Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  I’m with her secretary, arranging an appointment, when Mrs. S.J. appears from the adjoining office. Since I am now infamous, she recognizes me at once.

  “It’s Mrs. Devlin, isn’t it? Sam and Rosie’s grandmother?” She makes no allusion to my run-in with Claudia.

  I explain that I was making an appointment to see her. She turns to her secretary, asks her to tell her nine thirty that she’s running a bit late and ushers me into her office. She sits me down, offers me coffee (which I politely decline) and looks at me with real concern. “Mrs. Devlin, I’m glad you popped in. I was actually going to give you a call.”

  “Look … if it’s about Sam letting off fireworks, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to explain what actually happened.”

  “I hear the police were involved.”

  “No, they weren’t. That’s nothing more than wicked gossip.”

  I tell her about Sam and Ginny’s grandsons getting involved with an older boy.

  “But surely somebody was supervising them?”

  “There was… . What can I say? I fell down on the job.”

  Mrs. S.J.’s pitying smile reminds me of one of Claudia’s. “Are you sure you’re coping?” she says. “It can’t be easy looking after two boisterous children when you’re a woman of … a certain age.”

  How dare she? She’s a damn sight more of a certain age than I am. I’d say she’s five or six years more, and she runs an entire bloody school.

  “I get tired—as I’m sure you do. But I think I’m doing OK.”

  “So you wouldn’t say that the children’s behavior has taken a turn for the worse since their parents went away?”

  “I admit there have been a couple of unfortunate incidents, but they have been completely blown out of proportion by Claudia Connell.”

  “I heard about your contretemps with Dr. Connell. So unfortunate.” Mrs. S.J. steeples her hands on her desk. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but is it possible you overreacted? From what I’ve heard, all she was trying to do was offer you some advice. And she is an expert.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I don’t think I overreacted. Look, I haven’t come here to defend myself against Dr. Connell. I know you have great respect for her and it’s not my place to get in the way of that. Right now my only concern is Sam’s reputation and that he doesn’t get ostracized because he was led astray by some older boys. Sam’s a good kid. And he’s learned his lesson. So if anybody raises the issue with you, I would be immensely grateful if you could set the record straight.”

  “I will certainly do my best. But as a quid pro quo, maybe you could think about making your peace with Dr. Connell. She’s back from her book tour, so maybe the two of you could meet for coffee and talk things over. People tell me she can be a tad overbearing—not that I’ve seen any evidence of it—but she knows her stuff. Don’t be too swift to judge her. If you ever feel that you’re struggling with Sam and Rosie, I know she would set her differences with you aside in a heartbeat and be only too willing to help.”

  Mrs. S.J. has been blinded by Claudia’s apparent brilliance. Nothing I can say will change that. But as for having coffee with the woman: I would sooner chew razors.

  • • •

  I’m on my way home when Mike calls to check that we’re still on for dinner tonight. “Of course.”

  He says I don’t sound too enthusiastic.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m tired, that’s all. I think everything is starting to catch up with me.”

  “Then let’s stay in. Come over to my place and I’ll cook dinner.”

  “At your place … ?”

  “OK—I know what you’re thinking. But there’s no agenda, honestly. I promise to behave like the perfect gentleman.”

  “In which case, that sounds great.”

  • • •

  The moment I arrive Mike hands me a large glass of wine. “Get this down you. It’ll do you good.”

  His apartment is in a brand-new block. He bought the show flat because it came furnished and there was nothing for him to do except move in. I insist on a tour. There’s a kitchen that I would give an arm and a leg and several bits of offal for. Ditto the bathroom. The place has oak floors, masses of closet space and natural light galore, but it isn’t what you’d call homey. It’s a bit cold and blokey: light gray walls, matching Venetians, black leather sofas with stainless steel legs. There isn’t a scatter cushion, throw or knickknack in sight. Instead the walls are covered in photographs—mostly black-and-white cityscapes and street scenes.

