by Shari Low
‘Jesus,’ she repeated. ‘Has this place been ransacked while you were sleeping?’
Caro sighed as she surveyed the scene through Val’s shocked gaze. More than a few empty wine bottles, some of them on their sides. Several lipstick rimmed glasses. An overturned bowl of popcorn. Plates containing what was left of… Eeew, were those kebabs?
‘We may have slightly overdone things last night.’
Val automatically lifted the marigolds from the sink, pulled them on and got to work as she talked, her superpower being the ability to do absolutely any domestic task to perfection while concentrating on a dozen other things. ‘You do know you’re getting married today?’
Caro felt a violent surge of panic.
Oblivious, Val chirped on, ‘I was expecting glowing cheeks and flawless hair and a bit of giddy excitement.’
Racing heart now. Chest tight again. Can’t breathe.
‘Or, you know, at least for you to have had a shower.’
‘Understandable, but…’ The words stuck in Caro’s throat.
It took Val a couple of rounds of the sink with a scourer before she realised Caro had choked up. Glancing over, she saw two tears streaming down Caro’s cheeks.
‘What? Oh God, love, what’s wrong? Is it nerves? I was bricking it when I was marrying my Don.’
There were a few pained, excruciating moments, before Caro could get the words out. ‘I don’t want to go through with it, Val. I don’t want to marry Cammy.’
Val’s jaw dropped and her marigolds froze, mid scour, while Caro gasped oxygen into her lungs, her cardiovascular system kicking in due to the sheer relief of admitting that out loud.
Today was the day that Caro Anderson wanted to call off her wedding.
Two
Seb
‘Can I take that from you sir?’ The flight attendant was smiling and, to her credit, giving no indication that she’d probably done this trip a thousand times and just wanted to get home, put her feet up and watch a bit of Netflix, Seb decided.
‘That’ll be great, thank you,’ he replied, handing over an empty coffee cup and a KitKat wrapper. Chocolate. And there had been two sachets of sugar slipped into the cappuccino. His body could go into shock from the unfamiliar sugar overload at any moment, but he found himself not caring. Nothing about this week so far had been normal or familiar or in character, so he wasn’t going to give a second thought to this momentary lapse in discipline. Not that he was fanatical about his diet, but – vino aside – he generally stuck to a healthy lifestyle. At fifty-five, living in the south of Spain and working as a golf pro at the kind of place he would have called ‘swanky’ in his younger years, it was an easy choice. Although, the truth was that since Juliet had been gone, he had little interest in slap-up meals anyway.
His eyes automatically drifted to the leather bag between his feet and he had to make a conscious effort to block the place his mind was going to. Instead, he distracted himself with playing over the events of the last week for the millionth time.
On the previous Saturday night, he’d been at his usual night-time spot – the bar at the golf club. Yep, he knew there were gossipy whispers. He could imagine the kind of things they must be saying.
‘Pathetic,’ they’d mutter. ‘He’s not been himself since… well, you know.’
‘I don’t know how he can live with himself after what he did. Drowning his sorrows won’t change that.’
‘Juliet was such a wonderful woman. No wonder he’s in the state he’s in.’
And of course, there undoubtedly be would be the others, the ones who felt that the injustice should be righted.
‘Can’t believe he’s still here. He should be in jail, if you ask me. Poor Juliet.’
He didn’t disagree with any of their thoughts. Was he there too much? Absolutely. It beat going home to an empty house. Was it easier to eat there rather than sit at home and stare at an empty chair across the table? Yes, it definitely was. Was he drinking too much? Yep, he couldn’t argue with that either. He wasn’t putting vodka on his morning cornflakes, but a few glasses of wine at night seemed to seal the void of Juliet’s absence, allowing him to find a way around the guilt and the emptiness for just a few hours, until he woke up the next morning, felt the empty space beside him and was consumed by that black hole all over again. And did he deserve to be in jail? Yes, he absolutely did. At least then, he’d feel that in some way he was paying for what he did.
