by Hayley Doyle
Ross puts his arm around Florrie – little willowy Florrie – and gives her a shake. Well done to her, helping Jack’s mum out. That should be my job. The skinny-fat fella is rounding up the troops, sorting out lifts.
‘You coming to the pub, Chloe?’ he asks.
‘I’ll follow on.’
And I watch them all leave the churchyard, down the path towards various parked cars. Their spirits are higher than they were before the service, an obvious warmth of friends being reunited, although for a most dreadful reason. I’m not one of them – it’s likely I’m already forgotten.
I’ll swerve the whole pub ordeal. The wake. The one with in-jokes about naked stair diving and Jack’s ex. Fucking Florrie. I need to get back to my flat; my Jack.
Because, you see, my Jack can’t be dead yet.
We only just got started.
As I start my walk down the country lane, barefoot, carrying my heels in my hand, I hear my name being called, as clear as the church bells striking one. It’s a sound full of love and warmth, and most importantly, familiarity. A white Audi waits outside the church, its driver door open. The driver is standing and waving me over.
‘Chloe babes!’
It’s Beth.
10
We hit the pub.
Not the one where the wake is happening – we’re in the next village; long, winding roads apart. It’s a posh one with an outdoor decking area overlooking the Thames, framed by weeping willows. A couple of barges are moored up across the river; the expensive sort. There are a few old age pensioners inside, enjoying a leisurely lunch of fish and chips; the waft of vinegar is strong. I imagine this sort of place only ever gets busy on Sundays. I take a seat outside and Beth goes to the bar, returning with a bottle of Sauvignon in an ice bucket and two glasses.
‘Who’s driving us home?’ I ask.
‘We’ll worry about that later, babes.’
We clink. My first sip is large, satisfying, and goes straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day and probably didn’t eat anything last night, either. I can’t remember. This is just what I need.
‘Your mum rang me,’ Beth says.
‘Was she dramatic?’
‘So-so. She wants you to go home.’
I roll my eyes and Beth grins. She gets it.
‘I found an article online,’ she says, ‘about the accident.’
‘Beth, don’t—’
‘Such a tragedy. And the driver—’
‘Can we not go there? Please?’
Beth massages her temples with her fingertips, releasing a sigh.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.
‘Look, you didn’t have to come. You’ve wasted a day’s holiday.’
‘Your Kit’s beside himself, you know. Said he’s been trying to ring you all week.’
‘I can’t … I don’t know how to talk about it.’
Beth is dressed down today. Minimal makeup; her lips are soft and unpainted. She’s wearing jeans, neat white trainers and a grey t-shirt with a simple left breast pocket. Large sunglasses sit on top of her caramel locks. She had no intention of attending the funeral. She’s one hundred per cent here for me.
‘You look weird in black,’ she says, scrunching up her cute little nose.
‘I feel weird in black. I never got the memo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was like I was just there to pay me respects.’
‘I’m confused. Isn’t that what funerals are for?’
‘Well, yeah, any funeral I’ve been to before. Like me Aunty Dot; or remember that nice dinner lady, Mrs O’Leary? But this one was different.’
‘How?’
‘I wasn’t a part of it. And I should’ve been.’
A cloud has shifted, and Beth puts her sunglasses on. I know she’s glaring at me though.
‘Don’t say it,’ I say, my mouth draped over the side of my glass. ‘Don’t say how I hardly knew him. I haven’t been living in cloud cuckoo land since January, Beth, I’ve been living. And so had Jack. We’d been actually living for each other, with each other, everything was about each other. I knew him better than anyone. But I feel like I’ve just paid me respects to a bloody stranger.’
‘So, come on. Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Jack. Pretend it’s the funeral again; pretend you’re getting a chance to speak about him. And I’ll listen.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘This isn’t role play, Beth. This isn’t one of me GCSE Drama classes.’
‘No, but it might make you feel better, babes.’
‘It won’t.’
