“How much fun was last night?” she chirped, looking around the place with a heartfelt sigh. “Three hours each week and Moira would make this world a better place.” She glanced at the mannequins and tailor’s dummies and violently shuddered.
“Still won’t drop the cleaner,” shouted Kate to Suzanne who was in the kitchen. “Don’t come out.”
Suzanne grinned, walking into the room with wine and a punch bowl of Cheetos. “This is our own private toast to such a successful night. Cece, you won’t be loaning out beer barrels ever again.”
“Sure hope not. Gotta keep up momentum.” First flicker of anxiousness.
“You will,” I said confidently. “You’re back on the map, sister.”
“People needed to see that you are back in business. The relaunch was a good idea.” Praise from Kate was praise indeed.
“I guess the mourning period is over.”
“Officially,” cautioned Kate in her strictly sensible voice. “Don’t set unrealistic goals.”
Cece nodded. Her voice wobbled. “I wish Hugh and Michael could’ve been there last night. I wanted both of them to be there. Weird as that would have been.”
“It would have been seriously weird, yeah.” Kate handed her a glass of wine.
Cece turned to me. “Jim was the star of the show.”
I mustered a reheated smile and turned to Kate, which set off a domino effect of heads turning. “I like Fraser Davies. He is head over heels about you.”
Kate beamed. “He is a good man. The best cure for loneliness, believe me, especially when my kids are busier than ever with clubs and schedules. There is just me.”
Cece feigned indignation. “And us.”
Kate blew her a kiss. “You know what I mean.”
We sat as close to Suzanne’s large upright fan as possible while Cece attempted to waft air in through the window. “The thing is, Kate,” she said, “there are hundreds of lonely wives out there and their husbands come home every night.”
“And your point is, caller?”
“There has to be a connection; cupid chemical reaction. Not just about ticking boxes–settling for someone otherwise you end up home alone. Back where you started.”
“Don’t you like Fraser Davies?” I asked.
“I do. I do.” She turned to Kate. “Do you have a connection with Fraser Davies?”
“I think so. What’s more, I reckon you would love Are You Lonesome Tonight?”
Cece looked truly horrified. “Do I look like a mail-order bride?”
Kate snorted. “Out with it.”
Cece didn’t need to be asked twice. “This internet thing is one big fauxmance. Profile photos are never in real time–hair today, gone tomorrow. Online lies. It’s all lies.”
“Fraser didn’t post an old photograph. I didn’t. We’re clearly not that imaginative.”
“I’m just saying,” said Cece. “I love it when love smashes into you–blindsides you. The Burton-Taylor wallop.”
Suzanne piped up. “People fall in love on average six times in a lifetime. But we only ever have one true love.”
“Two true loves,” countered Cece.
Kate did a magnificent eye roll. “We have good luck and we have bad luck. That is what we have.”
Cece briskly turned her attention to me. “Jim is quite a catch. Do the girls in the office adore him?”
“He’s a ladies’ man,” I answered dryly.
“Au contraire, I think he is very much a one-woman man.” She raised a finely threaded brow and feigned an innocent look. Game over, I thought. She had seen the kiss.
I sighed. “Jim kissed me last night.”
“Then she threw him over a table,” added Cece with sly mischief. “Sucker punch. Oh! Jackie Chan.”
“Ouch,” said Kate, while Suzanne’s mouth formed O-shaped shock.
“She exaggerates.” I blushed.
“What did he say when you shoved him?” asked Kate, intrigued.
“I have absolutely no idea. I went home. Alone.”
Seconds passed like years. Then Suzanne spoke. “I thought you disappeared super quick. Daisy saw you leave.”
“It was awkward, okay? I’m his boss. He crossed the line.”
“There are rules?”
“He’s head over heels,” declared Cece.
“He has no business kissing her while she is trying to find out who murdered her husband,” added Kate.
“Sorry, Lori,” whispered Cece, chastened.
“Ribbons is reborn,” said Suzanne, tactfully turning our attention back to Cece.
