Letters to Iris

by Elizabeth Noble

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Nearly twenty years. You?’

  ‘Closer to forty. We were married in 1979.’

  Adam nodded. ‘1986. Being widowed is a bit different to being divorced. That’s a conscious decision. Albeit a complicated one: I know that. Being widowed isn’t a choice. It just happens to you.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I get that.’

  ‘It had just been so long since I’d been anything else but half of a couple. Probably not even the better half. I tried everything. God knows what kind of desperate vibe I was giving off … Eau de horribly lonely …’

  ‘What did you try?’

  ‘You name it. Blind dates. No single woman friend-of-friends was safe. Speed dating. Online stuff.’

  ‘Blimey. That sounds comprehensive. Did it work?’

  ‘Well, it worked in the sense that I had somewhere to be. Dates. Hook-ups. Some stories I could tell …’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘There are a hell of a lot of lonely people out there.’

  Gigi tried not to shudder.

  ‘It took me a year or two to realize that wasn’t what I wanted. There’s someone and there’s anyone, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I think I do. Lonely alone and lonely in a crowd.’ Lonely at home with your husband.

  ‘Exactly. Exactly!’ He seemed so pleased she understood. He banged a fist down on the table. ‘Your wife dies, she becomes this perfect person. The best wife, the best woman. You measure everyone against her. But it isn’t fair. Of course no one seems to measure up to this perfect ghost. And she wasn’t really, not any of those things. I loved her. I think we’d still be married, if she hadn’t died. But who can say that for sure? She wasn’t perfect. I’m not either. Nobody is perfect.’

  It was different, Gigi realized. The widower and the divorcee. Not that she was that yet. Different kinds of loneliness. For a second she imagined her life if Richard had died five, ten, fifteen years ago. Imagined how that would have felt. A small, sudden streak of pain tore through her chest. She made herself concentrate on Adam again.

  ‘So you stopped speed dating.’

  ‘I did.’ He shivered melodramatically. ‘Never again.’

  Gigi laughed and risked a joke, because it felt okay. ‘And just started preying on your female tenants.’

  ‘You’re the fourth,’ he deadpanned.

  They both laughed now, and it was real, and even quite easy.

  ‘That’s better. You laughed.’

  And the rest was better, easier. They stayed off the subject of their respective pasts, by mutual agreement, and spoke about less serious things, and drank too much nice wine. The quiet couple paid their bill and left, and they stayed later.

  Eventually Adam called a cab to take them home. When the fresh air hit Gigi on the pavement outside the restaurant, she realized she was drunk – actually drunk – for the first time in a very, very long time, since she couldn’t remember when. Happy, woozy drunk. In the cab, when the driver took a corner quite sharply, she slid a little in the seat, and their thighs touched briefly. She put her hand out to steady herself, and it touched his, and there was something like a shock in the touch.

  In the driveway, she leant against her own car while Adam paid the driver. She tipped her head back and looked at the stars, making herself dizzy, but good dizzy. She was herself, but a lighter self. All the lights were off in the house of happy family.

  The cab drove off, and Adam walked towards her. When he was standing in front of her, close, he reached out and put his hands on her waist. The gesture felt intimate but not invasive. She worried for a moment about how chubby she might feel to him, and just as quickly decided she really didn’t care. He hadn’t known her any other way, had never felt a slimmer, younger version of her between his hands, like Richard had. And he still wanted to put his hands there.

  No man but Richard had kissed her since the glorious summer of 1977. It was an absurd thought. And now she knew Adam was going to. He was taller than her husband, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. They were lit only by a sliver of moon, and the movement-sensitive security light on the corner of the house. They stayed still like that long enough for it to go off, and then it was just the moonlight, so she couldn’t see his expression. Just the glint in his eyes.

  He didn’t move his hands from her waist. He made her make it happen, in the end. She put her hands on his face and pulled his mouth down on hers. The kiss was deep and passionate. He tilted her hips into his and pushed himself against her. She was breathless, and her stomach dropped. Drunken desire: there was nothing better. She remembered now. She felt liquid with wanting.