Right now, though, he was thirty-five thousand feet in the air, more than a thousand miles away from those whispers, heading to Glasgow. It had all started with that chance meeting in the bar just six nights ago.
‘Seb? Seb Lloyd?’ A woman’s voice. Scottish. He’d placed the accent as being from Aberdeen, but softened, perhaps through time spent away from the city. When he’d first left Glasgow in his early twenties, he’d spent a couple of years in the Granite City coaching wealthy oil executives, his first stop on a career that had taken him all over the world. But that was more than thirty years and a heartbreak ago.
He’d turned to see an attractive woman, perhaps also in her fifties, dark hair, wearing the standard expat uniform of floaty top, linen trousers and gold sandals. Beside her, a tanned bloke in a polo shirt and chinos was sporting a bemused expression.
His wine glass had clinked as he laid it on the marble bar top. He’d thought about lying for a moment but had decided it wasn’t worth the effort. ‘Yes.’
‘Wow, it’s a small world.’
‘Is it?’ he’d replied, his tone undoubtedly conveying the conviction that he had absolutely no idea who this lady was.
‘I’ve been sitting over there all night…’ she’d gestured to the restaurant tables to the side of the bar, ‘staring at you, trying to place the face. And it just came to me, didn’t it, Bob?’ she’d gushed to her nodding companion. Enthusiasm and incredulity were oozing from every pore of her skin now. Seb had decided he really needed another drink.
‘Aberdeen Golf Club! 1985!’
The wine had dulled his arithmetic skills, so it took him a moment. ‘Yes, I worked there then.’
‘I knew it!’ the stranger had beamed. ‘I’m Pearl Smith! Well, Pearl McCann, I was back then. I worked behind the bar.’
Nope, he still had nothing. He was saved from admitting that when she went on…
‘You would always chat to me and my sister, Yvonne.’
A synapse in his brain had flashed, made a connection. Yvonne McCann. She’d worked behind the bar too. Long, dark blonde waves. Gorgeous smile. Great fun. They’d been best friends, but for him it was so much more. For a moment in time, he’d thought she felt the same. Thankfully his tan concealed the slight flush of his face as a memory surfaced. One cold evening, Yvonne, him – it was Pearl’s night off so he was helping her clear up the empty bar in the early hours of the morning. Madonna was singing ‘Crazy For You’ – Yvonne’s favourite song – over the speakers, Yvonne was singing along, smiling for the first time since her boyfriend had ditched her and gone off on holiday with his mates. The guy was a fool, Seb had told her a dozen times over the previous few days, meaning every word. He’d been quietly falling in love with her since the moment they’d met about six months before, but now wasn’t the time to make a move. She was hurt, confused and… Her arms were around his neck and she was kissing him, her hips still moving in time to the music.
That night they slept together in his room at the club, and they’d spent the next glorious week sneaking off to be together whenever they could. It was bliss, the first time he’d thought that a fling could be so much more… right up until the moment her ex had sauntered back into the bar and it had been obvious to them all that the person she was crazy for was the one with the newly acquired suntan. There had been an embarrassed apology and a few awkward weeks of watching them fawn over each other, before he’d packed up his bruised heart and dented ego and moved on to a new role down south.
‘Well, isn’t it a small world, right enoug
h?’ he’d said, the sheer unexpectedness of the encounter giving him a genuine cheer that he hadn’t felt in a while. ‘Would you like to join me?’ He hadn’t had to ask twice, before the adjacent bar stools were pulled out and the couple climbed on board.
The barman, Miguel, had served up two glasses and another bottle of Rioja, and they’d passed the first hour in easy chat, discussing what had brought them to the same place at the same time. Pearl and Bob had taken early retirement, having made enough in the Aberdeen boom years to enable them to live a comfortable – if not extravagant – life in the sun. They’d come to this golf club, about twenty miles away from their home, because friends had raved about the food here.
Second bottle opened, they’d moved to the more comfortable armchairs on the terrace, the air thick with the intoxicating scent of bougainvillea, to continue the conversation. Chatting to people had always come easy to him. Skill on the green aside, it’s what made him so good at his job, that ability to make people feel at ease and relax, whether he was talking to a complete beginner or a professional fighting for his career at a top level tournament.
