by Andrea Darby
***
I’m relieved to get out the taxi. Feeling slightly pissed, I’d longed to be left in peace but the driver was extremely chatty and contagiously chirpy. I’d tried to re-read the letter still in my handbag, but the words and sentences jumped and jumbled. Only ‘Liar’ stayed still.
That word could apply to me as much as to him tonight, I’d thought.
Scrabbling with the key in the lock, I shudder at a gust of biting winter wind, bracing myself to face Sunny. I’ll have to try hard not to slur. Or expose the fib.
I feel like a naughty schoolgirl, desperate to assure her mum she’s spent the evening watching TV with her best friend, when she’s been drinking Bacardi Breezers on a park bench and losing her virginity.
Fortunately, Sunny’s keen to leave. She doesn’t do late nights.
‘I’m so glad you’re socialising more. We all need companionship.’ She’s hovering at the front door. ‘Is Tash still doing all that dating?’ I nod. ‘I can’t understand what makes women … like her want to keep meeting strangers. Did she have a date with her tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be so late if you were just meeting … I wondered if you …’ Sunny stops, eyes snaring mine. ‘I see Eleanor’s put a new photo of Dan by her bedside. I told her, he’ll like that.’ She’s used the present tense; AGAIN. I’m incensed.
‘Dan’s dead! It’s been nearly two bloody years!’ I bellow. ‘And leave Eleanor out of this. Things are hard enough for her without your stupid comments.’
I feel awful as the words pierce our eardrums. I catch Sunny’s expression in the full-length venetian mirror as she reaches for the door handle, a flick of alarm in her eyes, mouth pinched. Of course, she keeps her shawl of serenity wrapped tightly around her, doesn’t yell back.
‘Oh dear, I didn’t mean … I think you’ve had too much … I’m sorry I’ve upset you,’ she utters softly. ‘I sense you’re carrying a lot of stress.’ Sunny clasps her hands, as if in prayer. ‘Dan believed he wouldn’t expire and I respect that. We all have our own beliefs, and perhaps what we believe can come true.’
I breathe deeply, wait for her to step outside: ‘Well, I believe I’ve got a right to get on with my life.’ I close the door firmly.
Two coffees, lots of tears, and a spell of trash TV later, I finally creep upstairs, head still spinning. In the bedroom, I draw the aqua satin curtains across on another difficult day.
I tuck the letter back in its hiding place, then throw some clothes in the laundry basket on the landing.
‘Hey, Mum, did you have a good night?’ It’s Eleanor’s voice. I peer round her door.
‘Yes, thanks.’ She switches on her lamp, giving me a bleary-eyed stare. She looks so much younger tucked up in bed, so naturally pretty. The night’s knocked off the hard mask of maturity she chooses to wear by day, exposing the soft little girl I yearn for, and often imagine her still to be.
‘Tash says hi.’ I perch on the bed, keeping my boozy breath at a safe distance. Dan stares out from the white wooden photo frame on her chest of drawers, his image replacing Eleanor’s school ‘selfie’ with her two besties, Freya and Bethany.
‘Cool.’ Eleanor sits up. Her mild honey smell, one I love better than any, has been obliterated by a cocktail of essential oils.
‘Blimey, what happened to you?’
‘Oh, yeah, my hair.’ She grabs at the greasy clumps. ‘Auntie Sunny did a head massage. Put loads of oil in it. I look a proper state, don’t I?’
‘It’s not your best look.’
‘I had a shoulder massage too. That was well nice and the oils smelt beaut.’ Eleanor pulls her fleecy pyjama top off one shoulder, urging me to take a sniff. ‘But the head thing was so weird. Auntie does it on the cats, says they love it.’
I smile. I have two Eleanors now, the old, adorable version and a new, complex model – with extra wind-up mechanisms and buttons I keep unwittingly pressing. She’s like the terrier my gran had; melting your heart as it nuzzled into your chest with its warm breath and soft snout for strokes one minute, then tensing up and tearing off your fingernails the next. But Eleanor’s been through a lot; she has good reason to snap and occasionally bite.
‘Jeez, Freya’s auntie gives her highlights and mine does this.’ She pulls her freakishly flexible lips into a comical curl and I laugh heartily, relishing her cute terrier mode and commending her sense of humour.
