The Dead Wife's Handbook

by Hannah Beckerman

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought it might be … I don’t know … therapeutic for you to do something you were so good at, something to take your mind off things. I just worry about you, you know I do, and I think it would do you good if you got out and about a bit more. Maybe you could see some of your old friends? You haven’t had an evening out for ages.’

  Twice in one day. There are provocations that not even Max’s legendary calm can withstand.

  ‘Really, Mum? You really want to have this conversation, today of all days? What is it with you and Harriet? I’ve had her on my case all lunchtime haranguing me with unsolicited advice about moving on. I promise you, both of you, when I’m ready to start doing whatever it is you think I should be doing a year after the death of my wife, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Joan looks taken aback. I’m not surprised. I don’t remember him ever raising his voice to her before. She’s touched a nerve rawer than any of us knew it to be.

  ‘There’s no need to jump down my throat, Max. I’m only trying to help.’

  A wave of guilt washes over Max’s face.

  ‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have got angry. I suppose I’ve just had my fill of uninvited suggestions today, what with Harriet and now you.’

  A look of irresistible curiosity peeks above the parapet in Joan’s eyes.

  ‘So what’s Harriet been saying now? Don’t tell me – she’s been meddling in things that don’t concern her yet again.’

  This is a conversational opportunity I wouldn’t expect Joan to relinquish lightly. I’ve never quite understood the mutual enmity between my best friend and my mother-in-law, whether it emanates from a simple generational misunderstanding or a deeper disapproval of each other’s life choices: the conventionality that’s so unpalatable to Harriet, the childlessness that’s incomprehensible to Joan. There’ve been many a family get-together when Joan’s comments have veered just an inch too far over the line of social acceptability, or when Harriet’s barbed retorts have threatened to shatter the veneer of collective harmony, forcing Max or I to intervene. I wonder whether their paths cross at all these days.

  ‘Believe it or not, she was saying exactly what you just said: that it’s time I started thinking about moving on, that I need to get out more, that I need to find new friends. She seems to think I should join a website where I can meet new people – a dating website, basically. It’s okay – I’ve made it crystal clear to her that she’s barking up the wrong tree.’

  Joan looks thoughtful for a second before patting a maternal hand on Max’s knee.

  ‘Max, I know Harriet can be a bit tactless, but I don’t think her suggestion’s complete nonsense. I mean, would it do you any harm to meet some new people and have a bit of fun?’

  I’m not sure what’s more shocking: Joan actually agreeing with Harriet or my former mother-in-law advocating that my husband join a dating agency on the first anniversary of my unexpected departure from their lives.

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘Well, why not? It’s not good for you, cooped up at home every weekend.’

  ‘I’m not cooped up. Ellie and I get out and about plenty at weekends.’

  ‘I don’t mean with Ellie. I mean by yourself, with other adults. You’re still a young man, you know. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’

  ‘Honestly, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I can’t believe anyone’s suggesting I so much as contemplate dating again, least of all Harriet and least of all you. I’ll say to you what I said to Harriet: I’m not ready and I think it’s much too early – for me, for Ellie and for Rachel.’

  Joan raises a defensive eyebrow.

  ‘Well, since you’ve brought her up, do you think it’s best for Ellie, you shutting yourself away like this? I worry about her, really I do, Max. It’s hard enough that the poor little mite hasn’t got any siblings to share all this with. I think it would do her good if you had some friends over now and again.’

  For the few seconds it takes Max to respond, I panic that he’s going to tell her, that he’s going to divulge the story I most want him to keep sacred. It’s our secret, one I don’t want him to share with anyone, ever. The fourteen months of trying and not succeeding, of deluding ourselves, month after month, that this would be the time. The plotting of dates and the obsessive observation of a sign, any sign, that this month we may not have let one another down. It was never the recurrent defeat that depressed us, it was the continued hope. Towards the end I’d spend hours on the internet, frustrated that no one could give me a simple remedy, berating myself that our decision to delay a second child, to allow Ellie time to savour us on her own, might now result in her never having siblings at all.

