by Karen Botha
‘Oh, where?’ Now I’ve tuned in I’m shocked. To my knowledge they met for the first time at Mum’s party and they didn’t seem to spend that much time together, or get on well.
‘I was behind her in the supermarket queue, can you believe that?’ she exclaims rather than asks, ‘we got chatting. Wyndham was away and I’m at more of a loose end than usual now,’ she gestures between Lucy and myself, ‘so we arranged an evening for drinks.’ The stress she places on ‘more of a lose end,’ implies I’m to blame. I speculate whether this is why I get the impression Paula perhaps doesn’t like me.
‘Where did you go?’ I try hard to work out how I should behave in light of this announcement.
Paula explains they went to Pen's house one evening after work and had a great catch up. She raves to Lucy about how beautiful the place is. I switch off again, I’ve seen my brother's house so I concentrate on the task in hand. The second cheese has arrived, this is a light coloured airy number with a swig of alcohol from a local brewery. It's mellow and I’m pleased I chose the white wine which blends perfectly, not overpowering it in the slightest.
At this point I’m brought back into the conversation as Paula tells me how bright I am and how I read a lot.
‘But, mainly we talked about Steph,’ she announces, as if letting me off the hook, ‘it all sounds so tragic.’
For the third time, I’m floored. I didn’t think people would still gossip about Steph, especially Pen. I'm curious about what they said, word for word, but need to play this cool.
‘Oh, but what is there to talk about that you're not already aware of? I assume that Lucy has told you as much as I have told her,’ and nudge Lucy.
‘We were chatting about how awful it must have been for you, arriving home from work and finding the person you planned to spend your life with... like that.’ Lucy fidgets.
I shuffle in my seat. It’s a hard wooden one like they have in the old French movies and it’s not comforting the bones in my rear. My legs are too long to squish under this bistro table so I’ve got them crossed trying to keep them out of her way. I keep kicking Lucy, having to apologise.
When I don’t answer, Paula asks, ‘how was it, getting home from work, and finding her?’
You’re kidding, we’re going to do this now? In this environment? What is wrong with her? I look at Lucy for support, but she’s concentrating on picking at the table with her nail. I sit tall and push out my chest, letting out my full breath and counting down in my head. I don’t want to do this now. Actually, I just don’t want to do this full stop.
‘It’s awful,’ I admit, hoping that will pacify her. It doesn’t.
‘I can’t imagine, did you have any clue it was coming?’
Paula is direct, to the point of being rude. I don’t understand why Lucy is letting this happen. Why hasn’t she jumped in and stopped Paula, it’s like another police interview.
‘Not really, I'm not comfortable discussing this here,’ it’s not the right environment. Rage rumbles like thunder in my chest. I sense my frown and for the first time since we’ve met, I’m also angry with Lucy. Why is she letting her friend attack me, her friend I didn’t even expect to be here?
Without me even realising, I carry on. ‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’ I’ve raised my voice the din in the restaurant hides my frustrated volume well.
‘No?’ both Paula and Lucy reply, as usual in synchronicity.
‘Not being allowed the dignity to grieve. I got home from work and found her. Without thinking, I called 999, after which all hell broke loose,’ I state, finishing with, ‘literally.’
I let this sink in. They are both quiet, so I continue. ‘If I’d have thought about it, I would have waited longer before calling and just taken time to be alone with her. I didn’t get that.’ They’re both staring at me, neither one moves a muscle.
‘There was a tidal wave of people, it all happened on its own. The SOCO team turned up…’
‘Who is that?’ Lucy asks.
‘The scene of crime officers,’ Paula chips in, ‘although they’re called CSI now,’ I could swing for her, she's such a know-it-all.
‘So, anyway,’ I continue, trying to ignore the interruption to my story and my emotions, ‘they turn up and I’m ejected from the scene. Except, it’s not a scene, it’s my bedroom, and it’s my wife lying lifeless; alone. All I want is to be with her.’ I pause and catch my breath as my memories come flooding back. I barely remember the good times with her, without that final laser sharp image shooting through them. If only I could find an erase button.
