The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

I glance at the clock. 5.40 am. I climb out, pull on my skirt. Ashley stirs, eyes still slits that strain to follow me as I gather the rest of my clothes.

  He beckons me with outstretched arms. I lean over, then pull away from his sleepy kiss, knowing I won’t have the will to leave if I succumb again.

  ‘Shame you have to go so early,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I should have left last night. I’m not sure I’ll make it to work on time.’

  ‘Never mind. You won’t be there much longer.’ Ashley grins cheekily, and the thought stays with me.

  On the train, I take ages writing an email to Sheena using my new mobile. I ask after Abi. ‘Children are so good at hiding how they feel, aren’t they?’ I’m uneasy about having good news to relay when Sheena continues to have nothing but heartache to contend with. But I don’t want to lie; I’ve always been so truthful to her. I tell her how fabulous Fame was, how Eleanor’s confidence has had a mighty boost. I confess that I think I’m in love with Ashley again.

  Keen not to make it all sound too positive, I mention missing out on interviews for several jobs, that I still haven’t heard back from the magazine.

  As I snuggle down in a double seat on the train, a text arrives from Ashley: Hope you get to work OK. Thanks for an amazing day! xxx

  My attempts to snooze are thwarted by recollections of my trip. I decide to put on some make-up, the jolt of the carriage making it hard to keep my fingers steady. We’d had such a great time together. Nothing planned, as ever, the day had found its own rhythm – a walk on the heath, sunbathing on our thin jackets by a heart-shaped pond while we watched crazy, shrieking swimmers diving from a pontoon into the cold, still water. Dipping our toes and giggling like kids. Our feet still wet, we were overtaken by shiny joggers as we climbed to the top of Parliament Hill, looking down on a city washed with gold. A three-course Italian meal, then an early night. I hadn’t intended to stay over. I’d told Eleanor I’d be back at home.

  A few days before, she’d been in her room, trying on a new strappy top and ultra skinny aqua jeans, when I’d breezed in to tell her my plans. I’d decided it was time for more honesty.

  ‘Looking great,’ I’d said.

  ‘Sweet, thanks.’ She’d dropped on to the bed.

  ‘Is that your Fame party outfit?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  I was reluctant to sit by her on the bed – that’s what I did when I was trying to be stern – so I fiddled with the curtains. Eleanor strolled over to the mirror.

  ‘You know I told you about meeting Ashley?’ I smoothed and regathered the material.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we met up last week and I’m going to London to see him this weekend. Is it OK if I ask Freya’s mum if you could stay over Sunday as I could be late back?’

  I clocked Eleanor’s quizzical expression in the reflection. ‘I thought he was married.’

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘So is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I sucked my cheek.

  ‘Whatever. It’s your business. I don’t care.’

  ‘Look, Eleanor, no one will ever replace your dad.’ I walked over to offer her a hug, but she turned sharply.

  ‘God, heavy.’ She stretched the words. ‘You’re creeping me out.’

  I’d walked away.

  At the station, I dash to the newsagent’s to buy something for breakfast. Passing a row of greetings cards, I see a giant one with a Great Dane pictured on a background of stars, wooing a cat on a ledge above: ‘Happy Birthday, Boyfriend’.

  I have a boyfriend now.

  ***

  My late arrival, sparkly top and ‘night out’ shoes obviously don’t go unnoticed by Tash. I’m forced to admit I’ve come straight from Ashley’s. As expected, I get a more intense grilling than the chicken at Nando’s.

  Mark’s also due in late. Tash assumes he has an interview. We’re both engrossed in work when he thumps through the door.

  Tash is straight in. ‘Carrie’s still in her evening clothes – that’s what you call a long night!’ I squirm.

  ‘Disgraceful behavior.’ Mark rolls his eyes playfully, pushing back his sleeves.

  Tash is called to see Pete, and keen to stretch my legs – keep myself awake – I walk over to Mark’s desk. He stops typing. ‘An interview this morning, was it?’

  ‘No.’ He hesitates, eyes distant. ‘I was visiting my sister’s grave. Mum wanted me to take her.’ He looks apologetic, as if reluctant to mention it. He’d done the same last year; I’d had to prise it out of him.