  And so now there’s that guilt too, to add to the guilt about deserting Max and abandoning Ellie, the guilt that I’ve left Ellie not only without a mother but without a brother or sister with whom to share this burden. I’ve been an only child dealing with my own grief alongside the premature responsibility for a parent’s well-being and I wouldn’t have knowingly inflicted it on Ellie for anything.

  ‘Fine, Mum. If it’ll get you off my case, I’ll have a think about it.’

  He’ll have a think about it? Surely he’s just saying that to placate her, to bring the conversation to an end, to minimize the opportunity for further disagreement? He can’t actually mean it. Can he?

  ‘Really, Max, will you? Because I think it would do you good. I wouldn’t be pushing you if I didn’t think so. Maybe Harriet’s right, maybe one of those online websites might be a good idea. I mean, it can’t hurt to meet some new people, can it?’

  That depends. It depends on whether you’re the dead wife of the man everyone’s cajoling into dating other women under the auspices of him making some new friends. Then it might hurt a bit.

  ‘Honestly, Mum. I’m not going to pretend I’m ready yet but I will think about what you’ve said. For goodness sake, if you and Harriet are agreeing on something then there might actually be some truth in it.’

  The shock destabilizes me with a vertiginous blow that leaves me desperate to hold on to something but in the full knowledge that there’s not a single tangible object within imaginable reach.

  How can Max even begin to contemplate moving on in that way? How can he even suggest he might think about it? How can he not know that it’s much, much too soon?

  His words course through me like an electrical charge, straight into the chest that used to house my faulty heart. I never imagined that the dead could feel pain, physical or emotional. I feel like I never knew anything until now.

  I close my eyes tightly, willing myself away, and for once the worlds cooperate.

  For the first time in a year, I understand the full horror of dying. It’s not just the guilt and the abandonment and the loss. It’s the realization that I’m on my own. That my loneliness isn’t imagined or exaggerated but is fuelled by the absence of the glue that secures each and every human bond: the bond of empathy. And it’s the knowledge – the shocking knowledge that’s only just hitting me now – that my life, love and relationships won’t be preserved in aspic just because I’m not there any more.

  It turns out that the only thing more unexpected than dying prematurely is the unpredictability of the life you leave behind.

  DENIAL

  Chapter 5

  As the empty void gives way to reveal the activities of the living world, I see that my daughter and her godmother are in the back garden of the house I used to call home. They’re playing a game involving a blindfolded Harriet and an overexcited Ellie running literal rings around her as Ellie giggles irrepressibly, refusing to be caught. The air must be as warm as it is bright, given Ellie’s bare feet flitting over the lawn’s freshly cut grass and the pale, smooth skin of her uncovered arms flapping energetically in the breeze.

  She’s wearing one of my favourite outfits, a knee-length jersey dress in navy blue decorated with tiny
white butterflies, a dress that might be nondescript if it weren’t hanging gracefully from the lithe limbs of my beautiful girl. Her long brown curls bounce in time with her body as she gambols from one foot to the other, her cheeks flushed with exertion. If I was down there rather than up here I’d scoop her into my arms and kiss her neck a hundred times, Ellie counting each and every one to ensure I didn’t miss a single caress, just as we’ve done innumerable times before.

  ‘You can’t catch me, Hetty!’

  Ellie’s the only person I’ve known who’s ever been permitted to give Harriet a nickname. Harriet pretends she merely tolerates it but I think, secretly, she rather loves the special moniker created by – and reserved exclusively for use by – her goddaughter.

  ‘I don’t doubt you’re right, gorgeous girl. Do you think you might have had enough of this game yet?’

  Harriet pulls the blindfold from her eyes as if to answer her own rhetorical question, although the tone of her voice infers the likely response.