I refocus on the present, ‘I’m whisked off to the police station for questioning. I understand why it has to be that way, but it was so insensitive. I was left in a cold room whilst, I guess, they gathered the detectives. It was uncomfortable, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the floor and cry. But you can’t. When you’re in that situation, you have to hold it together. And so I sat tall and kept my very English stiff upper lip,’ I’m the only one that smiles at my inappropriate attempt at a joke.
‘How long were you waiting before you were interviewed?’ Lucy's tone is soft, she squeezes my hand.
‘A few hours. The room was cold, not only the temperature but the atmosphere. I suppose these places are meant to make you distressed. The thing was though, I needed the exact opposite.’
I catch a glance fleeting across the table between them before Paula asks, ‘but you do understand your wife had just died. And that it was sudden. And that you were the main suspect. It couldn’t be about what you needed?’
‘Yes of course I do, and if something bad had happened to her, then I want everyone to find the person who has done her harm. Part of that process was speaking with me. I do understand. However, nothing untoward had happened to her, other than being dealt a bad hand in life, so, in my heart, I knew it was futile. More to the point though, your question was how did I feel; I felt cheated out of my future.’
‘I can see that. Not being able to grieve naturally would scar you,’ says Lucy reaching for my now sweaty palm. It's resting on her knee, she holds it in both of hers which are also clammy.
‘Yes it did. I had to stay with my Mum, I couldn’t go back to our house. At first it was because the police had to make sure it wasn’t a crime scene, but after that, I still couldn’t be there.’
‘Did you ever go back to live there, is that where you are now?’ Lucy is talking so softly I struggle to hear her above the racket in this place.
‘No, I rent it out and bought another place. I took ages though, I lived with my Mum for a long time.’
‘Ah, OK, cos I was wondering if that’s why I hadn’t been to your place yet, because it was yours and Steph's?’ Lucy asks.
‘Oh, there’s no reason, other than yours is nicer. With two mortgages and one salary, you can’t buy something like Wyndham and Pen have,’ and as I say this, I direct it at Paula who is no doubt fully briefed on how much better I should have done for myself. However, the conversation seems to be moving on for which I breathe a big sigh of relief.
‘I need the loo, fancy a trip?’ Paula asks Lucy and off they head leaving me with my thoughts and a large glass of red wine which doesn’t last long enough.
I contemplate the conversation as I twist the stem of my empty glass. My breath is calming, but I’m left with a familiar hole in my chest that periodically disappears and then returns when least expected, the stab puncturing my lungs. The smallest action or thought can set it off.
I’m trying to move on, I've tried to minimise my exposure to hurt. But the problem is, you can do your homework on someone which improves the chances of success. But, when you take the plunge, you can’t account for clingy friends interfering. I order another wine.
LUCY
I believe Giles. I see his point. I’ve mulled over what he said at the cheese tasting the other evening and in his situation, I can understand how you would switch off your emotions. They say the first stage o
f grief is denial. Surely, this must include the numbness he described. He spoke with so much passion his pain emanated from him; I don’t understand how Paula can still be unsure of his motives. But she is.
‘Let’s face it, everything we've talked about could be a bunch of coincidences that collide into the same space at the wrong time.’ I argue, but Paula is not convinced. So, true to form, I’ve been dragged off to meet Mo at a coffee shop around the corner from his police station, despite my protestations.
‘He’s always been gentle and loving with me. Yes, he may well get it wrong sometimes, the weekend away being a great big fat example of that, there’s no denying that went off piste. But, even then, he tried. He sees things from a different perspective. It doesn’t make him a bad person. It doesn’t make him a murderer.’
‘He was shifty,’ Paula directs at Mo. Of course she is talking about Giles.
‘But people are often reserved when they’re discussing personal details, especially in a public environment like he was,’ I defend.