  ‘Of course, it’s the anniversary, isn’t it? Sorry, I didn’t think.’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly. Yes, it’s four years today.’ His fingers drum on the desk but barely make a sound.

  I resist a strong urge to throw my arms around him, to offer some comfort. I walk away.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by Mark’s revelation. It’s stupid, selfish and inappropriate, but along with the sympathy, I feel resentment. Envy even. I want a grave to visit. I wish I could take flowers for Dan, that I had somewhere special, somewhere neutral, that I could go; somewhere to think, and reflect, with a clear sky above and unfamiliar things around. Maybe I’d even talk to him there, tell him how strongly I felt about Ashley, explain that I’d never stop loving him, how difficult it was to move on, but how I felt I should.

  I’d never imagined that having a grave would become so important. I hadn’t really given it the thought it deserved in the past. I’d never once visited my grandparents’ graves. It shamed me to admit it but, until recently, I didn’t even know where they were. But it was important. It absolutely was. Almost everyone had them – unless loved ones were lost in battle, at sea, or gone missing, never found (God forbid this would be Sheena). Places to remember. Some liked to keep their nearest and dearest close, with ashes in urns on the mantelpiece or the bedside. I’d even read about a man who kept his gran in the glovebox.

  Perhaps it was a case of wanting something more when you couldn’t have it. Or maybe the various rites, relics and remembrances were somehow essential for the human psyche, a reminder of the permanence of the absence, and our own mortality.

  I remember Dan telling me what a fuss the ancient Egyptians and Greeks made, things like mummification, magic spells, grave goods – even sacrifices. All rituals deemed essential if the deceased was to make the arduous journey to the afterlife. No such fuss was needed with cryonics, it seemed – if you’d be popping back for a second stint.

  I decide to buy a sandwich to eat on the bench at lunchtime. I’d stared at that seat so often from the office window, watching its various stories unfold. Aside from the regulars, there to read, or eat, in the fresh air – and in peace – I’d watched a tramp fall asleep on it and nearly drown in the family-size bottle of cider he tipped over himself, some yobs completely douse it in paint quicker than you could say ‘what aerosols’, three talented teenagers line up and perform synchronised peeing on it, and one couple, who’d got to be in their late fifties, virtually having sex on it. ‘Bloody hell, look at this!’ I’d yelled after spotting the display of lunchtime lust. Tash and Mark had dashed over, by which time the guy, trousers down several inches, had straddled the woman. Mark yelled ‘oy oy!’ out the window just as a cyclist rounded the corner. They stopped, readjusted their clothing and casually walked off, hands still all over each other.

  Yet I’d never once sat there. I can’t shake the thoughtful mood that’s descended. I want to be on my own.

  I half expect to see anorak man still there, but the bench is empty. I soon realise why. It’s unbearably hot, trapped in the glare of the midday sun, the surrounding patch of grass scorched brown and balding. It’s not the most scenic spot, a wall of uniform evergreen trees screening the road ahead and ugly, dirty grey buildings behind. But it’s good to watch people passing; some of them familiar from my window gazing.

  A brass plaque in the middle one of three mahogany planks at the back of
the bench bears an inscription: ‘Dedicated to the memory of Edith Stanwell’. She’d died just over three years ago, aged seventy-eight.

  The name seems familiar. I wonder who she was, what she’d done. I think of the antics I’d seen on the bench. Poor Edith, her memory defiled. Maybe she’d had a giggle at it all. Edith sounded like the name of someone with a sense of humour. I picture her, then give her flesh and blood, wavy white hair swept off a furrowed forehead, big glasses, a powerful voice emanating from thin, wrinkled lips; a wheezy laugh. I wonder what sort of funeral she’d had, whether she’d left a husband who’d chosen her favourite hymns and said goodbye as the curtain came across in front of her coffin. I bet her family put flowers on her grave.

  Just then, a noise jolts me back into the moment. A skinny, sweat-drenched jogger, with shorts barely covering his bouncing bits, has dropped his water bottle. He scoops it up, keen not to interrupt his rhythm. I wonder what motivates someone to jog on such a hot day. The lure of longevity strikes again.

