(2013) Four Widows

by Helen MacArthur

The breeze of steel as it rockets on its flight path takes me by the hand and hauls me off my feet as one would a reluctant dancer. I am aware of how fragile I have become, how lost. I smell diesel and brake fluid mixed into a smoke cocktail as the vehicle careers across the road where it goes into a spin at speed performing the perfect pirouette until it circles to a stop, smoking on the opposite side of the road.

  I experience nothingness–just the still of the night and lazy, swirling smoke drifting indifferently towards the stars. The Watcher is here with me. The car door opens and I hold my breath, just a fraction, wondering if this is when I will see Harrison again, at last.

  Someone staggered from the car, arms stretched out to balance, head still in a spin. I inhaled so hard I thought I might leave the ground; filled with gaseous fear.

  He lurched towards me. No other traffic on the road–the world deserted but us. “What the fuck? What. The. Fuck?” he screamed.

  I stood, helpless and mute.

  “Stupid bitch. What were you thinking?”

  I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. It wasn’t Harrison. It never was.

  “You were following me,” I croaked, smoke-hoarse accusing.

  The man stared at me, shocked and bewildered. He was probably in his early fifties, dressed in a suit minus the jacket. He tugged his tie loose.

  “You are fucking insane. I wasn’t following you. What the hell is this?” He looked around, panicked, as though a carjacking were imminent.

  The legs started to go. I crumpled to the ground where I stood and wondered what would become of me. Would I ever move again?

  Hands on his thighs, the driver took deep breaths until he calmed down. I sat with my arms over my head, exhausted, remembering Harrison telling me he could sleep anywhere. I believed that now. I had a feeling that if I shut my eyes I would fall into a deep sleep stretched along the white line, linear.

  The man, whom I’d clearly terrified, wasn’t having it. He shuffled over to me and hauled me onto my feet, frogmarching me back to my car, stuffing me forcibly through the passenger door.

  “Missus, want me to call someone?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “C’mon lady. I want to go home. Give me the number of someone or I’m calling the police.”

  I thought about McCarthy rescuing me again and couldn’t bear the embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I haven’t been sleeping.”

  “I could have killed you.”

  I nodded.

  “Boom!” He clapped his hands together, loud and abrupt.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Give me your phone.”

  “It’s okay. I just need a moment.”

  He was now crouched beside the car. “I don’t think you should drive.”

  “I won’t. Someone will come.” I smiled at him reassuringly, embarrassed that I had caused so much fuss.

  He sighed wearily. “Look, I’ll wait with you.” His eyes were tired but concerned. The perfect stranger.

  “I need to close my eyes for a minute.” This time I sounded firm and non-negotiable. Sleep was imminent and I didn’t want to miss the moment.

  The man reluctantly stood up.

  “I’m okay. Please.”

  “You can drive?”

  “Soon. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded but still looked sceptical.

  I apologised again, watching him head back to his car, by which time I had an abrupt change of heart. “Don’t leave me,” I whispered. “Don’t leave until I’m fast asleep, please.”

  Too late. He was gone. I remember the flicker of confusion as the car pulled away–not sparkling graphite grey but red. Ripe-tomato bright.

  I remained in the car with the locks down for almost two hours and did sleep with the seat reclined to horizontal. When I woke I had to fight back the urge to call McCarthy. I craved a conversation with him. But I couldn’t tell him about the cars–the confusion of colours. I had to be trusted, otherwise it would all fall apart.

  McCarthy was helping me keep Harrison alive and I encouraged it. We were investigating–and in my mind it raised fantastical hopes that we might find my husband. Better than the alternative: there has been an accident.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Love Leaves Perforations

  Cece didn’t murder her husbands, but she may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths.

  Harrison would be the first to tell you that many things can damage your heart. Cigarettes first on his hit list; smoke tightens the arteries. Fatness, alcohol, high blood pressure and a rubbish diet featured hot on the heels of cigarettes. Cece put a new spin on the contributing force. “I’m a feeder. I tipped my husbands’ health over the edge–”

  She was feeling under the weather lately, alarmingly retrospective. “I have loved too much and it has left…like… perforations.” She pressed her hands over her heart. “I’m not performing as well as I used to.”

