by Andrea Darby
Shunting the laptop aside, fingers between my eyebrows as if to soothe the hurt, I recall what happened after I’d stopped watching the video. Dan had followed me into the kitchen. I was feeling emotional, trying not to cry. He’d come behind me at the sink, giving me a big squeeze. ‘You should have seen it to the end, Carrie. I really wanted you to know what happens. It’s important.’ ‘I saw most of it,’ I’d said, chewing my cheek. I didn’t want a row. I’d do almost anything to avoid that. I was determined not to allow the cryonics to come between us. ‘OK. Well, I’m not fetching Eleanor for an hour, so we have some spare time,’ Dan had said. Then he’d blown a rasping kiss on my neck, pulled a wide smile and, in that moment, his eyes melted the hurt. ‘Let’s go and say hi to Mr Fluff then.’ He’d held my hand. His felt so strong and safe. I knew we’d work through it. He turned to me. ‘Woof’.
***
I kick at the sign, surprised at how loose the wooden post is in the dry soil of an abandoned border at the edge of the drive. It slopes, then falls.
I look around – make sure no one can see me – then give it an extra, gratuitous blow that dents the patent-leather toe of my work shoe, making me wince. The sudden surge of anger and frustration stuns me, triggered, in part, by Dan’s comments about me not taking things seriously, and by my inability to take control of my life; my pathetic inadequacy. I was the joke – dropping through each day in some kind of free fall, with no real grip on things.
I straighten the post along the ground.
My home’s no longer for sale. Our home.
Inside, I call the estate agent, ask her to cancel viewings for the foreseeable future. I apologise. I need time to reconsider the move.
Mark’s supposed to refuse my offer of alcohol when he arrives, so I won’t be tempted. Within minutes, we’re both hanging weary heads over large glasses of Merlot, already partially drained.
He joins me on the sofa, jangly music on in the background, as always, in his honour. He’s lost more weight and wearing a fitted pale green shirt that sparks a vivid memory. He wore it the night of his ex-wife’s thirtieth birthday party, when she spent most of the night drooling, drunkenly, over one of her devilishly handsome solicitor colleagues. Mark left early after they rowed, a little publicly, in the foyer of the village hall.
‘I see the “For Sale” board’s down.’ Mark drags the coffee table closer to spread out his paperwork, releasing a breeze of his citrusy cologne.
‘Yes, for now. I’m not ready.’ I flush inwardly.
I listen while Mark moans about his workload. I refill the glasses.
Selfishly, I know I can’t concentrate on our task until I’ve told him about the forum. He’s the wordsmith. What did he read into it?
‘It’s just manter.’ I arch an eyebrow. ‘Male banter.’
I smile. I want to ask Mark what he makes of the stud comment, if Dan was perhaps having an affair. Mark wasn’t what I’d consider a best friend, but close enough that Dan may have confided in him. But I can’t. It seems such a silly question to arrive at. A big leap. And poor Mark was cheated on – twice – by his wife, so it would be tactless. He’d forgiven her the first time, she was quite a bit younger, more foolish, but the second time he threw her out.
‘People write all sorts of crap on these things.’ Mark looks earnest.
‘I know. It’s just upset me – and the bit about taking everything as a joke …’
‘There are worse crimes.’ Mark reaches for his computer. ‘Look, do you want to do this another day? We don’t have to—’
‘No. I’m fine. Let’s do it. Pass the phone. You Google, I’ll call.’
Mark places a warm hand on mine, grips it. ‘If you’re sure.’ His face holds a tentative smile. My pulse feels heavy as I stare into my wine. Mark leans closer. ‘Look, Dan adored you,’ he says, banging his nose, playfully, against mine.
‘I know.’ He releases my hand. For a fleeting moment, I’m disappointed. I missed affection.
‘And who wouldn’t want to come back as a stud?’ Mark adds. I take a sharp breath at that one, masking it with a playful thump on his arm.
I watch Mark click and browse. His joke knocks me back to about six months ago, at his local. Tash was there, we’d all got stupidly tipsy and I was recalling how difficult it had been to decide what sort of memorial, if any, to have for Dan. The vicar had been so patient, despite the fact that I’d blubbed throughout our meeting and blurted out that I rarely went to church any more and wasn’t sure I could call myself a Christian, or what I really believed. Undeterred by my agnosticism and brazen confession, the vicar had suggested that, in the absence of directives from a loved one – and in such exceptional circumstances – it was about what I’d like, perhaps a low-key service for close family and friends to pay their respects.