She beamed. “I’ve had a rush of bookings for this weekend.” She was bubbling with excitement; no, more than that, she was glowing.
Kate paused from punching messages into her BlackBerry and looked up suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling us?”
“Nothin’,” Cece replied too quickly and we turned to her, Jim momentarily forgotten.
Kate persisted. “You’re hiding something.”
Cece remained seated, looking prim with ankles crossed, attempting to deflect Kate’s questioning. “I can’t wait to see the photographs from last night. We’re going to blow up black and white prints for the wall, aren’t we?” She looked at Suzanne.
Then the doorbell dinged and I exhaled, relieved. So did Cece for that matter.
“Saved by the bell,” said Kate. “This conversation continues over lunch.”
“That better not be pizza,” grumbled Cece. “Stuffed crusts.” She pretended to wretch.
“No. I thought we’d pop out for KFC,” replied Suzanne with her signature cherubic smile, as she went to answer the door. “Zinger burger meal.”
Cece hollered after her. “Foxes eat from boxes, Suzanne Holmes–my mother used to tell us. You wanna remember this when making important nutritional food choices. YOU ARE NOT A FOX!”
“Pizza. Now that’s not a bad idea,” said Kate.
“The hell I am eating pizza. I’m also not cooking lunch.” She grabbed the collar of her shirt. “This is silk Escada.”
Suddenly, we heard a small choking moan outside the room. It somehow sounded worse than a scream. Animal-caught-in-a-trap pain. Our conversation stopped dead.
Kate was first on her feet, phone ditched, taking off at a run. Cece and I followed, careening round mannequins in hot pursuit. I knew something terrible had happened because the atmosphere had changed and, despite the oppressive heat in the apartment, there was an ominous chill in the corridor exacerbated instantly when Suzanne released the compression in her lungs: lumbar-puncture long scream.
I remember racing down the corridor and the image that remains ingrained on my brain to this day is Suzanne standing with her back to us next to Grace Kelly and Prince Albert of Monaco, posing for formal photographs on their wedding day.
“Suzanne,” gasped Kate. “What is it?”
We bundled up behind her none the wiser until Suzanne took a step back and Cece wrenched the door wide, bodybuilding strength. The full truth revealed, Suzanne reached out to hold the door frame as if she and the apartment were in danger of imminent collapse.
“No shit,” said Cece.
Kate stared, speechless.
At this point, shockwaves threatened foundations and reverberated for a 12-mile radius–Edinburgh, I thought, would surely pick it up this one on the Richter scale; such is the magnitude of seismic energy released when one comes face to face with a dead husband.
This is not a lie. Suzanne’s husband, Ted Holmes, stood there; back from the dead looking remarkably unscathed from his time on the other side. Not skeletal or vitamin-D deprived. Much like the black and white photograph framed on the wall, except here he was in high-definition colour: breathing, nervous smile, wearing a faded Fred Perry blue sweatshirt and jeans.
Kate recovered first and steered Suzanne, who had turned rigor-mortis stiff, back to the living room where she took up position, immovable, alongside the fashion mannequins. She hadn’t uttered a word and
I was seriously concerned that she might have suffered a stroke from the shock; some kind of disturbance in the blood.
Meanwhile, Ted stood on the step, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking as awkward as anyone would do who’d popped out for a pint of milk or a packet of cigarettes seven years ago and finally made it back from the shops.
“You’re dead,” I said, genuinely baffled.
“You’re dead,” said Cece but with considerable more meaning. She’d summed him up in five seconds flat and decided a welcome-back hug wasn’t on the cards.
It really was him. No need for age-progression software to confirm this.
“Is she okay?” he asked anxiously, looking over my shoulder to get a glimpse of Suzanne.
“Uh, whaddya think?” Cece’s voice was all over him: welcoming him as one would a urinary tract infection.
“I just…”
“Lemme put this to you straight. Unless you’ve got the medical notes confirming a hammer blow to the head and a bad case of amnesia, get the fuck outta here.”