Yours isn’t the only head Sunny’s been messing with, I think, leaning over to kiss her goodnight.
CHAPTER 4
Imogen phones the next morning, desperate to hear about the date. I’m stretched out on the bed in my PJs, with my third coffee and a heavy head, relieved to be horizontal again.
‘He smelled really nice,’ I say.
‘Well, that’s a big positive for someone with the nose of a bloodhound. And …’
‘We seemed to get on pretty well, but …’ I pause, ‘ … then I told him about Dan and he changed. I think it put him off.’
‘Really? That’s daft. It’s more likely you putting out those negative vibes again.’ Imogen titters, as if to make it clear it’s a joke.
‘Possibly. Dan’s a hard act to follow.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I know – I can’t compare everyone to him.’
‘So, will you be seeing him again?’
‘He took my number, said he’d ring – but I doubt it.’
‘The negativity again.’
‘Sorry, I’m just feeling rough. I still don’t think I’m ready for this dating stuff. Maybe Sunny’s right, I shouldn’t be doing it at all. I should be waiting for—’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Imogen sounds terse. I tell her about Sunny’s comments. ‘Wow, she doesn’t learn. She’s so sodding tactless. And judgmental.’ I can hear the hiss of her steam.
‘But I lied to her about who I was out with – I think she knew. And I don’t think she realises how hurtful—’
‘She knows exactly what she’s saying.’ I can sense Imogen’s cogs whirring in a silence. ‘Perhaps you should settle for someone you know then, like that dishy dad from Eleanor’s old school, the interior designer … or Mark?’
‘Stop it! He’s Eleanor’s friend’s dad – a no-no. And Mark was Dan’s friend. We’re colleagues. Change the record.’
‘Just saying! If you won’t do internet dating and want to skip the ‘getting to know you’ bit …’ She pauses. ‘Or you could get in touch with a certain ex.’
I thought Sunny had the sixth sense. ‘Stop right there.’ Imogen had become more candid since crossing the Channel, but I’m stunned by her audacity. ‘Anyway, I’m probably about the last person Ashley Baird wants to hear from.’
‘Maybe not. He’s tried to get in touch before.’
‘That was years ago – probably pissed at the time.’
‘What about that phone message on your birthday you couldn’t decipher?’
‘I doubt that was from him.’
‘Just saying.’ Imogen yawns. ‘Sorry, I barely slept last night as Laura and her loud cough joined me in bed. Still, it stopped Ben from trying it on. As if I’d be up for it in the middle of the night? Saying that, I’m not up for it in the morning, afternoon or evening either.’ She laughs rather loudly.
I chuckle obligingly, though I sense Imogen’s lack of libido’s no longer a laughing matter. She claims her sex drive slipped out with Katie’s afterbirth. That was two years ago. I worry about how much Imogen has on her plate, besides her exquisite home-cooked food and cakes worthy of their own spotlight in a gallery. Both of her girls had sleep issues, yet she still worked full-time as a freelance graphic designer, wrote blogs on baking and always looked immaculate. Although apprehensive about moving – the upheaval, rebuilding the business – she was determined to make it work. I don’t know how she did it. She was superwoman.
After hanging up, the phone rings again. I feel a tiny dart of excitement. Maybe it’s Gaz.
It’s Tash, asking how we’d got on. Her voice turns urgent and whiny. She didn’t want to tell me in the pub, spoil the atmosphere. She’d overheard the secretary talking to her husband on the phone at work while she was mopping up a coffee spill in the corridor. She wanted to warn me. At least one of us was going to be made redundant before the next financial year.
‘That’s if the company doesn’t go under before then – or Pete doesn’t have a frickin’ heart attack from all the stress,’ she says.
I click the phone off with a sturdy sigh. I don’t need the job as desperately as the others; not financially, at least. I should go. Redundancy could be the kick up the arse I need. But it all seems so overwhelming – everything in a state of flux.
Under the full pelt of the monsoon shower, I reflect on Sunny’s words and my parting shot: ‘I have a right to get on with my life.’ Trouble was, I wasn’t convinced I believed it. I was desperate to feel an overpowering force pulling me forwards. Yet while Dan was in this third state – or ‘suspended’ as cryonicists called it – it felt as if my life was the same.
