoughtful. “Well, since you ask . . . I wondered how you were and how you were coping and then . . . I’d remember how you leaned forward and kissed me.” I shiver unconsciously. “I’d replay that one in my head, a lot. I liked the way you took me by surprise. I’d think about how your mouth felt, and your body, which was wonderful.” His eyes flash at me, enjoying my reaction. “And I’d think of your smell and the sensation of your skin as we rolled around.” I hear myself sigh as I all
ow the memory back in. “And then I remember the cigarette we smoked together. In fact, I do that one a lot—I’ve given up smoking, don’t you know! Thirty-four days, five hours, six minutes and . . .” He checks his naked wrist. “Eleven seconds of total agony. You see how precise I am! None of your pregnancy vagueness.”
“Oh, well done. Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” he says, taking a low bow. “So thinking of you made me feel happy . . . and sad at the same time. But now I can think of you and just feel happy. It’s good to see you. To see both of you.” He laughs.
I sense the power of our strange connection and feel my emotions soar. It couldn’t have been just a one-off. Because now he’s saved me. Surely that must mean something? Surely it’s a sign. But maybe it means nothing. Maybe life is nothing more than a bunch of coincidences.
“So what are you writing at the moment?” I ask.
He makes a kind of ha! sound, “I’m writing about a guy, who meets a girl who tells him she’s about to die and they have the best sex ever and then they part and he wonders what happens to her.”
“That’s a good story,” I say, aware he’s playing with me. “How does it end?”
“Like this,” he says, pointing to the two of us. “I think this is a pretty good ending, don’t you?”
“Seriously, though,” I say. “What are you really writing?”
“I just told you.”
“Honestly?”
“Why would I bother to lie?”
“And is this really how it ends?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I was going to make him wander the streets looking for her but obviously never finding her. Knowing she must have died. Then maybe he’d meet some other woman who would help him forget.”
“Not so keen on that one.”
“Nah. Me, neither. So I was a bit stuck and came out for a walk to clear my head and voilà! There you are. Still trying to die. And I save you. So, thanks to you, I guess I have my ending.” He looks at me. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” I say. “Everyone likes a happy ending.”
He smiles hesitantly. “So tell me, why wouldn’t you give me your phone number before?”
I think for a moment. “Because my mother told me never to speak to strangers.”
“Did she forget to mention not to fuck them?”
“She forgot to mention a lot of things.”
He half laughs. “So will you give me your number now?”
“You’re not serious?” I say.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because of this.” I point to my bump.
“So?” he says, like my pregnancy bears no more impediment than a spot on my chin.
“Okay, then.” I reach for my phone. “Give me your number. I’ll dial it.”
I type in his number and we’re both standing there looking at our phones, waiting. My heart skips ahead of itself. My baby kicks like it’s willing me to tell him.
As his phone rings, I feel a sharp pang of guilt. I know I have to say it. NOW OR NEVER. It’s only fair. I look up at his open face with a huge surge of sadness knowing I’m risking blowing this potential friendship but I have to. My new rule of candor, voicing what needs to be said, now, in the moment, no matter how uncomfortable, has to be adhered to. Besides, he’s been so up front with me, I have to give him the chance to run for the hills.
I speak into the phone as though he’s not standing right next to me.
“Hi, Leo.”
He plays along. “Hi, Jennifer. Thanks for calling.”
“Thanks for saving me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take a deep breath. “Leo, there’s something I feel you should know.” Beat. “I’m pregnant.”
“So I see.”
“Yes, but—”
He puts his finger to my lips. “It’s okay.”
“But—”
“All in good time,” he says. “You have to build up the tension. Keep back the big reveal and leave the audience guessing. And you have to trust I know what I’m talking about. That I’m a decent writer.”
A tingle of excitement runs down my spine like a charge of electricity. “Right,” I say, swallowing back my revelation. “I’m prepared to do that. Good talking to you, Leo.”
We ring off, grinning at each other.
“So now I have your number,” he says. “Thank you!”
I smile.
“And, one more thing, Jennifer—”
“Yes?”
He hears my sharp intake of breath.
“Thanks for the happy ending.”