He recoiled faster than a carpet python.
“Yeah, thought so,” Cece said.
I wondered what his next move would be. What do you do in a situation like this? Kate, fortunately, interrupted with a sergeant major bark. “She wants to speak to you. In the living room.”
Ted gulped, swallowed-a-possum motion, eager to escape. He shuffled past, despite Cece doing her best to obstruct his path. She stood feet planted apart like a bollard in the centre of the road.
“I’m not leaving,” said Cece, incredulous. “We’re not leaving.”
“He is her husband, Cece,” Kate reasoned, steering Cece to one side. “For the record, I don’t like this as much as you but this is what she wants.”
“Ain’t good,” fretted Cece. “Don’t feel right. Lori?”
I had to agree. “It doesn’t feel right but this is the moment Suzanne’s been holding out for. I don’t think anything we say will make a difference.”
We watched Ted disappear into the living room and the silence seemed more suffocating than the heat.
“I guess lunch is cancelled,” I said.
“The hell it is. Ribbons! Now!” Cece had turned purple. Her cholesterol might be fine but I’m not sure the same could be said for her blood pressure.
Kate put a call through to the office. “I’m going to be back a little later than expected,” she said.
We raced to Ribbons. Kate and I tucked ourselves into a corner and waited for Cece to join us. The atmosphere was definitely livelier–tourists flooding in on the Fringe seemed to sense a revival about the place. I had to agree, the restaurant/bar had a new aura. Not a scent of death, Cece declared, as though she’d used herbs and spells to banish demons.
Meanwhile, Daisy appeared out of nowhere and banged a brandy bottle on the table.
“Service with a smile,” said Kate as we watched her strut off in a dress zipped down the back to show off her curves.
“Why doesn’t she like us?” I sighed.
“Do we care?”
I reached for the bottle. “I’d blame her for Ribbons’ run of troubles but she seems capable. I watched her at the party. It seems she is charming to everyone else but us.”
“She’ll get over it. Or we will.”
“Cece’s keeping a secret,” I said, changing the subject. “Don’t you think she is being secretive about something?”
“Yes, which means we wouldn’t approve.”
Cece returned with wine to chase down the brandy. “So what do we know about Little Lord Lucan?”
I kept quiet. Kate shrugged. “He’s back.”
“That’s my point. Back from where? Goddamnit.”
Kate sighed. “Suzanne was so sure he was dead. We all were.”
“Yet he is still alive,” declared Cece theatrically. “Like virtually nondestructive bacteria.”
“Perhaps Fraser Davies will know what to do?” I suggested. “There could be a connection with this presumption of death business. Perhaps someone… unearthed him?”
I think we all thought worm in that moment.
Kate nodded. “Entirely possible. I’ll call him.”
Meanwhile, Cece continued to verbally froth at the mouth while looking at her watch. “I hope Suzanne is okay. We just left–no back-up.”
“What could we have done? Call in the SWAT team?” reasoned Kate.
“Hell, yeah. Better than feedin’ her to the lions.”
“She wanted to be alone with him,” Kate explained. “It was her idea.”
Cece looked seriously revolted. As though someone had offered her a vegetarian bacon sandwich.
We spent the next intense hour thinking up scenarios to explain his disappearance. We went over and over the possibilities. He had unexplained memory loss or his lightweight aircraft had gone down over the desert. He had been kidnapped and developed Stockholm Syndrome. He was a ghost who had come back to haunt us. Not Ted, but his long-lost twin separated at birth. He had left Suzanne for another woman. Found another woman.
Chapter Thirty Two
Back for Good
Easier to blame Jim than confide in him. I didn’t want him to know that I found McCarthy attractive because I didn’t want to hurt him. Jim had seen too many tears and steered me through the worst times. McCarthy, whereas, was, I suppose a clean slate. New me.
