by Maria Realf
‘Lizzie,’ she corrected, sliding inside the back seat.
‘What?’
‘You called me Andi.’
‘Did I?’ Alex looked confused. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe you heard me wrong.’
‘Possibly.’ Her ears were still buzzing slightly from that final number. ‘Anyway, thanks again for tonight.’
‘No problem.’ He handed some cash to the driver and slammed the door of the cab shut. ‘Have a safe journey.’
The car pulled away from the kerb, and she watched him out of the back window until he was just a small dot in the distance.
Lizzie nudged the front door open and switched on the hall light, turning it down to dim. She went into the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, hoping to find a late-night snack. There was nothing left but a tub of coleslaw, some pickled onions and a random lemon. That’s not much use to me. She made a mental note to grab more supplies on the way home from work tomorrow.
She threw a slice of bread in the toaster instead and waited for it to brown. Grabbing her mobile, she sent Alex a quick text to thank him for the cab and let him know she’d got back alright. He didn’t reply straight away, and she hoped that he’d found Sam and got home safely himself. Ever since she’d picked him up from the hospital the other week, she found herself worrying about him a lot, thinking about him when her mind should be on other things. Like the wedding. Or, in this case, like bed.
She looked at her phone: 1.02am. Urgh. She had to be up for work in less than six hours. It was going to be a long Friday, but at least it had been worth it. She’d been surprised by how much she’d enjoyed tonight, just relaxing and drinking and dancing. Hopefully my hen do’s going to be a bit like that. Though with Megan at the helm, she suspected there would be less relaxing and more drinking.
Her toast popped up and she wolfed it down, not even bothering with butter. It wasn’t exactly fine dining, but at least it took the edge off her hunger. She’d been so busy having fun that she’d forgotten to stop and eat.
She picked up the phone and checked it again to see if there was anything from Alex, but he still hadn’t replied. She sent one more message: Off to bed now. Are you OK? x Then she went back into the hall and climbed the stairs slowly, not wanting to bang around and wake up Josh, even though he’d done it to her enough times over the years.
She undressed quietly in the bathroom, set the alarm on her mobile, then moved next door and slipped into bed beside him. Josh was snoring softly under the duvet, and she planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. This is a bit of a role reversal, she smiled. It’s not often I get in after you.
She rolled over and tried to nod off, still wondering what had happened to Alex. Just then her phone beeped.
‘Wassthat?’ murmured Josh, stirring.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘It’s only me.’
‘You’re late,’ he said, half-opening one eye. ‘How was the gig?’
‘Good, thanks,’ she breathed. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.’
He rolled over, and she waited in the darkness for his snoring to start up again. Then she slid out an arm and checked her phone. It was Alex.
Sorry. Battery died but back home now. Sleep tight. x
She set it down and lay her head back on the pillow, relieved. Her eyes were heavy now and she let them close, her breathing slowing as she gave in to the tiredness. For the first time in weeks, she managed to drift off easily, dreaming of other lives she might have led if fate had danced her down a different path.
20
18 February 2005
Lizzie stood outside the church, waiting for the hearse to arrive. Alex had wanted to travel in the funeral car with his mum, dad and Andi, which she completely understood. He hadn’t asked her to ride with them, and she didn’t want to intrude on their grief. Instead, she’d got a lift up the motorway with Megan and Gareth, who she’d now sent inside, out of the cold, to find a seat.
She didn’t want to join them, though; not without at least seeing Alex first. She had been so worried about him lately. He had barely spoken to her for the past few weeks since word of Connor’s fate reached home.
The wait for news had been agonising: all attempts to make contact by phone or email had failed, while scenes of devastation replayed endlessly on the TV, like a disaster movie stuck on repeat. As she watched the distressing footage, Lizzie knew deep down that the chances of him being found safe and well were diminishing with each day that passed. Still, Alex clung on to the hope that perhaps Connor had been prevented from getting to a phone somehow, be it through injury or the damage to the telecoms infrastructure. He was so sure his brother was alive that he had booked a flight out there for the first week of January, determined to find him no matter how long it took. ‘Connor’s tough; he’s a survivor,’ he kept repeating, like a mantra. ‘I’d know if something happened to him. You’ll see.’
