The Perfect Widow

by A. M. Castle

  I still had palpitations each time he passed. It got to the point where I could tell when he’d entered the building, even if I didn’t look up and see him. If only he’d stop. Say hello. Ask a question, like he used to do. Toy with my affections, get my hopes up. But I had the feeling that our abortive date was now coming between us.

  The others started to try their luck again; the junior execs, making their way. They’d lope my way, bold eyes flicking over me. Luckily, I was so polished now that there was nothing their eyes could snag on. Not like the old days of cleavage and thigh. Now their eyes slid away, thinking they were way out of their league. They weren’t, of course, but I wasn’t going to let on. And it didn’t stop them trying. When has being outclassed convinced a man he didn’t have a right to have a go? They’d lay their meaty forearms across my marble, lean close with breath that was either minty or sandwich-laced, depending on the time of day. Just a smile, a bit of fun. I’d know one was smitten when I got gusts of aftershave. I was polite, but firm. No dates. Banter, just to show I wasn’t stuck up. But nothing more. And not one of them gave me even a moment’s flutter.

  Patrick was the one.

  I despaired. Every morning, I preened myself for him, made myself gorgeous, tried my best for irresistibility. And every day he kept on sauntering past. Yes, there was the flick of a smile, but it was automatic now. And the wink, though I began to wonder if it was just some sort of facial tic. Because that was it. Nothing more. Not a word, these days. As though we’d never had those flirty little exchanges that had meant the world. As though we hadn’t trembled on the brink of dating. As if she, evil fucking Jane, hadn’t got in the middle and ruined things.

  That wink, was it even meant for me? Perhaps he didn’t even realise that Jen had left, that I was the new her. Maybe our chats had just been candyfloss to him. Had I done too good a job of filling Jen’s shoes, become indistinguishable, just another chic blonde with a coquettish smile? Because smile at him I did. It was the only weapon I had left in my arsenal. Though I felt so shy, so humiliated, that I wanted to duck and hide under the desk, I made myself give him the full beam, all my practice here in the ladies, having carved out a dimple that I was damned sure ought to reel him in. Look, no grudges! Don’t worry about the fact that you left me in the lurch, feeling like a prize idiot. I’m still here. Still waiting. Still lovely, I told him every single day with that grin. I might as well have been talking to the marble counter itself, for all the response I got.

  From the outside, I probably looked as though I’d resigned myself to the status quo. Pete and I had split up – irreconcilable differences, all right – and Patrick was going strong with Jane. Nothing much I could do about any of that, right?

  Then one morning Trish came into the building, mascara everywhere, sobbing, and more or less collapsed on my lovely desk. I rushed to pat her as best I could, proffer tissues (and clear away the worst of the smears) and volunteer to take her for a coffee. I was even happy to leave the desk to the tender mercies of my underling Sal for a few minutes.

  Sitting opposite Trish that day, our coffees cooled on the table between us as she haltingly sobbed out the story.

  ‘It’s Jane,’ she blurted. Her brimming eyes met mine and went a curious triangular shape with grief, before more tears started spilling out everywhere.

  ‘Jane?’ I said blankly.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘My friend who dated Patrick.’

  ‘Oh. Jane. That Jane.’ I paused.

  ‘She’s been run over.’ Trish started hiccupping again.

  ‘No! What happened?’ I wanted every detail. ‘Run over? How? An accident?’

  ‘Hit and run. No one saw anything.’

  ‘My God. The roads are crazy round here.’

  I sat back, conscious that I was just mouthing platitudes. But that was what you did, right? Tricia certainly seemed to find it comforting. The flow of tears was slowing. Now she dabbed her poor eyes.

  ‘No, it was where she lived. Right near her house.’

  ‘Oh yes. And that’s …?’

  ‘One of those little streets, the edge of town.’

  ‘God, how awful. When did it … happen?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Just last night. In the rain. Poor, poor Jane. I wonder if she knew what was happening. Do you think … do you think she would have felt anything?’

