‘You’re probably right. That’s why I was so pleased when you said you could come today. She might not have both her parents here and it’s unfortunate timing that Mum and Dad are on holiday, but at least she’s still got the two of us supporting her.’
‘Hey, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Not even for a client lunch at Nobu.’
‘I’m sure that’s not too much of a sacrifice, is it, given the number of client lunches you seem to go on every week?’
‘It’s all work, Max, whatever you might think. In fact, the bloke I was supposed to be meeting today owns a massive TV company, the one that made the new comedy show on Channel 4 last Friday that everyone’s been raving about. Did you see it? I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. Didn’t think it was funny at all.’
Max hesitates for a second and I can almost hear the contemplative cogs whirring in his mind, deciding whether or not to risk a confidence.
‘No, I was out. On a date, for my sins.’
‘On a date? Bloody hell, you kept that one quiet. Who’s the lucky lady?’
‘Well, not-so-lucky, as it turned out. It was a complete disaster. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
A light flush of humiliation grazes Max’s cheeks.
‘Come on, mate. You’re probably just a bit rusty. It has been a while since you tested out the old Myerson magic, after all.’
‘The only magic I was capable of was making my date disappear in record time. Seriously, she couldn’t get out of there quick enough.’
‘It can’t have been that bad.’
‘Trust me, it can. I found myself talking about Rachel the whole time, telling this woman I’d only met five minutes before about the night she died. Honestly, I cringe just thinking about it.’
Connor tries – and fails – to restrain the look of amused disbelief on his face.
‘Okay, you win, that does sound pretty bad.’
‘I know, Connor. That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. The whole time I was there I could hear this voice shouting in my head, telling me to shut up and change the subject, but for some reason I just couldn’t. All this stuff about Rachel and Ellie kept coming out, like the verbal equivalent of projectile vomit.’
‘Well, I suppose there’s an argument that if you do end up dating someone, they’ll find out about Rachel sooner or later so it’s probably better to get it out in the open early on?’
‘I’m not sure. It was obvious that I didn’t have anything in common with this woman and it was never going to go anywhere so that wasn’t really the issue. It was more that I felt so guilty about it, like it was some kind of betrayal of Rachel, to be confiding about her to this total stranger. But even though it felt wrong I still couldn’t stop myself.’
It’s a relief, albeit maybe a selfish one, that it’s not just me who feels that my death and its aftermath aren’t yet ready for public consumption. The last thing I want is for Max to feel guilty on top of everything else he has to contend with, but I do want to believe that our marriage – including its untimely end – is still a sacred thing, not yet sufficiently digested to be used as conversational fodder, certainly not with random strangers.
‘How did you meet this date anyway? Did someone set you up?’
Max looks sheepish, as though this is one part of the confession he was hoping his brother might overlook.
‘It was Harriet’s idea. And Mum’s. I shouldn’t have listened to them.’
‘What was?’
‘It was an internet date. Harriet set up a profile for me. I didn’t ask her to. She just went ahead and did it without me even knowing.’
Connor laughs at Max’s defensiveness. In response, Max turns an even deeper shade of pink.
‘What on earth are you doing taking dating advice from Mum? I mean, I know it’s been a long time, bro, but it’s been practically a lifetime for her. Why didn’t you come to me if you were thinking of getting back out on the dating scene?’
‘Because I wasn’t thinking about it. I didn’t have any inclination to go out at all, let alone on dates with complete strangers. They just somehow talked me into it. You know what Mum’s like when she gets going, and Harriet’s even worse.’
‘But isn’t there something a bit – I dunno – desperate about internet dating?’
‘Well, maybe I was desperate. Desperate to get Mum and Harriet off my case, at least. But I was right before – it’s far too soon.’
I couldn’t agree more. Perhaps there’ll come a time when we’ll both feel differently. Right now, though, I can’t imagine when that time might arrive and what it might feel like if it ever does.