But even Connor’s survival instinct could not save him from such a force of nature, and on New Year’s Eve his bloated body was unearthed beneath a mountain of wreckage, just 100m inland from the beach. Both his legs had been crushed, but his intricate tattoos were just about recognisable. His friend Jeff – who had luckily been spending Christmas with his Thai girlfriend’s family in Bangkok – felt confident enough to identify him, and subsequent DNA testing confirmed he was right. Alex’s search was over before it had even begun.
Lizzie had not been at the Jacksons’ house when the call came, and for that she was guiltily grateful. Seeing that pain on Alex’s face would be something she could never erase; even now, it hurt her to watch him struggling. Does he blame me for not being there with Connor? She was scared to ask that question. Alex’s decision to stay had almost certainly saved his life, and yet she sensed the regret was slowly killing him.
It had taken a further five weeks for arrangements to be made in order to repatriate Connor’s body, which had to be returned in a closed casket. Lizzie tried hard not to think about what lay beneath the coffin lid, or whether he had felt any fear in his final moments. But the thoughts she tried to avoid by day snuck up on her in her sleep, and she watched helplessly night after night as Connor drifted away to a watery grave.
If Lizzie was struggling to come to terms with the tragedy, though, Alex’s grief was off the scale. Moving back in with his parents for a while, he avoided leaving the house unless he absolutely had to, and while he tolerated Lizzie’s frequent visits, he made little effort to move from the couch or get dressed beyond his boxers and greying T-shirt.
The other night, when she woke up at 3am to go to the bathroom, she heard a strangled howl that made her blood run cold. At first she thought it was Jagger or foxes outside, but then she realised the noise was coming from Alex’s room. When she tried to push open the door, she discovered she’d been locked out, in every sense. She wondered if she should talk to his parents about him, but they both looked utterly broken too and she couldn’t bear to add to their stress.
Besides, they had to have noticed he was in a bad way. He’d stopped taking any care over his appearance, to the point where he resembled a walking ghost. He didn’t shave, he didn’t exercise; she didn’t want to guess when he’d last had a shower. Lizzie worried he might be suffering from depression, but Alex stubbornly refused to see a doctor. ‘What’s the point?’ he’d snapped when Lizzie tried to broach the subject. ‘It’s not like a bunch of pills is going to bring Connor back, is it?’
As the date of the funeral drew closer, the fuse on his temper shortened further, until even the tiniest thing sent him flying off the handle. Lizzie was hugely sympathetic, but walking on eggshells the whole time was tough, and she hoped that today’s service might be the first step towards him finally finding some closure.
While she stood there consumed by her thoughts, the hearse and a black Jaguar pulled up in front of the gothic chapel, and one by one the members of the Jackson family slowly filed out. Frank was first, looking sombre in his smartest black suit, his
eyes never leaving the tarmac path in front of him; next came Pamela, the wide rim of her hat casting a shadow across her face. Behind them was Andi, her face all red and puffy, tears streaming down both sides of her nose and dripping on to the front of her blouse.
Finally, she saw Alex. He was dressed entirely in black, from his shirt down to his socks, and his hair was blowing wildly in the cold wind. His eyes seemed much darker than usual, as though they had absorbed the blackness of his outfit. He had shaved off his increasingly unruly beard – possibly at his mum’s insistence, as he’d totally ignored Lizzie when she suggested it – and she could see his jawline at last, angrily jutting away from his neck. Everything about him looked uncomfortable. She wanted to rush towards him, to wrap him in her arms and hold him tight, but he moved into position with five other pallbearers and waited, his eyes never finding Lizzie’s face.
As the coffin was slowly lifted out of the car, she noticed a display of flowers shaped like a motorbike on top, and felt the tears slide down her cheek before she realised she was crying. How could this happen? she wondered, as she had done so many times these past few weeks. The universe did not have an answer, though; or, if it did, it certainly wasn’t planning to share it with her. She and Alex would have to figure this out for themselves, and find a way to move forwards.