Beth stands and holds one finger up, indicating she won’t be a minute. I down the wine in my glass and top it up, returning a wave to a couple of fellas cruising past on a rowing boat. Beth returns with three bags of posh crisps, mature cheddar flavour, and opens them out as if she’s demonstrating origami.
‘Eat,’ she orders.
To be fair, I already feel as though I might be swaying.
‘I’ve ordered some sweet potato fries and halloumi sticks, too. Now, listen babes. Remember when you were obsessed with Robbie Williams?’
I nod and dig into the delicious crisps: so cheesy they could be actual cheese.
‘And remember how you framed that A4 poster from Smash Hits,’ Beth continues, ‘and stuck it to your bedroom ceiling—’
‘Yeah, so he was the first face I saw in the morning and the last I saw at night.’
‘And yet you stuck the bloody frame to the ceiling with what exactly?’
‘Blu-tack.’
‘And what happened to you, babes?’
I stuff my mouth with more crisps, speaking with my mouth full.
‘The frame fell off and split me head open. Four stitches!’
Beth clinks my empty wine glass and sips, giggling at the story she’s heard and told endlessly since we were twelve years old.
‘Did you ever tell Jack about that, babes? Show him the scar on your scalp?’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘I’d feel ashamed!’
‘Did he know about the time you got sacked from that call centre job?’
‘I never got sacked,’ I remind her. ‘I was on a zero-hour contract.’
‘Yeah and they specifically said they wouldn’t give you a single hour again, ever.’
‘It was a blessing in disguise. I’d probably still be there today.’
‘Did you tell Jack about it?’
‘Dunno. Maybe?’
‘Or what about how we used to gatecrash those late-night parties above the video shop with those potheads? Does Jack know about how you’d sneak—’
‘Okay, stop. I know what you’re trying to do.’
Beth removes her sunglasses and reaches out for my hand. I snatch it away and sit on it.
‘Babes, we’ve got history. Jack has the right to have history, too.’
Our fries and sticks arrive but Beth shakes her head.
‘We need more wine,’ she says, and hands the ice bucket with the empty bottle to the waitress. ‘Please.’
‘I did,’ I say, burning the roof of my mouth on a fry. ‘I definitely told him about the call centre. He thought it was a brilliant story.’
‘That’s great.’
‘No, it’s not. ’Cause it’s not a brilliant story. It’s a self-deprecating anecdote. I mean, you’ve hit an all-time low when you get booted out of a job you hate that pays minimum wage, haven’t you? A job where you weren’t even worthy of being officially sacked. Yeah, I became a teacher. Whoop, whoop, good for me. But, Beth – I’m an absolutely shit teacher. I don’t change the lives of the kids. I do the bare minimum and tick the boxes and for God’s sake, I teach them fucking drama.’
‘Okay, you’re really spiralling into the dark place, babes.’
‘You came to meet me at a funeral. What did you expect?’
And for some reason, we laugh. Cackle. Like a pair of old witches.
>
The second bottle arrives and I do the honours.
‘Sometimes I think I’m going mad, though,’ I say. ‘Like, I feel like he’s still close to me. And no, I’m not into ghosts. I just … feel him. I mean, it’s impossible not to. I paid his gas bill last week. It’s like me relationship’s still happening.’
‘I know you’re trying to make sense, but—’
‘How can anyone make sense of death?’
‘So you’re still in a relationship? With a dead lad?’
I wince. She makes it sound so—
‘Sorry, babes. That was harsh.’
‘The fridge in the flat, Beth – it’s like a bloody to-do list. And I have to look at it every day, this massive reminder that me and Jack had started a real life together. And I need to finish off what we started.’
‘How can you possibly do that, Chlo?’
I shrug and allow my gaze to wander up the river.
‘That’s what I’ve got to figure out.’