‘Hang on there a second. There’s no need to throw in the dating towel just yet. Just because you had one bad experience doesn’t mean to say the next one, or the one after that, will be the same. Like I said, it’s early days.’
‘There won’t be a next one. That’s my lot. I should have listened to my instincts. Rachel’s only been gone a year. It wouldn’t feel right to be seeing someone else. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just don’t know.’
Max has spoken rapidly, almost tripping over his own words in a bid to get them out before Connor has an opportunity to argue with him.
‘Look, I get that you’ve been burnt by one bad experience. But you haven’t got anything to feel guilty about. It’s not your fault Rachel died. And there’s no reason you should be on your own forever as a result. You can’t seriously want that?’
‘Connor, I can barely think about what’s going to happen tomorrow, let alone years in the future. All I know is that it feels too soon. And I’m sure that other people – people who knew Rachel and me – would think it was too soon too.’
‘Who cares what other people think? I knew you both and I don’t think it’s too soon. I read something online the other day and it made me think of you. I should have sent you the link. It was an article about how long it takes to get over the end of a relationship. Apparently, the going rate is a month for every year. Now, you and Rachel were together – what, ten years? – and it’s been over a year that you’ve been on your own already, so technically you’ve every right to start seeing other women now. In fact, if you want to be pedantic about it, you’ve already lost a few legitimate months.’
Max stares at Connor with the incredulity I’m feeling.
‘Are you for real? A month for every year? That’s crass, Connor, even for you.’
‘Okay okay, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m only telling you what I read online. It was supposed to make you feel better. Jesus. I’m just trying to reassure you that you don’t have anything to feel guilty about.’
‘It’s not just about feeling guilty. It’s about being honourable. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘You’re right. I don’t understand because it hasn’t happened to me. But I don’t think you’re doing yourself any favours by burying your head in the sand. What’s your plan – to spend the next forty-odd years in a state of perpetual denial?’
Max and Connor fall into a silence of passive irritation against a backdrop of cheering from the playing field as the first race begins. It’s one of the older classes, not Ellie’s, allowing the two brothers to remain locked inside their respective grievances.
It’s not Connor’s fault that Max is angry. It’s not anyone’s. Connor, like Harriet and Joan before him, is just trying to say what he thinks are the right words in the right order. His only fault is not knowing that there simply aren’t any right words, right now, in any order, to make any of this okay for Max.
It’s Connor who, to his credit, eventually breaks the silence.
‘Look, Max, I know how much you loved Rachel. And you know how much I loved her too. She was awesome. I told you that right from the get-go, that very first time I met her. Do you remember? That dinner party she and Harriet put on when you two were first going out?’
Of course I remember. It was in that tiny top-floor flat in Earls Court that H
arriet and I shared when we first moved to London. We could only afford a one-bedroom place so Harriet took the sitting room as her bedroom, while the kitchen – just large enough for a four-seated table – sufficed as our only communal area. That dinner party had been Harriet’s suggestion, a way for me to have her moral support when I first met Max’s brother, the sibling I’d heard so much about and who sounded so much more grown-up than any of us. I think Harriet and I had been desperate to prove our cosmopolitan credentials, although whether to Connor, Max or ourselves I was never quite sure. We cooked pasta and had salad with avocado in it and bought wine on a deal in the supermarket that we assumed must be good because the entire label was written in French, and I remember us thinking how sophisticated we were to be hosting a Saturday night dinner for my new boyfriend and his wealthy elder brother. It had been an undeniable success, that evening, Connor far less intimidating than I’d imagined, he and Harriet intellectually sparring all night, Max stroking my hand under the table both as reassurance of the evening’s triumph thus far and a promise of what was to come later.
Of course I remember. I’ll never forget it.
‘I know you did. I know Mum did. I know Harriet did, for god’s sake, because they’d been best friends for decades. That’s why I can’t understand why any of you are pushing me to start dating other people when you must all know that Rachel wouldn’t like it. In fact, it’s more than that. She’d hate it.’