  It was Adam who pulled back.

  ‘God.’ His voice was raspy with desire. She felt fantastically powerful and wanton.

  She ran the back of her hand across her mouth and tried to catch her breath.

  ‘I want –’

  ‘Ssh. I want too.’ His hips moved towards her, and she felt him hard against her thigh. ‘But … and I cannot believe I’m saying this. We’re drunk, Gigi.’

  ‘Not that drunk.’

  ‘Drunk enough.’ He dropped his forehead to rest on hers, his hips off hers now, and held her face for a moment.

  ‘It’d be the easiest thing in the world to take you upstairs. But we’re not going to.’

  ‘We’re not?’ She nipped at his lips with her mouth. She wanted to see if she could change his mind.

  He shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’

  Gigi straightened up and smoothed down her dress, feeling suddenly slightly foolish.

  Adam dropped his hands down on to her shoulders. ‘Look, I’m not going anywhere, Gigi. I live here. I had a great night. Best night I’ve had for ages. I really like you.’

  ‘I like you too –’

  ‘So there’s no hurry. This is all new to you. I would rather you were sure, if you want this to go further.’

  ‘That is infuriatingly chivalrous of you.’

  ‘Believe me, once I close my door, I’ll kick myself.’ He smiled. ‘But I do know I’m right about this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She kissed him once, gently, on the lips.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He took her keys and opened the side door wide for her.

  ‘I’m going to watch you go up, if that’s all right with you.’ He winked.

  ‘That’s all right with me.’ She took her keys.

  ‘Easier to do when I’m not carrying that damn sander!’

  At the top of the stairs she turned and gave him the smallest wave.

  ‘Goodnight, Adam.’

  ‘Goodnight, Gigi.’

  When the doorbell rang the next morning, it woke Gigi up from a deep and restless sleep. The drunkenness that had felt so delightful and liberating at 11 p.m. the night before had manifested itself as palpitations, dry mouth and a very discomforting dizziness at around 3 a.m. She’d always been a lousy drinker.

  Gigi had sat on the toilet seat willing the room to stay still and gulping tap water from her tooth mug for a few minutes; sat bolt upright, horribly wide awake in bed, flicking around television channels for another hour; and finally swallowed two paracetamol with a piece of dry toast and fallen back into a fitful sleep at around 5 a.m. The bell at ten brought her unwillingly back from far, far away.

  The mirror by the door made unpleasant reading. Her hair was wild, and her mascara was smudged under her eyes. Megan would have said ‘Rough’ and that would have been kind. She frantically smoothed down her curls and rubbed furiously at her eyes with a licked finger. The bell rang again, whoever was pushing it leaning on it impatiently.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m coming.’

  Please let it not be Adam. Please. Actually, please let it not be anyone I know.

  It was a delivery. A dozen red roses. Not the meagre, garage-forecourt type of roses. Full, deep-red, long-stemmed, expensive, fragrant roses, not a stem of gypsophilia in sight. They wer
e beautiful.

  She mumbled her thanks to the delivery person and closed the door. No one had sent her flowers for years. Grateful new mothers and fathers dropped off bouquets and boxes of chocolates at the hospital from time to time, but not like this. These were serious romance flowers in all their clichéd and effective glory, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had some.

  Who knew they were also a hangover cure?

  Gigi put down the bouquet carefully on the table. They were in a cellophane vase, already filled with water, which was just as well – she didn’t think she had anything that they would fit in – and very thoughtful of the sender. There was a small white card in an envelope pinned to the arrangement. She pulled it out gently.

  I miss you. And I love you. R.