‘Dan barely stepped foot in a church growing up and we only went together to get married and support Eleanor at school events,’ I’d said to Mark, slurring my words. ‘Anyway, hadn’t he decided to put faith in the scientists?’ ‘I think you did the best thing,’ Mark had said, with a reassuring smile. ‘Definitely, hon,’ Tash agreed.
I’d then confided how hard I’d found choosing the music. Unchained Melody had sprung to mind, because Robson and Jerome were constantly spreading full-fat cheese on the song on the radio when Dan and I were first together. It was our little tune. But at the time, I knew I couldn’t bear to hear it. Mark had chipped in, quick as a flash: ‘Maybe you should have gone with ColdPlay?’ I actually missed the joke for a moment, even though Tash tutted and scowled as he grinned cheekily, head cocked over his fifth pint. ‘Hang on,’ he’d added, ‘what about Freeze A Jolly Good Fellow?’ I laughed, but even through the beer barrier, I felt the blow. I was upset, though I didn’t let on. Mark was a little drunk. I usually appreciated his sense of humour. Tash had struck him on the shoulder, spilling his pint. ‘You’re awful,’ I ‘d said. ‘Sorry, a bad one … out of order,’ he’d slurred.
At work, he’d apologised again. He was concerned he may have upset me. I fibbed; assured him he hadn’t. Had Dan talked to him about cryonics much, I’d asked? And what did he really think of it? Mark said yes, he’d discussed it with Dan, but not much. But he’d done his own research; wasn’t convinced the science was there yet. ‘It’s definitely not for me,’ he’d said. ‘Look, Dan was a great friend. We shared an enthusiasm for sixties music and Maseratis. But cryonics – I’m definitely not with him on that one.’
‘You sure you’re up for this?’ Mark interrupts my reverie.
‘Course.’
We’re still searching when Eleanor returns from her Fame dress rehearsal. Although she’s polite to Mark, says her scenes are ‘going OK’, and laughs at his short melodic burst of the show’s title track, I know she’s trying to mask a bad mood. I follow her to the kitchen.
‘Freya always tries to make me look stupid, so she looks good. I frickin’ hate her so much sometimes!’ she tells me, after my third attempt to find out why she’s upset.
‘What’s she done?’
‘We were walking down her road and Lewis, like, came out to talk because he lives close, and said his brother had just squeezed a spot on his nose and Freya said she rarely got any and I wouldn’t let her pop mine. So he was, like, staring at my chin then, just when my skin’s so bad. It was so embarrassing.’ Eleanor yanks off her school tie.
‘Your skin’s not bad, just a few little spots. I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset—’
‘She so did. She always does it, when I like someone or they like me. She’s a b—’
‘Stop! Well, maybe you should try doing the same to her?’ I say, aware I’ve strayed from the textbook advice to ‘turn the other cheek’ ‘If a boy likes you, a few zits won’t put him off.’
‘I’m never speaking to her now.’ Her mouth’s bunched into a miserable mass.
But she can’t suppress a grin on hearing Mark’s triumphant ‘Yes!’ from the living room. I give Eleanor a squeeze and lea
ve her to cool.
Mark has sold an advert to a local builder and found another firm to approach.
‘Let’s give these a go. You ready to turn on the charm?’
‘Watch and learn!’ I say, picking up the phone.
But then it rings.
I answer it.
Silence.
Rustling.
Then more silence.
CHAPTER 19
‘So are you and Mark going to have a cheeky little one-nighter?’ Tash slurs the question, standing next to me in the opulent washroom, eyes double-glazed.
I place my hands under a gleaming gold tap, addressing her in the illuminated mirror. ‘Nope.’ I exaggerate the ‘p’ sound.
‘Aw. You get on soo well. You’re both so funny. You should get it on.’ I chortle. Tash is bent double, pulling off a shoe to check for damage. ‘Ow, bloody things.’ She squeezes it back on with a grimace.