Epilogue
BIRTHS
July 2 to Jennifer Cole and Leo Granger, a daughter, Primrose Hope.
6 lbs. 12 oz. of miracle. Mother recovering well.
Doula Isabelle getting there.
Please direct any flowers to her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I write, I have yet to hold an actual copy of my book in my hands but when I finally do, it will be like holding an Oscar—it’s been that big a dream. This is my acceptance speech:
I would like to thank:
Celine Kelly, who when this novel was a germ of an idea, made me believe it was a good one and encouraged me to write it. My friend and mentor, Joanna Briscoe, who offered to read the first few chapters and ended up devouring the entire manuscript, then placed me in the skilled hands of Sophie Wilson. Thanks again to Joanna for recommending me to the woman who would become my longed-for agent, the magnificent Felicity Blunt at Curtis Brown. Felicity, your genius in nailing this book’s title and placing me with the best publishing houses has allowed me to call myself by my other favorite title, “author.”
Also at Curtis Brown, thank you to the inimitable Gordon Wise, for insisting never to represent me, not wanting to risk our friendship—I never liked you anyway! To Lucy Morris, the best surrogate and guide, and to Melissa Pimentel and team who took me into territories beyond my wildest expectations. And to Kristyn Keene Benton at ICM, New York—your work and support across the pond are truly appreciated.
Here comes the Gwyneth moment (sobs): I have been blessed with three outstanding professionals: my talented, incisive editors, Susanna Wadeson, at Transworld, and Pamela Dorman and Jeramie Orton at Pamela Dorman Books/Viking Penguin. Your guidance, care, and keen observations have helped craft this book into a far, far better one. The Oscar is yours, too!
My writing journey started long before this novel. Over the past ten years and several courses, I have had the privilege of meeting fellow writers, some of whom have become lifelong friends. Thank you to my special gang: Val Phelps, Sadie Morgan, and the much-missed-but-never-forgotten Grace French, for your support and love, and for the weekends of laughter, food, and wine and the very occasional writing exercise.
To my friends who have kindly been my readers, special mention goes to Genevieve Nikolopulos who has doggedly read almost every manuscript I’ve ever written. To Rebecca Lacey: Becs! Who knew your wise piece of advice would inspire the book that became the one? Thanks, too, to Judy Chilcote, Basi Akpabio, Melanie Sykes, Rebecca Rimington, Kim Creed, my cousins Joanne Millett and Julia Schwarzmann, sista Louise Roberts in Sydney, Martin Olson in LA, and to Lynzie Rogers in New York, who championed me when silence might have served her better. Hero!
I am fortunate to have many special mates who have stood on the sidelines, cheering me on. Among them Janet Ellis, Patrick Finnegan, Amanda Hellberg, Rosie Phipps, Juliet Blake, Georgia Clark, Nicola Kelly, Vicki McIvor, Tracey Cox, Peter Thompson, Lesley Goldberg, Lloyd Millett, Francesca Cantor, the Briefs (my US “family”), and my regular cohort Marc van Schie (always there at the significant moments of this journey)—thank you all. Shout out to Wayne Brookes, the first industry person to truly believe in me. To my lovely ex-neighbor Elea
nor Fea for her HR guidance, I hope I got it right. And to Federico Andornino, whose friendship, enthusiasm, and advice are inestimable. Grazie!
And now to my sons, Alexander and Joseph Stolerman. I know with every rejection over each passing year, you wondered why the hell I was putting myself through the pain. Thank you for keeping the faith. I am proof that failure is merely a stepping-stone. Tenacity is all.
And Mabel. Dog lovers among you will understand how special this mixed breed wonder is in my life. Mabel has been curled up next to me the entire time I have pawed (yes, I know!) over this manuscript. She is my laughter tonic and always the most pleased to see me. Yes, Mabes, you can have a treat.
And now I’m being given my cue to leave the stage. . . .*drops mic.*
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melanie Cantor worked for many years in PR and as a celebrity talent agent, and has dabbled in interior renovations, which led to her hosting a UK TV series where she tidied up people's messy houses. She has since concentrated on writing; Death and Other Happy Endings is her first published novel. She has two grown up sons, a dog and lives in London.
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Death and Other Happy Endings Page 30