Everyone seemed convinced I shouldn’t be going it alone. But maybe Sunny was right – I should sign up to join my husband in the freezer in Arizona when I die and share his hope that science will come up with a cure for whatever ailments put us there, so we can be revived – a sort of Carrie and Dan Part 2. Did I owe it to Dan? Would it ease my conscience? Yet I was pretty sure I couldn’t. Besides, what Sunny seemed to be forgetting was that if I died in my seventies or eighties, I’d be coming back to life as Dan’s mum.
Sunny looked shocked when I’d yelled that it was nearly two years since Dan’s departure. So was I, saying it out loud. I tot it up: 22 months, 19 days – that was two Valentine’s Days and three of his favourite History of Britain series.
Some days it seemed that long; others, so much less, grief regaining its tight grip. Sorrow had created huge holes in me, deep craters that I worked so hard to fill. Yet one comment, or bad experience, even a thought or memory, could open them right back up.
I settle on the chaise, trying to inhale a comforting waft of cinnamon from the scented oil diffuser and chastising myself for drinking too much. I consider the morning mantras Sunny coaxed me to recite when the wounds of grief were raw, when I’d try almost anything in the hope of some respite from the negative voices throwing words around my head, the crippling fear for the future that stopped me functioning. Each day, Sunny thought of three things in her life to be grateful for and proclaimed them, over and over – writing them down if she needed a more potent affirmation. I’d be struggling this morning. Did my three cups of strong coffee count?
I grab the bulky beige cushion from Dan’s armchair, tucking it behind me. I need all the lumbar support I can get. I still call it Dan’s chair. He bought it after complaining computer work was giving him back problems, though I was convinced over-exercising was to blame. It still smelled of Dan. No one ever sat on it. Even visitors seemed to sense something.
Ruling out mantras, I email Sheena instead – always a release. I’d found Sheena, or She67, on an online forum for those coping with loss, not long after I’d attended the first – and only – group counselling session. We were soon corresponding regularly, sharing our grief, both of us surprised at how effortless, and cathartic, we found it to open up to each other, revelations and thoughts occasionally spewing across cyberspace that even our nearest and dearest weren’t privy to. I no longer had to constantly burden family and friends with my widow woes, hear their pitying tones, force them to keep refilling the sympathy dispenser. We could talk about normal, everyday things again.
What Sheena gave me beat all the other help and advice about coping. There was an unexpected affinity between us. Despite our distance as computer acquaintances, she felt inexplicably close. Her situation was unthinkable – her husband missing for months; presumed dead (by everyone except Sheena, it seemed) – yet similar in some respects. Everyone else I’d chatted to online had loved ones dead and buried, past relationships laid to rest. But ‘She67’ lived with relentless uncertainty.
In her last message, she’d shared her fear that the police had all but given up their search. She wondered about taking her girls to the coast for a few days. They all needed a break. But she was torn. What if her husband returned to an empty house? I asked her if she’d been away; how she was feeling. I told her about my date, and the redundancy threat at work.
Later, after dropping Eleanor off at the cinema, I decide to wait around for her. Dragging my hangover across a busy road, desperately seeking the relative solitude of a back-street café and keen to avoid the fine drizzle and madness and mayhem of Saturday shoppers, I notice a woman with a pram stopped in the middle of the pavement ahead. Clearly exhausted, she’s gripping her sides. A huge bump bulges beneath an unzipped padded coat that reaches her knees. Then the pram tips, a carrier slipping off the handle, its contents emptying on to the damp ground.
Moving closer, I catch sight of a familiar face. It’s Kirsten, Dan’s old secretary. Pregnant – again; it must be her fifth. I want to rush to her aid – she can barely bend – but, to my shame, I step aside to plough on, in no mood for a chat, happy that someone else obliges, another young woman stopping to help scoop up the items.
Seeing Kirsten again, so unexpectedly, feels so strange. It’s a potent reminder of a past life, like picking up a thread leading back to a different Dan: Daytime Dan – the one I rarely saw – the businessman and boss, perfectly groomed and gorgeous in his dark tailored suits and pastel shirts.
Eleanor’s friend Freya is meeting her cousin after the film, but we offer Bethany a lift.
‘I’ll come and say hi to your mum – I haven’t spoken to her in ages. I’m assuming she’s in,’ I say, climbing out the car.