‘People in that environment are not shifty, they’re, how shall I put it? Relaxed but private. There’s a difference between that and Giles' behaviour,’ she states.
Mo listens, sipping the froth off his coffee, then asks, ‘So, you trust him Lucy?’
Finally, someone is interested, ‘Yes I do.’
‘So, what made you uncomfortable enough to look into him? What was it that isn’t there now?’ he asks.
I take a moment, unsure. The facts are still the same.
‘It’s not that anything has changed, it’s just, I'm getting to understand Giles better which gives me more empathy for how he works. The way he explains things is logical. Maybe not to the general populace, but in his world.’
‘But that’s it,’ argues Paula, ‘is his world the real world, or has he constructed a world as he wants it to be?’
‘What she’s saying,’ Mo interjects, ‘is when people lie, they do it so much they believe they are telling the truth. Their lies become their reality. Is there a possibility he's done this and drawn you in?’
I’m getting so tired with this now. ‘Jeez, all that happened is the poor guy was unfortunate enough to lose his first wife to a terrible, and I note, hereditary illness,’ I assert becoming exasperated. It's not like I even want to be here. ‘You guys are hell bent on him being guilty because that’s what your jobs have trained you to expect. I haven’t had your background though. I'm still a real person with genuine emotions - as are most people in society.’
They’re not listening, both holding their polka faces, waiting for my rant to finish so they can re-attack from a fresh angle.
‘OK Lucy, don’t get upset,’ Paula cajoles as she brushes her hand over my arm which rests on the table. ‘We’re only trying to help you.’
I believe her, but rather than me enjoying this period with a good looking and exciting man, they are making me search out his every flaw. I have to break away.
‘Hey, I believe him,’ I repeat. ‘I will carry on seeing him. You guys get on and do what you want, but please don’t involve me. I want to enjoy this moment with someone I care about, we'll never have this fresh phase again.’
I’m done. I lurch up and sling my handbag over my shoulder with such force it nearly takes the glasses off the face of the poor man sitting at the next table. I drag my jacket, bumping into the maze of tables and chairs as I flounce towards the glazed door. Not noticing the sign to pull, I push. When it doesn’t move I thrust into it, cutting the bridge of my nose with the force. Pain bites and my eyes run, a symptom of my autonomic nervous system, not in reaction to the upset from which I’m still reeling. Blood splatters in small puddles of humiliation on the floor. I ignore the mess and escape outside, hoping no-one has seen.
Once in the crowded street I stop out of sight and attend to my bloody face. I dab my nose with a used tissue from my bag and gulp air. I try to stem the flow of blood from my nose, and the tears from my eyes with deep inhalations.
I’ve surprised myself. I’ve never had that much strength against Paula. I let her control me, it’s just easier that way, it’s the dynamics of our relationship but I can’t let her do this. If she weren’t meddling, I’d be having a fantastic time with Giles. She should be pleased for me, but instead, I bet she’ll say Giles is doing the controlling.
‘Are you OK dear?’ A lady with kind eyes behind her glasses asks. She appears to be from within the clothing agency next door to the coffee shop I exited. As I turn around, I glimpse myself in the shop window. I’m drip white, with blood splashed across my nose and cheeks. I’m shaking.
‘Come on inside darling, let’s get you cleaned up,’ placing her arm around my shoulders, she cajoles me into her den. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of treasure for the fashion conscious, splashes of colour and textures ooze from every crevice, each a piece of history. She’s hustled off in to the kitchenette that sits behind a pull curtain and I hear her clanking pots, presumably getting me sweet tea.
‘Here you go lovey, take a biscuit. The sugar will help you.’
The china mug burns as I take the tea and I rest it on my jeans. I notice a splosh of blood the shape of Italy. It must have run. I scratch at it, dazed; emotionally spent.