  My sneezy sniffles turn to gentle sobs. I know I have to, but I don’t want to go back to the office. I want to follow the runner, go somewhere new. I realise I’ve rarely seen anyone take that path – a tiny grass track between two buildings – and don’t know where it leads. In nearly twenty years I’ve never walked in that direction, or even wondered.

  ***

  It finally arrives. The dreaded ‘No’ to my application for the magazine job. They’d been inundated with applications, admired my writing, but I’d just missed the interview shortlist. My details would be kept on file. That old chestnut.

  That night I consume my own weight in mash, then feel so bad I drag the exercise step out of the garage, bouncing up and down through two catch-up episodes of EastEnders. I hadn’t realised how much I wanted the job.

  Imogen channels positive vibes down the phone. ‘How many years have you been telling me you’re bored at Cullimore’s, and I’ve begged you to do something about it? Now, at bloody long last, you have. That’s a big step, my lovely.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been rejected again. I must have sent at least ten articles in to various mags over the years and never been published.’

  ‘Let me know when you’ve sent a hundred and ten, then I might start to doubt your chances.’

  She has a point but I still can’t help thinking I’m crazy for entertaining the idea of writing for a national magazine – even a local one. With Imogen’s encouraging words whirring in my head, I find another job to apply for, working at a small theatre, a role that includes marketing and publicity duties. It sounds great. I wonder about jobs in London, tempted by one as an editorial assistant for a lifestyle magazine.

  Then, not for the first time whilst trawling, I find myself wandering in web land, playing digital detective, trying to search out previous plays that Ashley’s been in, theatres where he may have performed, even roles that might suit him. I can’t resist it, wondering at my potential to be a cyber stalker in my Acer anorak.

  It’s great to have Mark’s company when Eleanor and I celebrate her Fame triumph with a Chinese takeaway. At first, I’m concerned he’s still a little ‘off’ with me, his attention almost exclusively on Eleanor in the kitchen, head turned from me as they talk about pop music and play tracks by The Beatles and other sixties artists she’s recently declared ‘cool’. It feels like I’m not invited to the concert.

  ‘You’re quite good at singing,’ Eleanor declares after Mark’s fervent burst of Love Me Do.

  ‘I was a chorister, you know …’ He laughs, looking in my direction at last.

  It’s later that a possible explanation comes. Mark tells me he’s been invited out on a date with Georgia, a businesswoman he interviewed about her latest venture a few weeks ago, over an extended lunch. I remember him coming back all smiles, declaring what a formidable woman she was. And he’d been even more pernickety about the article than usual. They’d subsequently met for a drink. He was playing it cool, but I sensed he was quite keen.

  After that, he relaxes, and it’s getting on for midnight, my sides sore from laughter and head light from the heavy reds we’ve consumed, when Mark orders a taxi.

  The next day, Sunny brings another dark cloud into my brighter sky.

  ‘They suspect Mick’s had a stroke again,’ she says on the phone. ‘He may have to go into hospital.’ She accepts my offer to join her at the care home without hesitation. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  Mick’s in bed when we arrive. Sunny hovers while the male care worker and a peroxide-haired colleague with tattooed hands fuss over him. Mick looks dazed, eyes too slow to keep up with the movement around him. What resembles a student bedroom – carpet and walls in institutional magnolia and mustard, single beech wardrobe and matching drawers dwarfed by a large TV – has had the Sunny treatment, a cluster of candles on the windowsill and several colourful silk cushions at the foot of the bed.

  ‘The doctor will be back shortly,’ the male care worker says, rushing out to deal with a patient charging up and down the corridor, chanting loudly.

  Within minutes a stick-thin, middle-aged man with heavily lined cheeks and sunken eyes is telling Sunny, in a reassuringly soft Welsh voice, that he isn’t sure whether her dad has suffered a stroke; he’s stabilised, but it would be wise to run further tests. We leave the doctor alone with Mick.

  ‘I’m not sure hospital is absolutely necessary,’ Sunny says, as we overtake a crooked old man with a Zimmer frame in the corridor. ‘I hope he doesn’t get left on a drip all day again, being fed a cocktail of chemicals.’