‘OK.’ Bethany’s cute baby face flushes a little.
‘Bye, B.’ Eleanor looks up from her phone. She clearly has no intention of moving from the back seat.
As Bethany rings the doorbell, I spot her mum, Ruth, in profile at the window, her short grey hair hooked behind a tiny ear. We wait.
‘I think she’s upstairs,’ I say, though she’s no longer in view.
‘She might be resting – I’ve got a key.’ Bethany looks a touch flustered as she scrabbles in her denim bag. She pulls out a keyring, a huge, sparkly letter ‘B’ and chunky silver cross dangling as she turns the key. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She steps in without looking back, shutting the door behind her promptly.
Back at home, Eleanor and I meet our regular food delivery driver, a friendly chap with a lazy eye and hands so huge he can hook five full carriers over each one, whistling a high-spirited tune in the porch.
‘I thought you’d be on your way, madam,’ he says with a playful smile, just the one eye on me as always.
‘Sorry – it slipped my mind.’
‘Again,’ Eleanor mutters, dashing up the stairs in a blur.
In the kitchen, I stare with dismay at the abstract arrangement of green bags. I hate putting shopping away even more these days. I still hear Dan’s words in my head often – ‘I want to be frozen when I pass’ – chasing away the reassuringly mundane everyday thoughts like ‘should I cook or will it be a ready meal again?’ and inducing a restlessness that lingers.
He stopped using the word ‘die’. For him, it was a pause. Yet I often wish I could press rewind, go back in time and delete that moment. Things seemed to change after; or was it before?
I know it’s stupid, but I sometimes wonder if planning his death had somehow made it happen.
I feel a strong grip of guilt as Eleanor’s favourite frozen burgers, with a piri-piri glaze, head for the freezer. I imagine Dan frowning at me: ‘Tut, tut, junk food’.
‘But she’s thirteen – she loves them,’ my conscience proclaims. Silly me – Dan’s not watching. He’s not here. He doesn’t know, does he?
The fridge freezer’s still Dan’s in my mind. We’d called it Mitsy. He’d been
so excited about getting a huge, American-style one. ‘I’ve found her,’ he’d declared, shoving a shiny Mitsubishi brochure under my nose, tongue tucked firmly in his dimpled cheek. ‘Look, she’s got different zones, humidity drawers and an anti-bacterial lining. And she makes ice cubes.’ He’d always called his sports cars ‘her’ and ‘she’ but never something without a pulse or engine. He was genuinely excited, though he pretended he was exaggerating his pleasure for comic effect. ‘An impressive CV,’ I’d said, scanning the fridge’s extensive features list. ‘But can she peel potatoes or zap cellulite?’ We’d both chuckled, him with a despairing shake of the head.
I rearrange a few items, desperate to make space, but the drawer won’t shut. I give it a gratuitous kick, wincing as I catch my sore toe on some protruding plastic cracked from a previous blow. I’m angry with myself – that everything’s still in such disarray without Dan. Dan the foreman. He steered through life the way he drove his beloved sports cars, the route all mapped out, every detail and possible deviation anticipated, mind totally focussed, both hands firmly on the wheel; in complete control. Yet even Dan couldn’t negate for the dead end – the no through road that wasn’t on his life’s map.
***
Next day, Eleanor’s indulging in one of her weekend lie-ins.
‘Get your lazy bum out of bed, you’ll be late for school,’ I yell from the landing. It’s a Sunday, but I never tire of that joke.
The phone rings. More disappointment. It’s not Gaz. It’s the leader of the school fundraising group; there’s a meeting the following week and she wonders if I’d be able to produce a flyer for the next fayre.
‘Sure. I can’t make tray bakes that will have the mums dribbling into their M&S knickers like Imogen did, but I think I can knock up a hand-out.’
‘That’s great – you’re a star. So we might see you next week then?’
‘I’ll try,’ I say.
I’d been badgered to lend a hand at various events over the years, but this was the first request I’d had since Dan died. I got the impression members of the cash-raising committee weren’t the only people who’d decided it was time my mourning veil was lifted. Before, it felt like I was wearing a sign around my neck – ‘Warning: Widow – Handle With Care’ – everyone keeping their distance or treating me with extreme delicacy. Nobody wanted to be the one to cause me to shatter and witness the mess, or pick up the pieces.