  “Wow, these are seriously good. Did you take them?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re very talented,” I say as I move in on a color portrait of an old Arab woman with piercing blue eyes and a burnished face like a car tire.

  “I took it on my old Leica. I prefer film. I’m not crazy about digital cameras. The result is too perfect.”

  “That’s strange for a man whose job is all about new technology.”

  “Possibly, but there are plenty of good things about old tech.”

  He shows me a photograph of Brooklyn Bridge at dusk. I congratulate him on how well he’s captured the fading light. “I took that on the Leica, too. See how grainy it is? You don’t get that effect with a digital camera.”

  “OK … and grainy is good because … ?”

  “You get a much grittier, more raw image, which is great for urban scenes.”

  I take a step back from the photograph and take a moment to consider. “I guess I can see that.” But I’m not sure I can.

  We take our drinks to the sofa. Only then do I notice the mass of tech stuff lying around. I count three sets of speakers. One pair looks like red lollipops on sticks of steel. Then there are the tall black shiny ones that have more than a passing resemblance to Darth Vader. There are several sets of headphones lying on the desk, along with a couple of GPS systems. A 3-D printer sits on the floor next to the broken drone that he and Seb were flying the other day.

  “Sorry about all the clutter,” he says. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Stuff arrives. I review it, send it back to the company and then more turns up. It’s never-ending.”

  I realize that sitting between us is a black plastic helmet. Attached to it is what looks a viewfinder.

  “So what does this do?”

  “Aha … I’ll show you. It’s a virtual reality headset. You’ll love it.”

  Before I can protest, he takes my glass and puts it on the coffee table. Then he starts arranging the helmet on my head and making adjustments to the viewfinder thingy. It’s pretty heavy and clunking, but he says that’s because it’s only a prototype. The real thing will be much lighter.

  One moment I’m staring at a blank screen. The next I’m flying. I’m soaring and swooping over mountains, lakes, fjords and fields. I can look up and down, even behind me. It’s only when I start diving, hurtling toward the water, that I start to feel sick and—quite irrationally—scared. “Mike, stop! Get it off me. Quick! It’s making me feel weird.”

  He does as I ask, but he thinks it’s hysterical that I’m such a wimp. “Come on … it’s great. You really feel as if you’re there.”

  My head is swimming. I’m struggling to regain my balance. “It isn’t great. It’s horrible.”

  He laughs and says he’ll put some music on.

  I’m expecting Led Zeppelin, but once again he surprises me—this time with Frank Sinatra. He hands me back my wine. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you into Led Zeppelin one day.”

  We sit on the sofa listening to “Summer Wind” while delicious meaty smells waft in from the kitchen. “I’ve done beef in Guinness. It’s the first time I’ve made it, so I apologize in advance.” I tell him I’m sure it will be perfect. And it is—tender chunks of beef in rich dark gravy with cheesy, mustardy croutons.

  “This is gorgeous. I always think there’s something rather sexy about a man who can cook.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop
them. It’s the wine.

  “You think?” He grins at me across the table and tops up my glass.

  “Hey—I thought you were going to behave.”

  “What have I done? It’s you who started going on about men who cook being sexy.”

  “I know. But only because you’ve got me tipsy.”

  For dessert, we eat fancy, albeit shop-bought, Italian ice cream—my contribution to dinner.

  “So … I hear Claudia’s back from her book tour.”

  “She is. But do we have to talk about my daughter?” He looks positively pained.

  “If you can bear it, I think we should—just for a minute. We can’t kid ourselves that she isn’t going to find out that we’re seeing each other. Are you absolutely sure it isn’t going to put a strain on your relationship?”

  He takes a sip of wine. “OK … the way I see it, you and I are just getting to know each other. I think that for the time being we should carry on as we are and try to forget about Claudia. I’ve said it before—it’s none of her business who I’m seeing. We’ll cross the bridge of Claudia when we come to it. If things do get sticky I can usually rely on Laurence to make her see sense. He’s a lovely chap. I told him that if he married Claudia he would always have his hands full. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He understands her. If anybody can reach her, Laurence can.”