  Tess

  Week 26. You’re a head of lettuce, and you’re supposed to be kicking me now. You’re also busy practising your grip. I wish I hadn’t read that – now I’m waiting, and sometimes I can feel panic bubbling up in me because I haven’t felt it. I have to speak sharply to myself. It’s called a quickening. I like that – it sounds like what happens to your heart when you fall in love. Please kick me as much as you like so I know you’re all right in there. I’m not sure how the procedure felt from your end, but it was okay from mine. On sitcoms sometimes they make men go weird about sex while their wives and girlfriends are pregnant – worrying they’ll hurt the baby – I’ve always thought those jokes are particularly stupid. I kind of know what they mean now. Not that there is anyone to go weird about having sex with me. Pause for self-pity, baby. But not that much. It’s the last thing I’d fancy. Cannot get my head around women who get really randy while they’re pregnant. Sorry. Too much information, inappropriate for babies. But still … you feel … vulnerable. And I feel protective. So I’m looking after you, doing exactly what the doctor said, although I go almost out of my mind with boredom staying so still and quiet. The office is helping – someone rings me with a question at least ten times a day, or at least they did until my mum took the phone off me and told someone in no uncertain terms that I was supposed to be resting. Then they resorted to email. But still – turns out I am not the couch-potato type. I’d rather be doing … And while I’m looking after you, Donna and Holly are looking after me. I haven’t seen Iris, though, and I miss her. Holly has promised to take me in at the weekend.

  She didn’t hear from Sean while she was convalescing. She didn’t expect to, and he didn’t know she was convalescing, to be fair. She hadn’t told him any of that. She’d stayed with Donna for the first part, thinking herself a fraud as she lay on the sofa feeling quite fine. Donna totally overdid the nursing, becoming suddenly, and disconcertingly, quite evangelical about care-giving. Tess found it touching. Three days of Donna’s attention was quite enough, and Tess decamped to Holly’s for the second three days the hospital had prescribed. There, Holly was reassuringly neglectful. She let Tess fold laundry and load the dishwasher. Ben was away, as he often was with work, Holly and Dulcie were at their respective schools during the day, letting her rest, and in the evenings, the three of them went uber-girly, painting each other’s finger- and toenails, wearing face masks in front of Richard Curtis films with boxes of Lindor chocolates.

  Dulcie was deep in revision, with her exams looming. Holly worried that she was quieter than usual; worry about Dulcie was Holly’s new default emotion, and it didn’t suit her. Being so up close to the vulnerability of motherhood – watching her laid-back, laissez-faire best mate being anxious – was a bit disconcerting.

  One late afternoon, Holly left them alone on the pretext of nipping to Sainsbury’s, wanting to see what Dulcie might tell her godmother. At first, Dulcie stayed at the kitchen table, surrounded by lever-arch files and index cards. After a few minutes, she sighed deeply and pushed her chair back from the table, going to the kettle. She looked dark-eyed and messy-haired, skinny under her dad’s old Pink Floyd t-shirt. Tea made, she climbed under the other end of Tess’s blanket on the sofa, and quietly, with a tiny prompt from Tess, retold pretty much the story Holly had told her in the hospital. She fiddled with the cuffs of the shirt, pulled down over her hands, while she spoke, twisting and untwisting the jersey.

  ‘She’s jealous of you, you know that, right?’

  ‘Mum says the same thing. That’s rubbish.’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s always jealousy.’

  ‘What’s she got to be jealous of?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Tess was incredulous. ‘Apart from the fact that this boy – who obviously has great taste, by the way – prefers you to her! Have you seen you? You’ve got it all, Dulce. You’re gorgeous. Clearest skin I’ve ever seen. I bet she’s spotty. Is she spotty?’ Dulcie smiled her narrow, sideways smile. ‘Ah ha. Told you. You’re gorgeous. Clever. Sporty. Funny. Unspotty. Thin. But thin with boobs. And bum.’ Dulcie coloured and squirmed, but she was smiling. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. Of course she’s jealous of you. How sad is she, really … trying to get other girls on her side. What is it, kindergarten?’

  ‘So why do they go, then?’ Dulcie’s face was immediately sad again.

  ‘That’s the billion-dollar question. I’m bloody buggered if I know. Didn’t know then, still don’t get it. I think it might just be that they’re afraid if they don’t, they’ll be next.’

  ‘So they’re all basically just spineless?’