‘Really? You really think she wouldn’t want you to be happy? Because the Rachel I knew would. Remember when Ellie was only a few months old and you got invited on that stag weekend and you said you wouldn’t go, that it wouldn’t be fair to leave Rachel on her own but she talked you into it? Didn’t she say you deserved a break even though she was the one who was up every bloody night with Ellie? Or all those evenings she flew solo that year you were doing your photography course and became totally obsessed with your camera? And what about all those Saturday afternoons she was cool about us hanging out at the football when I’m sure she’d rather you’d spent time with her and Ellie? Seriously, bro, I think you underestimate just how generous that wife of yours was. I used to think that if only I could meet someone half as cool as Rachel even I might succumb to the marriage bug. So don’t do her a disservice now by forgetting any of that and making out that she wouldn’t want you to be happy.’
I don’t know whether to feel gratified that Connor remembers all of those episodes or guilty that I don’t, in truth, live up to his elevated image of me. Not right now, anyway.
Max takes a few seconds to consider what Connor has said.
‘But there’s a world of difference between day-to-day selflessness in a marriage and being cool about your husband dating other women. A world of difference. And if I know Rachel I’m pretty damn sure that she’d be horrified at the prospect. I’m just not willing to do that to her.’
Max folds his arms conclusively and I issue a silent declaration of thanks for his acceptance of my imperfections even after I’ve gone.
‘Listen, you’re probably right, you’re probably not ready to meet random strangers yet, and internet dates are likely to be the most random there are. All I’m saying is I don’t think you should close the dating door altogether. I think you just need to be a bit more selective, a bit more careful about who you spend time with. Why don’t you let me fix you up with one of my friends? I know quite a few women who’d love that whole intellectual, thoughtful, creative thing you’ve got going on. How about I don’t even send you out on your own? I’ll organize a good old-fashioned double date with a couple of the more discerning women I know. At least then you’d have someone to vouch for the fact that the woman’s not a total psycho and someone else to talk to if it’s as disastrous as the last one. The worst it will be is a fun night out with your big brother. How can you possibly argue with that?’
Connor embraces Max with the neck-lock that substitutes for physical affection between them. Max responds with a mock endeavour to free himself and they struggle playfully for a few seconds in a pantomime that isn’t at all out of kilter with the playground setting.
‘Okay, fine – if it’ll get you to release my neck before you strangle me. But only if it’s essentially just a night out for me and you. And if the women you bring along aren’t the kind you usually date, who think three-syllable words only come in foreign languages. And only if you swear that you won’t disappear halfway through the evening leaving me to make awkward small talk on my own. Agreed?’
‘That’s one long list of conditions but whatever you say, bro. I’ll rack my brains to find us the perfect female companions and I won’t even expect thanks after we’ve had a fantastic night. Well, not much anyway.’
The boys laugh together in a spirit of fraternal camaraderie, leaving me in a state of exiled confusion. I can’t understand why Max has agreed to it. Not when he’d seemed so resolute.
And I can’t understand either why everyone’s suddenly so keen for Max to start dating again. Perhaps they are actually doing what they think is best for him, what they think will help him recover, but I can’t help fearing that everyone’s desperation for Max to move on is more about alleviating their own discomfort than helping Max overcome his grief. I keep coming back to the gnawing suspicion that it would be a damn sight easier for everyone around him if Max stopped playing the part of the grieving widower and rediscovered his fun side. If he started living more freely without my shadow darkening his every conversation. If he allowed everyone to forget that tragedy is lurking silently and oh-so-closely in the wings of all our lives at any given time.
I can’t help wondering whether everyone’s entreaties are intended to make Max’s life easier or their own?
‘Right, stop congratulating yourself for a second, Connor. It’s Ellie’s first race up next.’