  “That’s all well and good, but if we carry on dating, I still think we should have a plan.”

  “I agree and we will. I just don’t want to spoil things by thinking about it right now. OK?”

  “OK.”

  He makes coffee, which we drink back on the sofa. He suggests watching a movie. We plump for The Shawshank Redemption. We’ve both seen it a dozen times, but we’re agreed that it never loses its appeal.

  Despite two cups of coffee, I fall asleep. I wake up, just as the credits are rolling, my head resting against Mike’s arm. He’s stroking my hair. I stay still, eyes closed, focusing on his touch. It’s a while before I let him know I’m awake: “Um, that’s nice.”

  As I sit up, he turns his body toward me. My eyes are open now, locked on his. He starts by brushing my lips with his … planting small kisses. I make no attempt to pull away. I do the opposite. My mouth opens before his. I’m the one taking the lead, urgently probing, wanting, needing. It’s Mike who pulls away, tells me it’s too soon, that I’m not ready.

  He’s right. Of course I’m not ready. But I’ve shocked myself. Grief killed off my libido. I thought I would struggle to resurrect it. Now Mike has done just that. He wants to drive me home, but I can see he’s tired. Plus he’s had several glasses of wine. “Please just call a cab. I’ll be fine.” He says that putting me in a taxi isn’t very gallant. I tell him that crashing the car when you’re knackered and pissed isn’t very gallant either. He takes the point.

  • • •

  That night, in the bed I shared with Brian, I relive the kiss I had just shared with another man and choose not to feel guilty.

  CHAPTER

  fifteen

  I’m drinking coffee in the garden. For the first time this year, there’s real warmth in the sun. The flowers have opened on the magnolia tree. In the street, cherry blossom is falling like confetti. The TV weathermen are busy telling us spring has arrived. “What do they know?” Mum keeps saying. Like a lot of people, she hasn’t trusted TV weather forecasters since they failed to predict the 1987 hurricane. “A bit windy, my tush.” She’s predicting the weather will get worse before it gets better.

  But I haven’t come into the garden to enjoy the sunshine. I’m here because I can’t bear to watch what is going on in the house—or to be more accurate, what’s going on in my bedroom. I escaped to the garden when the undertakers came to collect Brian. As they zipped him into a body bag, I pruned the roses. Today is less gruesome, but still distressing. Ginny and Tanya are clearing the rest of Brian’s clothes.

  Before they arrived I went to his dresser and took out his favorite sweater—the one I have decided to keep. It’s pale blue cashmere. I bought it for him years ago in the Harrods sale. They had thirty percent off cashmere and I grabbed the last one in his size. The elbows are thin with wear and there’s an ancient curry stain down the front that has always refused to come out no matter how much Shout I use.

  Until a few weeks ago, I wasn’t sure that I would ever be strong enough to part with the rest of Brian’s stuff. I wanted to be able to touch his clothes and smell them, to imagine that I was touching and smelling him. Then I told Ginny I’d kissed Mike, how much I’d enjoyed it and that I didn’t feel guilty afterward. She looked me in the eye and told me she would brook no argument. It was time to pack up Brian’s clothes. How many times had Abby said this and how many times had I put up a fight? This time I didn’t.

  Ginny and Tanya offered to help. So did Mum. But I wanted to do it on my own. It was something far too intimate to share.

  Despite my newfound determination, it still took me a couple of weeks to pluck up the courage. I knew it needed to be done fast. Pull the clothes off the hangers. Shove them in sacks. Keep going. Don’t allow myself to think or reminisce.