  “It’s called the ageing process,” said Kate unsympathetically.

  “There were no signs.” Cece’s brow wrinkled thoroughly. “Hugh exercised. His heart worked harder than anyone I know. Then, woo hoo, calcium in his coronary arteries. Mike was fit as a fiddle, too.”

  “What’s brought all this on?” Kate questioned.

  “I did murder my husbands. I am officially a cholesterol high-fat feeder.”

  “Honey, you were never a force feeder,” said Suzanne diplomatically. “You’re just an irresistible cook.”

  We were supposed to be helping her organise the Ribbons relaunch but she was not on usual control-freak form. Ribbons needed a boost–she was right about that.

  I looked around the place and thought there was nothing more depressing than seeing its emptiness when neighbouring eateries were heaving with people.

  Cece followed my gaze to the competition across the street. “They come over to borrow kegs of beer because they keep runnin’ out. Hell’s teeth, can’t even sell my own liquor.”

  “Let me go over the figures again,” Kate sounded more sympathetic.

  “I have someone on that.”

  “Perhaps some special promotions?”

  “Someone has it covered.”

  “You think?”

  “I thought you were here to help me plan this big night?” Cece snapped.

  We backed off.

  Jim to the rescue. Since the girls showed up at the office, we had a couple of spontaneous nights out watching him gig at Tulsa. Everyone loved Jim.

  I volunteered. “I know Jim’s doing the music but perhaps he could help in the run-up, too. He goes to more parties than anyone I’ve ever known–definitely the best person to help when you need to draw in a crowd.”

  Kate and Suzanne agreed. We were getting nowhere because Cece wanted us to help but she didn’t. She was the most independent overconfident sensitive person ever.

  “He would help?” It was the most responsive we’d seen Cece since we arrived.

  “Classic overachiever,” I informed her. “He doesn’t sleep. He’d love to help.”

  We swapped. I headed back to the office and Jim abandoned his lunch plans to help Cece at Ribbons. Kate and Suzanne heaved a collective sigh of relief–and couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

  “Stay for one drink,” Cece coaxed.

  “You two have work to do,” I said, firmly, looking over her head at Jim.

  Kate rested a hand on Jim’s shoulder, “Carly Simon, Nanci Griffith, Stevie Nicks and Dolly Parton. Good luck–”

  Cece beamed. “Bonnie Tyler Holding Out For A Hero.”

  “Make this a success and we’ll include fashionable restaurant reviews in Corset,” I added.

  Jim grinned. “It will be a success.”

  “We will reconvene later,” warned Kate on her way out. “I’m expecting an itinerary; menus, playlist, drinks, and, of course, all coming in under budget…”

  Cece poked her tongue out.

  I welcomed every dist
raction, which was just as well because Cece’s relaunch was up there with a State visit. She was on a mission: turn the curse around.

  Cece went quiet. We didn’t see her for days but it felt like months. “I’m making intricate pastries and mouline mousse,” she told me on the phone. “So much to do.”

  One week on she summoned us for breakfast at Ribbons to bring us up to speed.

  “Good to see you’ve got your chirpy chirpy cheep cheep back,” said Suzanne happily.

  “Oh, honey, I do, don’t I? Jim is good–the man has vision. I’m back on track.”

  “Good.” I was pleased she was pleased.

  “I like him,” said Cece.

  “Too young for you, sweetie,” reminded Kate.

  “Oh, he’s not in love with me,” she purred pointedly.

  I laughed and chose to ignore her.

  The big night upon us, we gathered at the bar where maitre’d Daisy dazzled us with a movie-star smile usually reserved for diners. Until now we had never been on the receiving end of such a bright-wattage welcome.

  “She smiled at us,” said Suzanne, genuinely surprised.

  “It won’t last,” I predicted. “Ms Victoria Secrets loathes us.”