The pallbearers were on the march now, walking together with one stride. Alex was at the front, his vacant eyes staring straight ahead. He didn’t glance in Lizzie’s direction, but she hoped he might be able to sense her presence somehow, and know that she was sending him all the love in her heart.
The coffin floated towards her, then slowly past, and instinctively she bowed her head. Goodbye, Connor, she mouthed silently, her breath foggy against the winter air. I’m sorry. By the time she looked up, the pallbearers were passing through the double doors leading into the church, and all she could glimpse of Alex was the back of his head.
As his family followed the coffin inside, Lizzie caught his sister’s gaze, and Andi gave her a grateful half-smile through her tears. Her eyes were all bloodshot, as though she hadn’t stopped sobbing since Boxing Day, and her nose was beginning to run. She looked like she might dissolve into a puddle at any second.
At least she’s not bottling it up, Lizzie thought. Unlike someone else I know.
Shuffling along behind them through the front doors, she was struck by how packed the place was, with stunned mourners jammed tightly into pews along both sides. She had always figured that Connor was a popular guy, but seeing all these people whose lives he had touched made his loss seem even greater. She imagined how chuffed he would have been to witness that kind of turnout. ‘Told you people couldn’t resist this charm,’ she almost heard him whisper in her ear.
The colossal congregation, though, presented her with a dilemma. Will there be space for me with the family down the front? Or should I stay here at the back? She could not see as far as the front pew, and had no idea whether Alex would have thought to save her a seat in his current state. She looked around for Megan and Gareth, but it was impossible to spot them among the sea of black.
Lizzie nearly decided to loiter near the door with the latecomers, but one thought propelled her forwards: What if Alex needs me and I’m not there? It was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take, so she scuttled quickly down the aisle behind Andi, praying that there would be room for one more.
But as she neared the altar, she realised that the front pew was smaller than the others, and clearly intended for immediate family only. Now where do I go? Just as she was contemplating an awkward walk back, a kind lady in the second row took her hand and gestured for the couple beside her to scoot over. Lizzie slid into the space gratefully and breathed a sigh of relief, nodding her head in unspoken thanks.
As the priest asked for everyone to be seated, Lizzie found herself faced with the back of Alex’s head for the second time that morning. What are you thinking in there? She wished he would talk to her, or cry with her, or do anything to let her know how he was really feeling.
I’m here for you, Alex. All you have to do is let me in.
Instinctively, she reached out and placed her right hand gently on his shoulder. His body was so rigid it was as if rigor mortis had set in. He did not turn to look at her, but gave a small shrug, as if brushing off an insect. Stung, Lizzie withdrew her hand and tried to stop her fingers from trembling.
He is as lost to me right now as Connor is to him, she realised. She just had to hope that someday, given enough time, Alex might come back to life.
21
3 weeks to go …
Lizzie surveyed the bar, amused by the varying degrees of effort her friends had gone to on the fancy-dress front. After much deliberation of potential hen themes, Megan had decreed an 80s dress code, which left plenty of scope for imagination – or in some cases, lack thereof.
Louise and Helen from uni had both turned up as Madonna, a safe bet requiring little outlay other than a pair of lace gloves, a ra-ra skirt and some fishnet tights. Naomi had come as Cyndi Lauper, wearing an outfit that looked strikingly similar to the uni girls, but with the addition of a spiky punk wig that actually really suited her. Her girlfriend Mel – currently back in the good books – was dressed as a dancer from Fame, while Phoebe, who had almost burst with excitement upon being invited, had gone to the trouble of buying a She-Ra outfit. However, best costume of the night arguably had to go to leggy Lily, who had somehow managed to get hold of a Miss Piggy mask. It had gone down a storm with the blokes in the bar, who kept trying to swipe it from her head.
‘Right, sexy ladies,’ said Megan, dressed in a tight Top Gun jumpsuit set off with a pair of Aviator sunglasses. ‘You’re still a bit sober for my liking. Time for a shot of tequila.’ She beckoned to the hostess behind her, who placed a tray of drinks on the table.