  ‘God. Let’s hope not. Don’t torture yourself, Trish,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it would have been quick. It’s dreadful. Patrick will be so cut up,’ I added. Trish nodded, but was too choked to speak. I passed her another wad of tissues, patted her hand for as long as I could before the inevitable happened, and Sal barged into the canteen with a problem only I could sort.

  Patrick was cut up – a little. Really not as much as you might have expected. Of course, he and Jane had not really been an item, in the true sense of the word. But still, I would have thought there’d have been misty eyes, a bit of soul-searching at someone his age departing this earth so young. But no.

  The truth was that Patrick seemed to have all the depth of the last spoonful of soup in the bowl. Either that, or he’d never really felt a thing for Jane. I knew which I wanted to believe. I watched him leave work that evening in a bit of a daze. The next morning, his face was pale and he was distracted – no wink. But by the day after, the spring was back in his step. I could more or less see him parcelling the whole sorry Jane business up and stacking it in the ‘never to be opened’ section of his brain.

  Strange, then, that I didn’t realise there was a time when I, too, would be just another box that was wrapped round with heavy-duty packing tape, a problem to avoid lingering over at all costs. But we each think we’re special, don’t we? The one who can unlock something no one else can bring out.

  And that was that, as far as Jane was concerned. Poor girl. Wrong place, wrong time. And wrong man.

  Chapter 32

  Now

  Becca

  It was a bit like plunging into the school swimming baths long ago, thought Becca. Her eyes would already be stinging with the chlorine, her hair trying its best to work free of the cruel rubber cap, but worst of all was looking down and seeing her own chubby white flesh, puffing over the black suit, wobbling with the fear. Still, she preferred that exposure to the moment when the harsh turquoise water closed over her head and she was sure, every time, that she was going to drown in a sea of her careless contemporaries, all swimming like seals.

  She looked around the room. Everyone was busy, occupied, carrying out their legitimate tasks, not questioning things that didn’t need prodding at. Why was she different? Pointless to even ask, she just was. But this wasn’t like before, the depression, that business. Besides, everyone admitted to stuff like that now, there wasn’t a stigma anymore. It hadn’t been a big deal anyway. A few pills and she’d been fine. Her mother had blown it out of all proportion. Now she was a different person, completely. She was all fired up, ready to dive. Or just put one foot forward.

  And yet still she couldn’t quite do it.

  Even now that she’d cracked Patrick Bridges’ emails. The terminals that had once hummed with his correspondence might be charred and melted out of shape, the filing cabinets that had housed his records were burned past recognition. But once she’d lifted his email address from the insurance correspondence, given her IT skills, her endless patience and yes, all right, her acres of free time, she’d managed to worm her way in through the cracks. In cyberspace, she was a lot more limber than in real life.

  Was it strictly legal? No, if you looked at it like that, she supposed it wasn’t. But was what Louise had done legal, either? Or moral? Not in Becca’s book, it wasn’t.

  Maybe there was another way in. Something easier, something more … defensible. She wondered again about Burke’s chum, Johno. She couldn’t wheedle her way round him, could she? Wheedle? You? Never, said her mother’s voice in her head, even more scornful than usual.

  But there was a first time for everything.<
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  Chapter 33

  Then

  In the end, it was a random courier who came to my rescue, broke the ice that had packed in tight around our fledgling relationship. Strange, the part they’ve played in my life.

  It was a Wednesday, a little while after Jane died. I can even remember the weather, though it was so many years ago. That’s because I remember my outfit. Do you do that? Significant days, key events, and I can recall what I had on, sometimes down to the underwear. And on this day, every detail was important.

  I signed for the package, thinking nothing of it. Some days all I seemed to do was sign. It was like every day was Christmas, but all the presents were for someone else. Just like it had been back with Mum. I never got to open anything. Mind you, even the people these packages were destined for weren’t really interested. No one wets their knickers for biros and notebooks, do they?