Jim called while I was walking back to the office from Suzanne’s. I fell on the phone, relieved to see his name; someone outside the Ted-and-Suzanne drama that had detonated over lunch. I had planned to let him to suffer in silence for longer but Ted turning up out of the blue put our kiss into perspective. I played cool, nonetheless.
“I’m an idiot,” he said, coming straight to the point.
I let the ensuing silence confirm this.
He continued to deliver an eloquent apology, sounding genuinely shamefaced for the embarrassment he may have caused by one impulsive kiss.
“Much embarrassment,” I assured him.
“It was one of my narcissistic rock-star moments. When I believe the whole world finds me irresistible.”
“You’re very much resistible.” I let the disapproval linger while wanting to let him off the hook.
“Please let me explain?”
“There is nothing to explain.”
“Do you want to go for a drink?” He sounded hopeful. “We won’t talk about it. Promise.”
“I need to get back to the office. Where are you?”
“Heading out to do an interview.”
“I’ll see you when it’s done.”
“Drinks at home time?”
I relented. “One drink. Hands where I can see them.”
Jim was wearing an oversized ribbed beanie despite the heat. We went for drinks at the bar on the lower ground floor underneath the office, which was also home to an underground shopping area. It was usually full of journalists standing at the bar and tonight was no exception. I was relieved to see it was crowded.
Rather than talk about the kiss, I cut straight to the part when Suzanne’s husband turned up unannounced.
Jim downed his gin. “Shit, and I thought I was in trouble.”
We talked about Suzanne and work until, inevitably, eventually the kiss came up in conversation.
“I wanted to kiss you. I wasn’t drunk. There, said it,” he told me.
I nodded, embarrassed. “It wasn’t…it’s not appropriate.”
“I know that. It’s just…” He hesitated.
“What?”
“It’s important you should know.”
“I don’t follow.”
He slid another drink towards me. “The kiss was real.”
We soaked up the silence with a drink.
Eventually I said, “I know that.”
“You might meet someone and never—”
I cut him short. “There’s no one else.”
“I’m not a player, Lori.” The words whispered so softly, I
barely heard. “I think you are–”
I hear Gee talking about Harrison. Player. There is no escape from him. My dead husband becomes a swirl of invisible molecules that I inhale into my bloodstream.
Jim is watching me and I struggle to find the words, “You’ve seen the worst of me–” I nudged a finger under his chin to make him look at me. “It would come between us. Find someone without unbearably sad memories.”
He shrugged me off. “I’ve found you. That’s how it goes.”
Impulsively, I reached for his hand, attempting to level out the conversation. “We’re okay, okay?”
We waited four days. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday before a word from Suzanne. Cece tried to contact her and Suzanne in turn left a message at the restaurant–she was fine. We were not to worry about her. Fine.
On Thursday, she summoned us by text in three words, Balmoral Bollinger Bar.
Cece was on the phone in a flash to Kate and me. We agreed to meet at 5pm and spent the lead-up attempting to second guess what Suzanne had to tell us.
“At least she is alive,” huffed Cece. “Better than bits in a suitcase.”
“Alive and optimistic,” added Kate. “Judging by her choice of location.”
“Which ain’t good,” Cece snapped. “No Champagne for shitheads.” She was succinct if nothing else.
“Whatever happens, it is Suzanne’s decision and we respect it,” warned Kate.
“Holy crap. Lori, tell me this is all wrong?”
I shrugged uncomfortably. “The honest truth, I don’t know what to think anymore. We persuade her to dump him and then she blames us for what might have been?”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Cece sourly.
Ted wasn’t there when we turned up and we all exhaled like bagpipes, relieved and thankful to see Suzanne sitting alone, sitting on a bar stool swinging her legs. She had dressed the part: white silk-mousseline shirt tucked into high-waisted gold lamé shorts. Face shining like the golden fabric.
There was a bottle of Bollinger chilling on the table and Suzanne was tucking into her first glass with uncharacteristic gusto considering this was the poster girl for Coca-Cola. We should have seen it as a sign; all was not what it once was.
(2013) Four Widows Page 16