  ‘Oh. Put the blindfold back on, Hetty, or it’s too easy for you to get me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true, darling, not in these heels.’

  ‘Take your shoes off and then you’ll be able to run faster. The grass feels all lovely and tickly between my toes.’

  Harriet laughs.

  ‘I’d rather not put dirty feet back into these little beauties, if it’s all the same to you. Do you like them? I treated myself to them yesterday.’

  Ellie squats down to inspect the shoes more closely. She’s always been fascinated by Harriet’s extensive foot-wear collection, spending countless happy hours ensconced in the floor-to-ceiling shoe cupboard in Harriet’s dressing room, a methodically catalogued selection of over a hundred designer pairs resembling something out of a fashion magazine. Sometimes Ellie and I used to retreat to Harriet’s on weekend afternoons when our sitting room played host to the screening of a football match. Harriet would let Ellie loose in that cupboard and she’d put on a show for us, shuffling across varnished wooden floorboards in shoes too big with heels too high for her little body to balance on, describing in the meticulous detail of a five-year-old the defining features of whichever pairs she’d chosen to model for us that afternoon. I remember, on those cosy afternoons, thinking how lucky Ellie was to have Harriet in her life and how much I’d have loved to have someone like her around when I was growing up: the not-quite-aunt who’s nonetheless so much more.

  ‘Mmm, they’re quite nice. I like the colour. I’m not sure about that pattern, though. They’re not my favourite.’

  ‘Well I’m very sorry to hear that, young lady. I’ll endeavour to choose ones more to your liking next time.’

  Harriet grabs Ellie under the arms and swings her into the air, causing Ellie to dissolve into uncontrollable, unself-conscious giggles.

  They’re lucky to have each other, those two.

  ‘Come on, Hetty. Just one more go. Please.’

  ‘Oh go on then, you little tyrant. How could I possibly refuse?’

  Harriet blindfolds herself and begins to totter precariously towards the ever-changing direction of Ellie’s laughter. I’m not sure if it’s the game Ellie’s finding amusing or the sight of Harriet teetering around the garden on three-inch Jimmy Choos in a Diane von Furstenberg dress. Either way, it’s indicative of Ellie’s powers of persuasion that she’s got Harriet playing this game in the first place. That or it’s proof of Harriet’s adoration for her goddaughter. Or, more likely, it’s a combination of the two.

  Ellie’s teasing Harriet, poking her from different angles and then running away out of reach until finally Harriet manages to grab her arm and keep hold of her long enough for this round to be over.

  ‘Right, that’s my lot, madam. I’m afraid this godmother needs a cup of coffee and some room-temperature oxygen in her lungs.’

  Harriet pulls off the blindfold to discover Ellie already presenting her tried-and-tested disgruntled pose: arms folded, head down, brow furrowed and lips pursed in a caricature of what she thinks disappointment should look like. It’s an expression I always failed to resist because it made me laugh so much I’d feel it was churlish then to refuse whatever she wanted.

  ‘Awww. But I don’t want to go inside yet. Just one more go? Please. I’ll let you catch me much quicker this time, I promise.’

  ‘Now, gorgeous girl, you might be in possession of persuasive techniques that would put most lawyers to shame but I’m afraid you’ve met your match here. Maybe we’ll play some more after lunch. Why don’t you run around here for a bit and burn off some of that incomprehensible energy. We’ll call you when lunch is ready, okay?’

  Harriet kisses Ellie on the top of her head before joining Max in the kitchen where he’s in the process of basting a tray of potatoes. I love seeing Max in the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On Cooking’ apron that I bought him for his birthday as a joke a few years ago – a joke because back then his food preparation skills extended to emptying a tin of microwaved beans on to two slices of heavily buttered toast and referring to it as cooking. I’d never have believed it if someone had told me then that here he’d be now, oven gloves in hand, overseeing the roasting of a leg of lamb coated with fresh garlic and rosemary, just one dish on his long list of newly mastered culinary achievements.