  So this was like every other day. Except that the courier seemed to be taking his time. It was before they got the little digital pads that you scrawl on with a stylus. They had notebooks back then, and biros too. The bloke was making a big play that he couldn’t find his, patting down his leather biker jacket and heavy leather jeans. Of course, all the patting drew my attention to his body, which did look pretty good. There’s something about leather, isn’t there? It’s just sexy. Not if you think about where it came from, literally off the back of some poor cow. But if you keep your mind away from that, look at the supple, semi-matt sheen, smell that rather delicious spicy scent of new handbags, posh cars and squashy sofas, then mm, yes. It just gives you a flutter.

  I looked up at him, my interest suddenly piqued. And then he took off his helmet. It was a bit like one of those shampoo ads, where someone shakes out their hair, usually in slo-mo. He lifted away that great big black thing, like a bowl on his head, and there he was. Not with waist-length blonde tresses; that would have been silly. But with messy, slightly overlong, gently wavy chestnut hair, just brushing his shoulders. It looked silky. It was all tousled up, but if I’d run my fingers through it …

  Despite my lingering sadness at the way things had ended so catastrophically with Pete, despite my yearning for Patrick, I caught myself looking at him in that way. You know, speculative. His eyes matched his hair, chestnut, but they had an extra something – a fleck of green. Unusual. I was pretty sure my own pupils would be dilating involuntarily, swimming in those knowing depths. It was like he’d choreographed the whole thing. Maybe he had. After all, his job was to deliver brown paper packages to bored girls like me, all over town. If I’d been him, I would have definitely worked out some strategies to liven up my day.

  Just his luck, but Patrick walked by as Motorbike Boy finally opened his mouth to speak. His words fell on deaf ears as my head whipped round, almost of its own accord, to track the saunter that haunted all my dreams. Patrick was perfectly capable of passing by without so much as a glance in my direction, I knew that to my cost. But today, perhaps the activity at my desk drew his eye. For whatever reason, he changed path. Started coming straight towards us.

  Motorbike Boy, bless his bulletproof arrogance, was still leaning over my marble, trying to maintain that deep and meaningful eye contact, whispering seductively about how he was always losing track of his pen. I just bet he was. But the second Patrick had stepped out of the lift, the biker boy had started to fade away. By now, with Patrick within yards of my desk, he was the invisible man. I could still smell his shampoo, but I wasn’t seeing him anymore.

  On the face of it, it didn’t make any sense. Motorbike Boy had it all – the physique, the strut, the raw nerve. Patrick, by contrast, was a stuffed shirt who had led me on and who, when he’d had a chance to be my knight in shining armour, had let me down so badly that I still woke up shaking. But you could shout that as loud as you liked; my heart wasn’t listening. And, what was more important, while there was another man at my desk, transparently finding me irresistible, Patrick’s interest had suddenly gone from nought to sixty. I’d done it. God knew how, but I had. I was suddenly the best bucket in the sandpit.

  Patrick walked over at a fast clip that had his heels snapping on the foyer tiles and leaned into my space. He ignored the courier, who by now was sadly putting his pen away. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had gone all droopy.

  Patrick fixed me with those eyes, those eyes I’d fantasised about so long and so hard. ‘Drink? Later?’ he said, as though we did this all the time.

  The questions wind-milled through my head: Me? Really? And so soon after Jane … Are you sure? But more importantly, What time? And Where are we going? But I kept my mouth shut. And smiled. And nodded.

  I couldn’t believe my luck.

  Chapter 34

  Now

  Becca

  Becca knew she wasn’t really built for sidling. And considering her dearest wish was to move into plain clothes, she wasn’t that great at subterfuge either. Luckily, it turned out she didn’t need either skill. No sooner had she approached Johno in the canteen than he’d suggested a quiet coffee, just the two of them. For a moment, she shot him a sidelong glance. If she hadn’t known better … but she did. Thanks to her mum, and her ten-tonne hints, Becca knew there was no way in hell that she could appeal to a bloke like him.