  “Ssshhh.”

  Kate arrived with Fraser Davies, hair bouncing past her shoulders instead of its usual ferocious tied-back bun. Fraser looked at her in such a special way that I almost burst into tears. The moment whispered, there is hope.

  Ribbons looked stunning. Lights had been extended down the steps and along the pavement to welcome guests. Suzanne had continued her theme of red and orange ribbons down the middle of menus while the bar area had been cleared of chaises and chairs to make more room for guests and, of course, Malt. The music had kicked off and Jim was drawing a crowd.

  Cece appeared, buzzing about the place. Suzanne had dressed her in Ribbons’ signature colours: red and orange. She wore a strapless corseted floor-length red dress with two-tone layered asymmetrical ruffles that rippled with movement while delicate jewelled detail around the hem gave it the sparkle factor. Nipped in at the waist and deliberated exaggerated the hips, she looked like a tremendous volcanic attraction. I heard her say to Suzanne, “This dress is uh-may-zing.”

  I half expected Fringe followers to stop on the street and take photos of this natural wonder. Goodness knows how Suzanne found time to make such a dress.

  Kate and I also borrowed clothes from Suzanne’s existing Gracie Gold collection. I chose the lightest floatiest design I could find to beat the heat: an asymmetric satin-jersey dress that fell in folds from shoulder to knee in fresh peach, while Kate went for a midnight blue sheath dress worn with the Brian Atwood purple shoes.

  Sous chef Jun ducked his head out of the kitchen occasionally, the faint sign of panicked sweat across his brow. He wanted perfection for Cece.

  “Slavishly devoted to the boss,” whispered Kate mischievously. “Another one of her fawning admirers.”

  He needn’t have worried. The taster menu was going down a treat and I glimpsed miniature-size roast talbot and orange mash on doll’s-house size plates whizzing through swing-kitchen doors. Seasonal, fresh and faster than Superman, someone had written on a whiteboard.

  Cece, blonder still with a glass of Champagne in her hand, welcomed guests with genuine warmth. You would never know by looking at her what she had been through; how she had soldiered on. Meanwhile Daisy and staff could have been on roller skates, swooshing back and forth with trays of Champagne, replenishing glasses with swiftness like you wouldn’t believe. I had to hand it to Daisy, she might not like widows but she was a treasure in the entertainment arena. She could spy an empty glass from across the room and crack out the refill order super quick.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Kiss is Just a Kiss

  There was a buzz about the place and Jim wowed the crowd. The bar area created a small intimate gig feeling and the band was on form. Jim flirted with diners throughout the set and was ever attentive to Cece, who was swishing to the music.

  “This is a request from Mrs Ribbons herself,” Jim announced. When he started singing Coming Around Again, the crowd turned to Cece with an enormous applause and she curtsied, blowing a kiss to Jim.

  Jim sat crouched over his guitar and sang beautifully, soprano, sensitive and heartfelt, so different from his loud folk-rock image. For some inexplicable reason another lump bobbed in my throat and I had to wash it down with wine. What is going on with me? No more tears.

  Food flowed, drinks disappeared and refilled fast and the crowd revelled, high spirits united. Kate and Fraser Davies were inseparable all night and Suzanne and I hung out with them. The vibe was good and we all agreed that business had to pick up after this publicity. Towards the end of the night, Jim was in rocking form and Suzanne, Cece, Kate and I took to the floor. We danced or, to be more exact, we jumped. We grouped together, arms round each other, in a knotted circle and bounced up and down in time to the music. Not dancing, bouncing.

  The noise level was consistently high and I was hoarse from talking at full volume. Jim eventually finished his set around midnight but the partygoers were in no mood to leave. He took 40 minutes to work his way across the room towards us, people stopping him to talk and offer drinks. He was grinning and taking his time, relaxed and handsomely ruffled. Young looking.

  “I think Mrs Ribbons is pleased with you,” said Kate. Fraser Davies shook his hand.

  “I loved the band,” raved Suzanne, snatching Champagne off a passing tray. “Here, Jim.”