We drink in a semi-comfortable silence for a while, nibbling snacks. A knot sits in my stomach and it’s nothing to do with the amount of salt I’ve consumed in the past hour. It’s Florrie. All-important Florrie. Helping Trish; checking on the caterers. God, if she’s so important, why didn’t Jack ever mention her?
Beth is on her phone, tapping away.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Fergus wanting to know when I’ll be home. It’s fine. Honest, babes.’
She doesn’t sound fine.
‘I’m still not pregnant,’ she says, and gulps her wine. ‘Clearly.’
‘Ah shit. And I guess I’m stopping you and him from—’
‘Nope. Got me period yesterday. Super early this month, for fuck’s sake.’
‘What a bitch.’
‘I know, right. Let’s get another bottle, babes. I’m halfway hammered, and you know how I hate doing things by halves.’
‘On one condition,’ I say, standing up too quickly and steadying myself on the table. ‘That you don’t mention me “not knowing” Jack, or the relationship being “too short”, or any of that bullshitty bollocks the world’s harping on about.’
‘So long as you don’t mention Fergus. Or me ovaries.’
Another bottle of wine later and we’re desperate to crash. We find a twin room above a different pub in the same village and Beth makes the most of it, running a hot bubble bath for herself, nipping downstairs for a cappuccino. Not wanting to prolong today any longer than necessary, I dive under the covers of one of the beds, not even attempting to remove my black clothes or put the telly on. I pretend to be asleep when I hear Beth pottering about, and somehow it works. I sleep.
11
As we drive back to London the next morning, we listen to Graham Norton on Radio Two. Beth doesn’t pry or poke me into talking much and I’m glad. My whole body aches from a pain I can’t pinpoint.
There’s a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the doorstep.
Wildflowers: beautiful; not your average online purchase. These were either bought in a specialist local shop or handpicked from some glorious field. A small card sits amongst the lilacs and yellows. To Chloe. It’s with love from Giles and Ingrid, the couple on the second floor. They know.
How do they know?
Trish and John must’ve told them.
They’ll be looking for a new tenant. It’s only polite to inform the neighbours.
I stand in the hallway, chuck my keys into the blue Marrakech dish, miss, and watch them fall to the carpet. I drop my cardigan; my heels; the flowers, too. I walk through our flat, brushing my middle fingers along each wall. A pair of Jack’s trainers obstructs the small space between the coffee table and the telly. How have I only just noticed that?
I open the fridge and stare at the sparse shelves: butter, an old onion, a splash of tonic water that’s gone flat. No grapes. The funeral plays over in my mind. I fast forward the worst parts, rewind the lighter moments. During the video montage, the volume of the (inappropriate) Queen song had dipped so the mourners could endure Jack’s Ali G impression, caught on an old camcorder. How I’d cringed in that back pew.
Sorry, Jack.
‘Who was that guy?’ I ask the ceiling, as you do. ‘Because he wasn’t you.’
And Florrie. That hat.
I’d been open with Jack about my previous relationships; trial and error, I’d liked to call it. I’m no hopeless romantic but in the last few years, I’d started to become intent on finding a partner in crime. Maybe it was seeing my brother happy, his wishes coming true. Maybe it was biology. I dated. Lots. Even at work, I’d engage in a staffroom flirt over instant coffee. Last year, chaperoning a Duke of Edinburgh trip, I snogged my colleague – a Geography teacher – once torches were out and teens were (apparently) asleep. My mind and heart were open to finding love; any time, any place. I had no experience of heartbreak, only disappointment. And a fair few dry, lonely spells. Jack knew all this: I hid nothing from him. Well, I had nothing to hide.
And Jack?
‘Plenty of flings,’ he’d said. ‘But I’ve never been in love.’
When I asked him if there were any skeletons in his closet, he told me about a girl he fingered in an actual closet, dressed as a skeleton. He was sixteen: a Halloween party at his mate’s house. We rolled about laughing, exchanging horror stories of our youth. We didn’t backtrack.
But Jack and Florrie – what happened between them?