‘How is Yvonne?’ he’d asked, as they sat in the luxuriously upholstered rattan seats.
Pearl’s face had fallen, Bob stared at his moccasins, and the sudden chill wasn’t down to a drop in the evening temperature.
Pearl’s voice went from cheery to choked in an instant. ‘Och, she passed away a couple of years ago now. Early onset dementia. It was a heartbreak.’ She wiped away a solitary tear. ‘For goodness sake, what am I like. All this time has passed and I still fill up when I’m telling anyone for the first time.’
Seb knew that feeling all too well. He still struggled for words when anyone asked him anything about Juliet. How could he explain? What could he say? He took the coward’s way out every time, fudged over the truth, omitted the details, changed the subject.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ he’d sympathised truthfully. She’d been great, Yvonne. A little unsure of herself sometimes, but so full of life, and always quick to giggle.
‘And what about you, then? Married? Kids?’ Pearl had asked, out of both curiosity and a desire to change the subject.
‘No children. Married,’ Seb had answered automatically, before correcting himself. ‘Was married.’
Pearl had nodded knowingly. ‘Nothing wrong with that. I’m a big believer that life’s too short and if you’re not happy, you should move on, find happiness elsewhere.’
Shit. Seb could feel this conversation going down a rabbit hole of misunderstanding, and while he couldn’t think of anything worse than correcting her, he realised he didn’t have any choice. If they became regulars here, they’d no doubt hear about it from the gossips anyway.
‘No, we didn’t divorce. We… She… died. Six months ago.’ He’d stopped, feeling the familiar blockage in his throat, praying that a couple of extra blinks would stem the excess moisture behind his eyes. Every bloody time. Why was saying it still so bloody difficult? Because he missed her, because he loved her – and because he knew that it was his fault that she was no longer here. He’d done this.
Pearl’s jaw had frozen, her mouth forming into a circle, before her shocked expression crumbled into a head tilt that Seb had become way too familiar with since the moment the paramedic, bent over his wife’s body, had raised his head, then slowly moved it from side to side. Nothing. No hope. She was gone. And as the police pulled him away, all he could do was howl with pain.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ Pearl had whispered, her shock undeniable.
‘Christ, that’s awful,’ Bob had added, with genuine feeling.
Seb could see that these two were just ordinary, decent people. It was the only thing that was stopping him from getting up, going to the bar and ordering a dose of anaesthetic in the form of a large brandy. At least in jail, he wouldn’t be getting this kind of sympathy. ‘I did it,’ he’d wanted to roar. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. Hate me. Tell me how despicable I am.’ He should tell them, right then, what happened. Watch their faces curl into disgust, see them back away, change their opinions of him.
‘What was her name?’ Pearl had asked gently.
‘Juliet.’
‘Juliet,’ Pearl had said softly. ‘Well, I’m very sorry we never got to meet her.’
It was such a tender, lovely thing to say that Seb had almost lost it. Almost. He’d almost said how the pain of missing her was like a knife that was twisting in his gut, every second of every day. He’d almost said that he deserved every bit of this agony he was feeling and more, and that he would regret what he did to his dying day. He’d almost said that his utter devastation was stopping him from fulfilling a promise they’d made to each other the day they married.
Instead, in a well-practised act of subject changing diversion, he’d cleared his throat, forced a smile, and said, ‘I am too. Anyway, let’s not dwell on the sad stuff. Do you get home to Scotland much?’
Pearl had hesitated, and Seb could see she was briefly deliberating whether to offer more sympathy and consolation or to go along with his charade of resolve. He prayed she’d choose the latter. It was the kindness that killed him every time. He could be stoic and composed, and yet the minute he heard genuine words of compassion, or felt a warm hug of empathy, the threads of his strength would begin to unravel.