It’s the night of the charity auction. She’s donated a fair few liver cells to the cause and just collided with a waiter after zigzagging across the rich mahogany floor of the Regency function room, falling off one of her six-inch-heel slingbacks and cutting through the strains of civilised chatter and clink of expensive crystal glasses with a deafening guffaw. Heads had swivelled to check out the commotion and one haughty lady – chest hidden under jewels so big and sparkly they were hypnotic – shot a stare that threatened to melt the swan ice sculpture perched on a tiered glass table nearby. Fortunately, the waiter, a short lad with a tall quiff, had managed to stabilise his stacked tray, averting the danger of creating a second drinks fountain.
‘You could have comedy babies,’ Tash says, lips pulled askew to check her teeth.
‘Stop!’
‘Just saying it how it is, babe.’ She fumbles with the zip of her make-up bag. This paint job’s going to take a while.
Mark and I do have a special bond, I muse, wiping off mascara that has run with all the evening’s hilarity. It’s been a fantastic night; unforgettable. Despite the responsibilities and distractions of being the organiser, Mark’s been wonderfully attentive – smoother than his silk lapels. His tuxedo’s turned him into Captain Charm.
His isn’t the only transformation. The venue’s full of old-fashioned chivalry and beautiful people. Dapper men in fitted suits and women draped in rich silks and velvets, dripping with Chanel No 5, sit next to tables laid with crisp, white linen and dazzling cutlery, poised and polite beneath ornate ceiling roses and chandeliers.
Even the live band’s perfectly polished, though Mark’s attempt to teach me to jive was the point at which the sophistication stopped. It was riotously funny. I was so bad, hindered by the four-inch heels Tash had coaxed me to buy. The saxophone player had stopped several times to snigger over his reed. After I’d tangled my lower legs around his for the hundredth time, Mark had congratulated me on ‘putting the prat into Latin’, dragging me back to the table, where Tash greeted us with her seal clap, tears of laughter rolling from her smoky eyes.
It was just the tonic we all needed with such a tense atmosphere at work and continuing uncertainty over the business’s future (Mafia Man had paid a second visit and Pete had been off sick for only the second time in twenty years). The abandoned calls were troubling me, too, and I’d dwelled on Dan’s online comments for days, perhaps getting more upset than I should have been. ‘I think you can take what people say on these chat sites with a hefty pinch of salt. It’s just faceless banter,’ Imogen had said. ‘Dan loved you to bits. It was blindingly obvious.’ ‘Yeah. I’m overreacting,’ I’d said. I had to agree the stud comments were ambiguous.
I couldn’t help wishing Ashley had come, wondering what he’d look like in a dinner jacket. I’ve never seen him in a suit and only once or twice in a shirt – certainly not a crisp, crease-free one.
Tash pulls me back into the moment. ‘I’ve got a bloody kink!’ She scowls, dragging her fingers impatiently down one side of her lustrous hair.
‘Oh no. Disaster.’ I mock her reflection as I dab on powder.
‘It so is.’ Tash frets and huffs a bit longer, then turns to me. ‘What do you think our babies would look like, you know if Ryan and I made them?’
‘Gawjuss, obviously,’ I snigger. ‘Straight from the cot to the catwalk. I can picture them in designer romper suits, with infant fake bake and baby sling-backs. Have you got something to tell me then?’
Tash looks bemused, facial muscles loosened by alcohol. ‘No, what … oh, you mean, like am I preggers? You’re joking right? Course not.’ She laughs. ‘My sister’s so obsessed with getting pregnant. Thinks her clock will stop tick-tocking soon. But she can’t get a boyfriend. She’s—’ Tash twists her face, as if she’s about to say something shocking, like ‘a bit of a bunny boiler’, or ‘into witchcraft’. Instead, she gestures to her belly: ‘… a bit fat.’
A titter turns to full-on laughter as I watch Tash try to apply more shocking red lipstick; how much concentration it takes to avoid decorating her teeth. I’ve reapplied mine countless times, depositing my lip print on several cheeks and crystal tumblers, leaving it looking thin and pathetic in a sea of impressive trout pouts on display next door.
‘You’ve been with Ryan for a long time. Must be nearly three weeks,’ I say.