‘Good shout on the tequila,’ said Lizzie’s cousin Caz, whose Princess Leia attire the jury was still out on. ‘I don’t want to be spilling red wine down my white costume.’
‘I meant to say, you do know that the original Star Wars was the 70s, don’t you?’ said Megan, clearly put out that someone had dared to deviate from her specific sartorial instructions.
‘So?’ replied Caz. ‘I could be Princess Leia from Return of the Jedi.’
‘Well, in that case, I’d have been inclined to go with the bikini,’ said Megan. ‘But I suppose it’ll do.’
Lizzie flashed her cousin an apologetic smile. ‘I think you look great,’ she said.
‘You too,’ said Caz. ‘I’m loving the suit.’
Despite Lizzie’s protestations, the girls had forced her to wear a full-on Ghostbusters outfit, complete with Proton Pack. ‘It’s good for exorcising demons,’ Megan said with a wink. Lizzie would have zapped her on the spot if the kit wasn’t made from plastic. She didn’t even want to imagine what Megan might have made her wear if she’d known Lizzie had been hanging out with Alex.
‘Right, let’s get this tequila down us and then we’ll crack on with truth or dare,’ said Megan. ‘One, two, three … go!’ She necked her drink then slammed her shot glass on the table with a satisfied thud, looking round to make sure the rest of the group had done the same. ‘Good. Now, hen rules state that the bride goes first …’
‘I thought hen rules meant the bride has to do every other go,’ chipped in Naomi.
‘Actually, that’s better. We’ll alternate turns with Lizzie.’
‘In that case, I’m going to need way more tequila,’ said Lizzie.
‘Not a problem,’ replied Megan cheerily. ‘I’ve told the waitress to keep ’em coming. Alright then, truth or dare?’
‘Dare.’
‘Interesting … OK, I dare you to go and flash the barman.’
‘No way! I’m not that drunk.’
‘Alright then. Go into the gents and make yourself a veil out of loo roll.’
Lizzie figured that was probably about as tame as it was going to get. She set off in the direction of t
he toilet, and had a surreptitious check round to make sure no bouncers were watching. With the coast clear, she slipped into the men’s loos and began hunting around for some toilet paper. She guessed she wasn’t going to find any by the urinal, which smelled like a stale litter tray, so she nipped into one of the cubicles and grabbed hold of what she really hoped was a fresh roll. Tearing off an extra long piece, she wrapped it around her head twice, then let it trail down her back in what was as close to a veil effect as she could get. That’ll do, she thought, anxious to make a quick exit. As she made her way back towards the door, a six-foot guy wearing a rugby shirt walked in and did a double take.
‘Er, am I in the wrong one?’ he asked, looking confused.
‘No, you’re fine,’ she said. ‘Ghostbusting emergency. But the coast’s all clear now.’
She walked back out into the bar to the sound of her friends clapping. ‘Well played,’ said Naomi. ‘Bet that bloke got a shock when he found you in there.’
‘Yeah. Not every day you see a girl dressed as a Ghostbuster in the gents.’ She turned to face Megan. ‘I believe that means it’s your turn. Truth or dare?’
‘Dare,’ said Megan confidently.
‘OK, go over there and snog the bouncer.’
‘I can’t do that. He’s nearly twice as tall as me. And he’s wearing a wedding ring.’
‘No, not the bald one! The other one by the bar.’
‘Oh, OK. Consider it done.’
She got up, sashayed across the room in her flightsuit, and made a beeline for the sexy bouncer before the poor guy knew what hit him. Lizzie’s jaw fell as Megan then dropped to one knee and broke into a loud rendition of You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’, causing half the bar to put down their drinks and promptly sing along. At the end she stood up with a flourish and kissed the bouncer full on the lips, while the crowd erupted into spontaneous applause.
‘She hasn’t changed much,’ said Helen, shaking her head incredulously. ‘If anything, she gets worse.’