  I gave him a quick hug and steered him towards a table near one of the open windows.

  “Take a moment to soak up the applause,” I said, as we pushed through bodies throwing off electromagnetic emissions; burning heat into the atmosphere.

  That’s when he turned without a word and kissed me.

  Jim kissed me. I kissed him–a passionate lifesaving kiss beyond the call of duty. I pulled back forcibly, stunned.

  Words blistered on my tongue as I attempted to speak. Jim, meanwhile, held his hands up, surrender status, an unspoken apology and rightfully embarrassed. I glared at him, fists frozen and furious. We were stuck on pause while revellers continued drinking, oblivious to the heated scene. A quick glance confirmed that even Suzanne and Kate standing nearby hadn’t noticed.

  “Lori…” He stepped towards me.

  “Don’t,” I hissed. “Just don’t…”

  “Listen, please…”

  Now I understand how a red-mist reaction works: it’s a hot-ash surge from within and I could almost feel the blood spilling into the inside of my eyes. Suddenly, insanely furious, hyped-up anger took over me and short-circuited every rational thought in my head. I shoved him with incredible violent strength, watching him pitch backwards, pulling a laden tablecloth with him; a useless parachute as he sank towards the floor, astonished expression on his face. I wanted to drag him back on his feet and shake him senseless but couldn’t bring myself to look at him for a moment longer.

  Pushing through the crowd, I was out the door in seconds. What is it with me and smashing glass? My signature sound when it comes to chaos.

  Too much wine, I couldn’t take off and drive into the night. I had to make do with Ralph’s white sofa, looking out over the city. I waited for the tears to come but nothing happened. I stared into space.

  Jim was a flirtatious force. He liked the ladies. There was no doubt we were close–an intense professional bond and we loved our work. We had so much in common and not just sleeping patterns. We knew how to nail the magazine business; what worked and what didn’t. He was intuitive to how I worked; designs, ideas, even favoured fonts. We complemented each other. But a kiss, believe you me, was not part of the contract.

  I poured myself a large whisky and stared at the stars that had managed to outshine the moon amidst the light pollution. The sky was a deeper indigo, darker than I had seen in a while and there was a breeze not artificial but real. A cooler air front had blown through. />
  I was to blame. I had been wanting. Wanton once more. Another curse.

  Thinking through the night, I concluded that this business with McCarthy had its consequences. I had become undone, transferring emotions onto Jim without realising and he reacted with a kiss. It’s just a kiss.

  I expected too much from him: he was the one who picked up the pieces. Yes, Cece dropped enough hints, even Suzanne seemed sure she had decoded the chemistry but it wasn’t right. Jim and I were just good friends.

  Thinking positive, we would erase the kiss. Delete it from the memory hard drive: it existed and then vanished. If we didn’t speak of it, it never happened and we could continue as we did before.

  I could hear my father’s amused take on this: “Good luck with that one, Lori, love.”

  And he would be right, of course. It’s never just a kiss.

  I would have probably spent considerably more time agonising over this kiss and its consequences had life not thrown up yet another major distraction. The curse made a move in Suzanne’s direction without warning. Blindsiding us. Pow–

  Chapter Thirty One

  Good Luck & Bad

  Suzanne invited us over. Post-party analysis. She sent a text to Kate, Cece and me the following morning suggesting we meet at her apartment. She also insisted that she would make lunch since Cece was always cooking for us. It was an optimistic gesture, which didn’t upset me as much as it did Kate and Cece, who loved their food. Suzanne’s culinary reputation preceded her.

  I was inclined to cancel because I didn’t want to talk about Jim but then realised no one had witnessed the kiss. The glass-shattering tablecloth incident had been dismissed as high spirits and alcohol at the end of an entertaining night. I didn’t want to overload the situation in my head. Wisely, he hadn’t tried to contact me.

  Cece breezed into Suzanne’s apartment looking designer-dressed in a favourite Gucci getup, refreshed and desperate to talk about Ribbons relaunch success. If she was tired, she didn’t show it.