  But things are soon out of her control. An ambulance has been called, it’s been agreed that Sunny will accompany Mick, and I’ve been rendered surplus to requirements – a huge relief. I already know I have to leave. I can’t face seeing the paramedics arrive.

  The last time an ambulance was called to a hospital bed that I was beside, it was for Dan. After doctors had pronounced him dead. Expired. Terminated. A team of cryonics volunteers had come to prepare his body, to begin the procedure they believed could ‘save him from oblivion’. Dan’s had been a textbook death apparently. Crucially, they’d had notice, time to prepare. No post mortem to delay them. No danger of irreversible cell deterioration. But the converted emergency vehicle didn’t arrive in the normal way, its bright green and yellow checks blasting past motorists in a blur and turning alarmed, inquisitive heads. It had breezed into the hospital car park as if it was a minibus arriving for an outing to a wildlife park. Four men hopped out wearing sweatshirts, jeans and sensible shoes.

  No siren. No superheroes. No battle cries. Just ordinary men, with wives, girlfriends, and regular jobs. Yet with extraordinary hope. One of them tried to talk through the procedures involved in preparing Dan’s body for suspension, something about perfusion injections, intravenous fluids and clamps. But I couldn’t hear and I wouldn’t listen. ‘Combitube this … cryoprotectant that … need to massage the heart’. But his heart’s stopped. And mine’s broken. And this is making it worse.

  I must be reliving the anguish of that day on my face because I’m stood outside Mick’s room, dreamily drinking a mug of coffee, when the care worker comes over to ask if I’m OK.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just had a late night.’ I fake a smile.

  ‘He’ll be more comfortable in hospital.’ He pats my arm. Such a sweet man. He assumes my upset and hurt is for Mick. Maybe it should be.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Are we nearly there then?’ Pete’s loitering at my desk, limbs twitching.

  ‘Yes, just finishing the ‘facts’ panel, then I’ll give it a final edit.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He continues to hover, staring over my shoulder, breathing audible.

  To everyone’s great relief, we’ve won another contract. We’re so stretched I’ve been given several larger articles to write, including a double-pager for Lorex that requires research, and several interviews. Admittedly, it isn’t thought-provoking, or glamorous – the latest endoscopy e
quipment for vets – but I was thrilled when Pete asked if I’d do it.

  However, it’s deadline day, and the fourth time Pete’s crept in – the reflection of his saggy face startling me each time it appears on my screen – and I’m more flustered than flattered. I flash Pete a pained smile.

  ‘OK. Great.’ He snaps on his glasses, tweaking his genitals as he strides out.

  ‘I’d finish it a lot quicker if he’d bloody leave me alone,’ I snarl. Mark mutters in agreement, Tash stays silent, turning to check Pete’s gone before grabbing her mobile.

  She’s preoccupied, but not with work, coming back from her week in Turkey with a ‘real’ tan, an extra half a stone and enough anecdotes to fill a large ottoman. She’d got so drunk one night she took a taxi to the wrong hotel, she’d suffered whiplash in a minor car crash with a group of off-duty soldiers, and friends had drawn a willy on her back in sun block after she’d fallen asleep on the beach (she’d proudly shown us its faded remnants). And – her trump card – she’d had sex in the hotel toilets with a waiter she boasted had the biggest doinker she’d ever seen, returning to agonise over her future with Chris.

  She’s also worrying about her sister, who’s decided she can’t afford to wait any longer for that elusive reliable boyfriend with potential for her Parenthood Project and managed to conceive with the help of her gay bestie. Even Tash considers it a desperately bad idea.

  I stare at the same clumsy sentence for several minutes, willing the words to reshuffle. My confidence is still wobbling from the magazine job blow. And, despite the extra work, we’re all jittery. Barbara has let it slip that Mafia Man’s a new accountant. Why had Pete got rid of the wide-stripe-suited one with a long chin and halitosis who’d been his trusted money man for years, we all wonder? And why is he still so restless and crotchety?

  ‘You at the bottom of the second page yet?’ Mark asks, typing ferociously.

  ‘Not now,’ I scold.

  ‘Remember – don’t overdo the colons.’

  ‘One more bum comment and I’ll have to kill you,’ I snap.