I look towards the racetrack and there’s Ellie, pigtailed-hair and skinny legs in pink shorts with an incongruous look of determination on her face. It seems to be the fifty-metre sprint, two dozen seven-year-olds lined up alongside one another, with Ellie in the middle, appearing to be taking it all very seriously indeed.
The teacher blows the starting whistle and all the children simultaneously scramble across the chalky white line, intense concentration on their faces. Max and Connor are cheering from the benches, shouting Ellie’s name with enough volume to drown out the other parents’ encouragements. Ellie is running fast, faster than I’ve ever seen her, and she’s heading up the pack with two other girls. One of her main competitors glances sideways to assess her place in the contest and, failing to realize that running forward in a straight line when you’re seven necessitates looking ahead without a fraction’s deviation, loses her footing, stumbles momentarily, and sets herself back a couple of paces, into the trailing mob of children. It’s Ellie and another girl now, Ellie red-faced and puffing, her face a picture of single-mindedness, illustrating the determined recognition that, whatever her teacher or Max may have told her, winning does matter. And then they’re coming up to the finishing line and both girls drive themselves forward with one last push of concerted effort but it’s Ellie’s eager shoulders that make it over the finishing line first.
Max and Connor are high-fiving each other on the sidelines with the same degree of celebration as if QPR had just won the premiership. Mr Baxter places a plastic gold medal on a red ribbon around Ellie’s neck. Beaming with pride she runs immediately to her supporters and jumps straight into Max’s arms.
‘Did you see, Daddy? I won! I won the race!’
‘Of course we saw, sweetheart. Couldn’t you hear us cheering? You were so fast. Well done, my angel.’
‘I’ve never won a race before. Not even in PE when we’re just messing around. Look, I got a medal.’
‘Let me see that. Now that is one very good-looking medal. We’ll have to hang that up in your bedroom when we get home, won’t we?’
‘I’ve still got more races to do yet, Daddy. I’ve got the relay and t
he three-legs race. I might win more medals.’
Max laughs.
‘Yes, you might. But even one is very, very good.’
Ellie grins, pride sparkling from her chocolate eyes.
‘Mummy would like my medal, wouldn’t she?’
Max returns her thoughtful gaze and smiles tenderly.
‘She’d love it, sweetheart. She’d have been so very proud of you. Just as Uncle Connor and I are.’
Ellie flings her arms around Max’s neck with contented reassurance, the happiness on her face a world away from last year’s melancholy and it’s evidence enough that history won’t repeat itself today as I’d so feared it might.
As I watch Ellie tighten her grip around Max’s neck, a warm breeze grazes my face, appearing from nowhere and having no discernible source. I close my eyes and relish the comfort of this rare phenomenon, the sensation of something, anything, touching my skin, even though it’s impossible to decipher its origin.
The warm breeze fades away and I open my eyes to the discovery that I’m back alone in the whiteness. Ellie, Max, Connor, the sports field: they’ve all disappeared.
For a fleeting moment, there’s the familiar ache of sadness and the wish to have been allowed to stay for longer. But then I think back to the sight of Ellie’s triumphant smile as she crossed the finishing line, to the look of euphoria on her face when the medal was placed around her neck, to the delight in her eyes when she showed it to Max, and I remember just how lucky I am to have been there at all today, to have been privy to events from which I know I should, technically, be excluded.
I’m reminded of the first day I arrived here, of the first time my access was granted and subsequently denied, of my terror then that my bird’s eye view of the living world might have been a one-time-only opportunity or, worse still, nothing more than the product of an over-active imagination. And yet here I am, over a year later, watching another of Ellie’s Sports Days, sharing in the joy and triumph of my daughter’s success, and I feel grateful, not just for today but for the confidence I now have that I’ll be revisiting her again, sooner or later. I still don’t profess to understand where I am or why I’m here but I do now feel able to ride that ambiguous wave until such time as I understand what – if any – meaning there is to all of this.
The Dead Wife's Handbook Page 9