His shoulder muscles had dropped with relief when Pearl decided to go with his diversion and shifted the conversation back to cheery banalities. ‘We’re actually heading to Glasgow on Wednesday,’ she’d announced, with an unmistakable glimmer of excitement. ‘Our Caro, that’s Yvonne’s girl, is getting married on Friday. Our son Todd and his partner Jared are meeting us there, so the whole family will be together and…’ She’d paused, and Seb had seen a flash of embarrassment as she had a realisation. ‘Oh, listen to me rambling on about happy families and you suffering such a loss…’
Seb had immediately jumped in. ‘Please, don’t worry. I’m interested and, trust me, hearing about happy families is good for me right now. Reminds me of the stuff that life is worth living for. Where’s the wedding going to be held?’
Pearl had beamed, like someone given carte blanche to talk about their very favourite subject. ‘In the Kibble Palace at the Botanic Gardens. Have you been there?’
Another twist of the knife in his gut. Seb had instinctively glanced downwards, so they wouldn’t see the flinch of pain cross his face. He knew the place so well. Juliet had taken him there on one of their first dates, and many times since then on their visits home to Glasgow. It was one of her favourite places, a stunning Victorian glass and iron structure, home to a magnificent collection of statues and plants from around the world, and situated in the glorious green surroundings of the Botanic Gardens.
He’d promised Juliet they would return there next summer, yet another vow he was destined to break, just like one of the many things that he’d been tortured by for the last six months.
Seb had realised an unanswered question was hanging in the air. ‘Many times,’ he’d answered. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It is! It might have taken our Caro a while to get there, but she’s doing it in style.’
Determined to ensure the focus didn’t return to himself and his loss, Seb had grasped for a question that would keep the conversation going until he could recover his balance. ‘A while to get there?’ he’d asked.
‘Well, I mean, not nowadays, I suppose. But she’s such a lovely lass and I was beginning to get worried that she’d never find the right person. Soon as she met Cammy though, that was it. And I said to her, “Caro, love, you’re only thirty-four – still plenty of time if you want to start a family, but best get those eggs frozen just in case.”’
At the time, Seb had given it no further thought, just grateful that they’d steered the conversation back on to ground that didn’t make him feel like his pain receptors were on the outside of his skin. It was later though, when he lay in bed, unable to sleep, that the words came
back to him, the calculations threw up questions, and he wondered if the coincidence that had brought Pearl and Bob into his life that night was more like a twist of fate, a sign sent by the woman he loved and whose life he had ended. Perhaps she forgave him and this was her way of showing him that? Or maybe she didn’t, and this was a way to make him hurt, make him pay for what he did. Perhaps his punishment was going to be raised hopes and searing disappointment, the reaffirmation that he had nothing left to live for.
Now, as the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign pinged on above him, and the cabin crew prepared to land in Glasgow, he knew he had to find out.
Either way, no matter what the answer was, he would take it, because after six months of avoiding the subject, that chance meeting had compelled him into action. Live or die, happiness or devastation, he had one thing he had to do first.
Staring at the bag between his feet, the one containing the ashes of his love, the guilt ebbed for just long enough to feel an incredible sense of relief that he was close to fulfilling the promise that they’d made to each other on their wedding day. If either of them were to die, the other would scatter their ashes in the city that they loved.
Today was the day that he was finally going to keep that promise.
And then he was going to do everything he could to find out if a bride who was getting married today could possibly be his daughter.
Three
Josie
‘Message received on Thursday 19th December at 5.05 p.m.’
Another voice took over.
‘This is Margaret Rosemund, secretary to Dr Ormond at Glasgow Central Hospital, with a message for Mrs Josephine Cairney. Dr Ormond has the results of your recent scan and requests that you make an appointment to discuss them. Please call me back as soon as possible to arrange a convenient time.’
Josie pressed the red button to end the playback. She’d listened to that message at least twenty times during a sleepless night, trying desperately to glean any kind of hint of her fate from the intonation in the caller’s voice. Nothing. She was none the wiser. She’d called back yesterday evening, five minutes after receiving the call, but the secretary was already gone for the day. Who made a call like that and then darted out of the office? Josie had been left with no choice but to wait until this morning to call back.