  ‘Bloody hell, where on earth do kids get all their energy from? I’m knackered and I’ve only been out there for half an hour.’

  ‘More like fifteen minutes, Harriet. But it’s true. And children are pretty shrewd when it comes to coercing their godparents into playing energetic outdoor games with them on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘Very funny. You know I can never resist her. And so does she, unfortunately. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. A ninety-hour week in the office is a breeze compared to a weekend of full-on childcare. It makes you wonder whether there’s something ever so slightly insane about the desire to have kids, especially people who do it on their own.’

  Harriet pauses long enough for the tactless penny to drop.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Max. I’m such a klutz. Just ignore me, will you, and I’ll try to think before I speak for the rest of the day.’

  Max laughs as he returns lunch to the oven.

  ‘I don’t think we can expect you to change the habit of a lifetime in a single day, Harriet. Don’t worry about it. You’re right – it is totally exhausting. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I’ll ever have the energy to go to bed after nine o’clock ever again.’

  ‘Ah, well, speaking of which, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you. You know what we were talking about a few weeks ago? You know, the blindingly obvious fact that if you don’t engage in some kind of adult interaction soon, you’re going to turn into the sort of strange old man whose house children are scared to walk in front of after dark?’

  I probably could have guessed that Harriet wasn’t going to let this one lie. I love her to bits, really I do, but I suppose you don’t get to be as successful as she is by giving in gracefully to the first sign of opposition.

  ‘How could I forget, Harriet? And I did think about it, honestly, but my feelings haven’t changed. I’m just not ready for that yet.’

  A wave of relief surfs over me. I’ve spent the past fortnight fearful he was going to reach a different conclusion. I should have known better. I should have known Max better.

  ‘Yes, I know what you said, but that doesn’t mean you’re right. Anyway, I figured that since you’re probably not going to do anything about it yourself, I’d better do something about it for you.’

  ‘God, what have you done, Harriet? Please don’t tell me you’ve fixed me up with one of your terrifying lawyer friends? If you have, you’ll just have to cancel it. I’m not going.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max. I’m not that stupid – even I know that would be a date from hell for you. No, I’ve taken the smallest of baby steps. Not even you can object, really.’

  I wouldn’t bank on it. I object, you
r honour, and I don’t even know what the crime is yet.

  ‘Enough with the suspense, Harriet. What’ve you done?’

  I’m not sure whether I want to know or whether I’d prefer to remain in the kind of blissful ignorance that doesn’t involve overhearing my best friend discussing possible dating strategies for my widowed husband. It’s a bit like overhearing your parents talk about the intricacies of their sex life; it just simply shouldn’t ever happen.

  ‘Well, you probably won’t know this given that you and Rachel started dating practically before the internet was even invented, but there’s this really great introduction website where you don’t have to do a thing. Well, not yet anyway. I do it all for you. It’s a site where people recommend their friends – write their profile and tell the virtual world how wonderful they are, so that you’re spared the embarrassing bit I know you’d hate. All you have to do is wait for the hordes of women who’ll be drawn to my exceptionally eloquent and glowing portrayal of you to get in contact. And then you take your pick. It’s genius. What’s not to like?’

  Harriet beams at Max with the sense of triumph I imagine crosses her face every time she wins a case. Except Max looks less than ecstatic.

  ‘Harriet, it may well be the world’s greatest website but I’m just not interested. If it’s that fantastic I’m sure it’ll still be up-and-running in a few years’ time when I might actually be ready to start considering all that stuff.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. Which is why, in anticipation of that auspicious day, I went ahead and created a profile for you.’

  You did what?

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Don’t be mad. It’s not like you can’t take it down if you really hate it. But I think it might just give you the proverbial kick up the butt you need.’

  Max’s shock gives way to annoyance before morphing into an expression that’s as close to anger as Max ever gets.