‘Don’t worry about that, it will come off with a quick spray of stain remover.’ This kindly lady is probably only five years older than me. The level of compassion that only life can teach makes her appear older.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
‘That’s OK, here take one…’ The biscuits rustle in the tin as she rummages, producing a ginger cream. I’ve not had one of these since my Grandma was alive. I grab it eager to take a bite. It’s stale.
I sip my tea instead. It is sweet, really sweet and reminds me of the chai I drank at the beach cafe's in India ten years ago. Memories I assumed were lost, re-emerge with absolute clarity. I'm transported back to that happy beach with the soft fur of stray dogs milling at my feet, waiting for scraps, certain they'll eat today. My heart warms remembering the smile on their hungry faces upon seeing me and I imagine, just for a moment, nuzzling my face into one of those raggy strays now. Animals are unconditional. They don't care who else you love as long as they may love you too.
PAULA
I find no trace of Julie on Giles’ social media. Can’t find a cross reference with linked friends and I’m starting to worry when I have a light bulb moment. Mo will have her email address from the file. Thirty minutes later I’ve typed this in the search bar and Julie’s holiday shot is smiling back at me. I’m up to date with her views on Prosecco, animal torture and line dancing. How someone that enjoys Prosecco can also be as heavily into line dancing as Julie, is way beyond me. But it would appear that twenty years on from its heyday, line dancing still has many loyal followers.
Guess that’s it sorted. Line dancing it is!
The location is not doing much to raise my spirits. It’s an old village hall, the sage green corrugated iron of the exterior walls, meet with a rusty red tin roof. The whole thing is finished with matching red windows. There are two doors, a side entrance, and a front door that appears to be locked from where I’m seated in my car. I wait until the serious-looking couple parked next to me get out so I may follow. As expected they’re in cowboy boots and checked shirts. I went middle of the road in jeans, boots and white t-shirt. Once inside, small clusters wait for the action, chatting. The atmosphere is a lot less jovial than I had expected even hoped. Barn dancing is bad enough, but doing it with a bunch of miseries, well, you can imagine my trepidation.
‘Hi, can I help you?’ A woman approaching the latter end of her 50’s, holds out a hand.
‘Oh, hi, yes, I’m Paula, I thought I may try it,’ I offer her my right hand.
‘How wonderful, I'm Joyce,’ she cracks a grin. ‘Everyone, listen up, meet Paula,’ she shouts across the room. There’s a collective turn of heads in my direction. ‘Paula is new so watch out for her please.’ She slaps me on the back -
like that will help.
There’s a silence so I fill it with a sideways kind of half curtsy, and a weak wave; the type where you keep your elbows within the confines of your personal space and move your hand from one side to the other. I accompany this with a, ‘hi’ and a wan smile. Under Joyce’s wing, I have little idea of what I’ve signed up for but am now well past the point of return.
Once the kerfuffle has died down, I see Julie chatting with another group of serious looking types by the high window at the far side. The music which has been playing over the old speakers in the background increases it's volume. There’s a surge as eager faces rally to stand in line. I head over to join in, trying to manoeuvre myself in Julie’s direction.
I needn’t have worried, each member has their individual spot. Lady Luck is shining on me as I end up next to Julie who has moved towards me.
I smile, ‘hi, I’m Paula.’
The corners of her mouth creep upwards, she taps her chest with her right hand, ‘Julie, if you stand there you’ll be trampled - best to stand in the gaps.’
I see a mass of alternated bodies intermingled from one row to the next. Each has positioned themselves in the space behind the pair in front. I move to my left doing the same.
‘Follow me if you get lost,’ she tips her head to the right in a quick shrug that is almost flirty.
We stand for a period, bending both knees together in time to the beat of the tinny melody. The front row stamps the heel of their right foot, I’m not sure if it's a front row thing so I look to Julie. She’s still bouncing to the rhythm, so I copy. Then, it’s time to nod our heads, again to the beat. I will make myself dizzy at this rate and we’ve not even moved yet.
‘Whoa, we’re on the move.’