‘I know. It’s insane. I can’t actually bloody believe it. He’s cute though.’ Tash flings herself at me. ‘I hate it when you’re not drinking. You so should have stayed. I’m sure Mark could sneak you into his room.’ She pulls back, tottering.
‘Go on, you could have a crafty shag – all for charity.’ She shrieks and a woman with loose curls and a sequinned shawl, washing her hands in the next basin, glares and tiptoes out on ice-pick stilettos.
‘Stop right there, Miss Piss-Head,’ I say. ‘I’m going home as planned. End of.’
It was certainly a change to be the sober one – and a little alcohol may have taken the edge off Tash’s volume. She’d heckled throughout the auction bids, almost agreeing to pay two grand for a guitar signed by some D-list rocker. Mark had eventually cast etiquette aside, put her in a headlock and slapped his silk napkin over her mouth.
Everyone else on our table was staying, and who could blame them. As well as landing impressive freebies like drinks fountains, Mark had secured a massive discount on the rooms, bagging a few of the Queen’s Hotel’s prime five-star suites for the price of a box next to the boiler room in a budget hotel. But I’d decided to opt out of all that opulence, even though Eleanor was stopping overnight at Sunny’s. It didn’t really appeal. Besides, I’d decided to drive home, so I couldn’t drink. It was time to finally do something about my wine intake. I suspected it wasn’t helping my erratic moods, furring up the common sense cogs in my brain.
When I finally decide to leave, Mark insists on escorting me. He’s clearly rewarded himself for a successful evening with a few strong spirits. I get a potent whiff of whisky, his body heavy as he drapes his arm around my shoulder, walks with me to the gleaming reception area.
‘Fancy a coffee before hitting the road? They do Lavazza – I’ve checked! And that sofa has our name on it.’ Mark gestures to a huge, wing-backed chesterfield, next to the Cotswold stone fireplace.
‘I think I’d better head off,’ I say brightly, trying not to appear rude or ungrateful after his efforts with the gallantry all evening. ‘I feel really … tired.’
Mark gives me a squeeze, one arm held tight around my waist. ‘Shame.’ He kisses the top of my head. I sense his silent stare, an unexpected tenderness in his grip. My pulse quickens. I’m reluctant to meet his gaze, his lips so close. It could be so easy to be dazzled by the heady atmosphere, the richly romantic setting of this ‘other’ world, to do something foolish, maybe slip through that mates gate. Yet I’m sure we both know the lock’s secure, that we can’t venture beyond the safe environment of our treasured friendship.
Mark loosens his grip. I cast him a sideways glance. ‘It’s been a great night,’ he says, smiling broadly. T
hose lips had taken part in so much banter with Dan, they’d uttered so many consoling words to me, poured out so much advice, amused me so often.
‘Bloody fantastic,’ I say, easing myself away. I hastily unzip my clutch bag, pulling out my keys to make my exit intentions clear.
For a second, I dare myself to say, ‘I’m seeing Ashley’. If there are any foolish, whisky-induced amorous thoughts, that would surely be the easiest way to banish them. But it would be cowardly, ill-timed, cruel perhaps. Unnecessary, surely? I don’t need to spell it out. Mark knows what we are – great friends and colleagues, a strictly professional double act; Mr and Mrs Mirth.
He cuddles me close again, hand stroking the curve below my waist. His eyes find mine.
‘I must say, you look stunning tonight, the best-looking woman in the room.’ As if sensing my unease, he pulls himself upright. ‘Well, second best, or perhaps third, actually fourth because there was that brunette on the next table with the massive tits …’
I thump him; laugh nervously. ‘I’m being serious,’ he says. All traces of jollity fall from his face again.
‘Hey.’ A loud voice startles us both. A man in a white suit, with a slick comb-over, is by the front desk. ‘You leaving, Mark?’ he yells.
Mark holds up a stiff palm. ‘Wait one minute, Carrie.’ He shimmies over to the guy and I hear him explain that ‘no, he isn’t leaving’, he’ll be back to chat shortly. Then a young couple passes in front of them, canoodling and chatting loudly, and I lose Mark’s voice. He must crack a joke, because they both laugh, look my way.
I feel cross. I’m not sure why.
My mind shouts over to him: ‘Oy Mark. Did you hear the one about the widow whose husband’s corpse was in a freezer in Arizona?