  I pulled everything off the hangers, but I made the mistake of piling it on the bed before attempting to put it in bags. I couldn’t resist sitting beside the mound of jackets, shirts and pants, stroking the fabric. Then I started remembering. He wore that suit to so-and-so’s wedding—that jacket the night we celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary. It wasn’t just his clothes I was about to bag up. It was his life. Our life. My throat ached as I tried to fight back the tears. I was so overcome with pain that I had to run downstairs and switch on the TV to soothe me. The following day I called Ginny. I’d thought about taking Mum up on her offer of help, but she would have got as upset as me. Ginny told me to stop fretting. I should leave it to her and Tanya.

  It was Tanya who suggested the memory box. It was such an excellent and obvious idea, but for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me. The first thing I did this morning when I woke up was to go rummaging in the basement for a suitable container. It had occurred to me to buy something fancy, but Brian didn’t do fancy. He wouldn’t have approved. Instead I used the box that our most recent microwave had come in. Brian was a firm believer in keeping packaging in case an item had to be returned.

  Once I’d wiped off the dust with a damp cloth, it was fine. The sweater went in first, but not until I’d held it to my face and tried to find Brian’s smell. But it was long gone. The sweater smelled of nothing in particular. His watch went in next. It was a vintage Rolex he treated himself to when he turned forty. For somebody who had no interest in cars or expensive hi-fi and bought his clothes in Marks & Spencer, the Rolex was a strange thing to covet. But he fell in love with it. He spotted it in an antique watch shop in the Burlington Arcade. The oblong case, brown leather strap and art deco face reminded him of the watch his dad wore. He had no idea what make it had been—only that it would have been cheap. When the old man died, Brian’s brother inherited it. Brian got his signet ring. We couldn’t really afford the Rolex, but I could see how much it meant to him, so I insisted we dip into our savings. It cost two thousand pounds. He wore it every day. Years later he was still saying how much pleasure it gave him. Even when he was so ill and wearing it felt uncomfortable, he kept it beside him on the nightstand.

  After the watch came the GoldToe socks. Then the photograph album from our wedding. It’s bound in white imitation leather, now yellow and torn. I can’t bear to look inside—come face-to-face with all the soft-focus photographs of us—two babes in the woods gazing into each other’s eyes, full of plans and hopes. We always laughed at those photographs—especially at Brian’s mullet. We called them soppy and cheesy. But we kind of adored them.

  Last into the microwave box was a large padded envelope. It contained all the birthday cards Brian had ever sent me. He’d drawn inside each of them—ham-fisted cartoons of stickmen with crazy hair—recording the ups and downs of my previous
year. They were funny, sometimes sad—and better than a diary could ever be.

  • • •

  So while I sit in the garden, focusing on the weather and the magnolia tree, Ginny and Tanya are loading black plastic sacks. When they’re done, they will drop them off at a charity shop. I made them promise not to choose the Oxfam shop in the high street. I imagined being out shopping and suddenly coming face-to-face with one of Brian’s suits in the window.

  I know I’m ready to sleep with Mike. I knew from that first kiss. But Mike is insisting I need to slow down and give it more thought. One night after a date, while we were in his car making out like teenagers, I accused him of not wanting to go to bed with me. That upset him.

  “Of course I do. I’m just scared, that’s all.”

  “Scared? Why?” Then it dawned on me that there might be mechanical issues. “OK, if the problem is what I think it is, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, you are a man of a certain age… .”

  “Everything is fine in that department, thank you very much… . I’m just scared that you’ll feel guilty afterward—that you’ll have some kind of emotional meltdown and won’t want to see me anymore.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I could feel myself grinning. “So you really like me, then?”

  “You know I do.”

  “I like you, too. And it’s not just because you refuse to play golf and don’t get snotty about wine.”

  “I know. It’s because you think I’m really hot.”

  “I guess you’re OK … for an old bloke.”

  “Only OK? I’ve kept my hair. Your mother thinks I’ve got good teeth. You can tell her from me that they’re all mine.”

  “I’ll make sure to do that.”

  “Well, you are beautiful,” he said.

  “For an old biddy.” I’ve never been good at accepting compliments. I drove Brian potty with it.