  Mind you, she told herself quickly before she could feel the sharp smack of rejection, it was mutual. His sleek porpoise body, with the gently curved gut, his smooth features, fresh-faced as David Cameron before Brexit, well, safe to say he did nothing squared for her. Still, she’d do her best to keep that from him. A dented ego was less prone to chat; she knew that much.

  When they finally settled into their seats, their original pre-lunch coffee had been shunted several times until it had become a quick half down the pub after their shifts had finished. Both had been busy at the original appointed hour, and all stops in between. But, as Johno swung onto the stool with a self-satisfied smile, and pushed the brimming beer her way, Becca realised this was all turning out rather well.

  That wasn’t to say she loved pubs. The smoking ban had improved things but the sticky tables, yeasty smell, the preponderance of IC1 males, they all still made her feel out of place. But needs must, and this was definitely home territory for Johno. He’d be relaxed. And that could make him a lot more receptive to what she had to say. She picked up the beer mat and started tearing at the edge, working out her approach. He leapt in.

  ‘So, it’s about the Bridges case, is it?’

  Becca put down the mat. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It says “detective” on my payslip,’ he said with more than the ghost of a smile. Before Becca had a chance to speak, he’d started up again. ‘Plus, it’s the only case where we’ve got an intersection. You did the knock, didn’t you? With The Burke?’

  She bridled at the nickname. She might have her doubts about her partner sometimes, but that didn’t mean she was happy to sit by while others took a swipe. But she’d let the remark go for now. ‘Anyway. There must be something about it that you’re not happy with. Otherwise, why agree to meet?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Johno twinkled at her over the rim of his glass. A filigree of foam was already clinging to its sides; he’d polished off more than half at one pull. When he put the glass down, she could see his smirk unimpeded. But she realised that there was an attraction there, despite all her attempts to tell herself otherwise. She wondered if she’d finally bitten off more than she could chew.

  ‘Seriously, what do you think of her? The Bridges woman?’ She leaned forward.

  ‘Sure you want to know?’ His chuckle was X-rated. Becca sighed inwardly. This had started so promisingly. Please don’t say it’s going to turn soul-destroying. She didn’t want to listen to another man lusting after Louise Bloody Bridges. Nor did she want to spend her evening coal mining with a plastic spoon, for dribs and drabs of information.

  ‘No, but seriously,’ said Johno, dropping the banter and fixing her with a shrewd glance. ‘You might be on to somethi
ng. Tell you what, I’ve got to dash now, but let’s have a proper chat about it … day after tomorrow? Curry in that place by the station. 8 p.m. OK?’

  Becca’s stab of disappointment that the talk she’d been waiting for all day was suddenly over, gave way rapidly to surprise, and then pleasure. A bit too much pleasure, she realised, as a pink glow spread over her cheeks. She found herself nodding. Too many times. She consciously stilled her head as Johno grabbed his phone and keys from the table and got up, tipping her another practised smirk as he left.

  She looked at his empty glass, only a swirl of foam left in the bottom. She gingerly took a sip from the top of her own, trying not to slop it everywhere, winced at the taste, and pushed it away. She should really get going, but she took stock first. Things hadn’t gone as expected. Not at all.

  Well I never, she thought to herself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I’d just got a date.

  Chapter 35

  Then

  Passing the bar that night, you’d have looked in and seen me glittering atop my stool and you’d have thought, pretty girl, looks happy. Those four words summed up everything I’d been striving so long – and so hard – to achieve. The love of my life was about to drop into my lap. Plus money, status and respectability, of course, but they were secondary to my adoration. The days spent like the Little Mermaid, walking on knives, the nights like Cinderella at five to twelve, were all now worthwhile. It was perfect. I felt as though I was holding the world in the palm of my hand, instead of just Patrick. And like a delicate glass bauble on the top of a teetering Christmas tree, everything was poised to shatter.

  He was captivated. Of course. I always brought my A-game. And tonight had to be A-star times A-plus. I was in a bar with the man of my dreams! I had to be more careful than ever. I put everything into seeming not to make any effort at all.