  God, Tess thought. They’re all just terrified, and insecure. Most of what they do comes from the relief that it’s not them, and the fear that they’ll be next drives every cruel word … They won’t be bad people, most of them. They’re doing what they need to do to survive in that gladiatorial arena. That’s all. If you could pick them off from the pack and make them all see the effect of what they were doing, most of them would be sorry. They’re just thoughtless, frightened girls. And I’d like to punch them all in the face.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So why would I want to be friends with them in the first place?’

  ‘Bloody right. You can add principled to the list of qualities we were just making.’

  ‘And lonely.’

  Tess pulled Dulcie towards her in a tight embrace. ‘Bless you.’ Dulcie lay very still against her, until there was just one, big heave of her shoulders, and Tess knew she was crying. Tess’s heart ached for her.

  Dulcie tried to pull back, sniffing hard. ‘I don’t want to hurt the baby.’

  ‘You won’t. She’s a toughie. You’re a toughie. You stick with it, kid, you hear? I promise you the worst of this will be over by the time you get to uni. Most people have grown up enough by then not to be total sheep.’

  Dulcie let herself be held. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Mostly.’ It was the best she could do.

  ‘I don’t need a bunch of mates. One really good one would do. Like you and mum.’

  ‘I was way older than you when I met your mum.’

  ‘So she’s out there, my best friend?’

  Tess nodded emphatically. ‘She is. Meanwhile, I’ve put you down for babysitting for the next five years, so that’ll keep you so busy you’ll hardly realize what a Dougie No Mates you are.’

  Dulcie laughed.

  ‘Me and your mum can be your Girl Squad.’

  ‘Okay, Tess. Getting weird …’ But she was laughing now, even though she was still crying.

  Tess ran her thumbs gently under Dulcie’s eyes. ‘Don’t you cry for them, my lovely girl. They are not worth it. They’re really not.’

  Dulcie rubbed the back of her hand under her nose, and then put the other one gently on Tess’s tummy. ‘You’re going to be a good mum, Tess. She’s a very lucky baby.’

  Gigi

  With Adam, like so much in Gigi’s life lately, it wasn’t so much planned as it just happened, and it wasn’t at all how she thought it would be.

  Adam had texted her, asking if he could cook for her. She had texted back saying she’d already shopped for dinner, and that he’d be welcome to join he
r. He’d sent back one line: ‘I’ll bring wine. See you at 8.30.’

  She’d had time for a quick shower before he arrived. It was a warm night, and she’d pulled on a cotton dress and just combed back her hair from her face to dry naturally. She hadn’t put any on makeup. Or shoes.

  The windows of the flat were wide open. The sounds of early summer drifted in. Someone was mowing their lawn. A few doors down, there was a barbeque, with laughter and clinking glasses. It would take until ten for it to get dark, the pink sun setting lazily. She lit a few candles.

  Dinner had been a simple salad with new potatoes and cold salmon. There were raspberries and cream afterwards. They’d drunk the wine he’d brought and listened to music – taking turns to choose a song on the iPhone – her on the sofa, her legs tucked up under her, him on the floor, his back against the armchair. It was easy and comfortable, but it was charged too, with something new, and undeniably exciting.

  And then, when it was very late, but she still felt very wide awake, she’d stood up, taken his hand and led him into the bedroom without any words at all. To the wide, white bed, where no one but she had slept. Where she had never made love to Richard, or fought with him, or ignored him to finish a really good novel. Where she had never given early-morning cuddles to their children, or opened their stockings with them, or taken their temperatures, sheets thrown back because their fever had made them so hot. Where she was just her.

  She had pulled the cotton dress over her head, and, on the other side, he’d unbuttoned his shirt slowly. There was only candlelight from the open door, but, amazingly, it wasn’t because she was afraid to let him see her.

  It could only be this way, she realized. She couldn’t decide to do it. She couldn’t think about it too much, or she’d never do it. And she wanted to do it. She’d only ever made love with Richard in her life. It seemed absurdly old-fashioned – Meg would splutter with incredulity if she knew – but it was the truth. Richard had been a little older than her, a little more experienced, although only a little, and she had never asked him for details, but she had been a virgin when they met.