‘I guess we were only five months in,’ I say, matter-of-factly, leaning back against the sink. ‘We still had plenty to discover.’
The fridge door looks back at me, a glorious mishmash of memories and plans. It’s so alive. To my left, I can see Jack popping his head out of the kitchen door, checking to see if it’s warm enough to have a beer outside. To my right, he’s there again, hanging his wet socks on the radiator.
‘Who was that man whose funeral I attended yesterday?’ I cry. ‘Who? He made people cry and cheer and laugh and applaud and hug and unite and I don’t know him. I’ll never know him. Because I know you! And you’re not here anymore!’
I check my phone for distraction, slumping down onto the kitchen floor.
There are two messages from Gareth, our Kit’s fiancé. One is just checking in, sending his love. The second is a YouTube link to some political satire. He sends these often. I’ve got a message from Beth, too.
My sis just announced baby number 2’s on the way. I’m happy for her. I don’t want her baby. I want mine. But still. FFS. Xxx
I send back a crying face and string of red hearts.
I never asked Jack outright if he wanted kids. I didn’t need to. We were always playing the name game; it was a habit that developed quite early on. Even when he was cooking the bolognese, the night before he died, he said, ‘I like Lily for a girl. Not Lilian. Just Lily.’ It was a breath of fresh air, since he’d recently declared our son would be called Wild. Now, I’m all for alternative names, but Wild? Nope. My argument was that we can control our kid’s name, but not their personality. What if he was naturally tame? At least a Joe or a James can be anything they want without judgement …
Hold on.
Could it be possible? Could I …
I scroll through my phone; look at the calendar. I’ve never been one to chart, keep up with dates about what’s going on with my body. I’ve been on the pill for years. But I read a negative article a couple of months ago and decided to stop taking it. Jack and I were careful, most of the time.
I count the days.
And count again.
So I won’t know for sure until next week, when my period is due.
But, oh my God. I might be pregnant.
12
‘Miss Roscoe?’ Si Sullivan calls. ‘A word, please.’
The bell has shaken us out of our first lunchtime rehearsal. I didn’t have to do much – Si was the one on the piano and teaching the song. Layla Birch didn’t show up. I wonder if she’s rebelling because she d
idn’t get the lead.
Si reaches into his anorak pocket and pulls out two West End theatre tickets.
‘Say, whaaaat?’ He attempts a terrible American accent.
‘Surprise!’ I say.
I had been supposed to be going to see Mamma Mia! tonight with Jack, who, to my ultimate shock, had been keen on going. He said his boss raved about it and his mum hated it, so he was interested to see whose team he’d bat for. This morning, I’d left the tickets in Si’s pigeonhole with a note saying Yours if you want them. It seemed a shame to leave them stuck to the fridge, going to waste.
Anyone would think I’d just handed him a cheque for a million quid.
‘They were a raffle prize,’ I tell him.
‘And you chose me to accompany you?’ I think he might cry.
‘Oh no. I can’t—’
‘But you’re my partner in showbiz crime, Chloe! Please say yes, please,’ he begs, fluttering his eyelids. He’s not pretty; rather he’s petite and, well, pointy. His nose, his cheekbones, his chin are all at a sharp angle, matching the pointed quiff in his hair. There’s always a twinkle in his eye though, a live wire keeping him buzzy. Very, very buzzy.
I look at the ticket.
‘Erm …’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s not a date or anything! I’m not – er – you know, I mean, I wouldn’t—’
I smile. I know it’s not a date.
‘Have you already seen it?’ Si asks, deflated.
‘No … It’s just …’ I can’t seem to express myself. ‘Perhaps I’m a little more suited to Les Misérables right now.’
Si shoves his musical score into his smart rucksack, not hiding his disappointment.
‘Why don’t you ask your pal who teaches English?’ I suggest. ‘What’s his name? Mr Belling?’
‘For starters,’ Si holds up one hand in my face, ‘Drew Belling is not my pal. And secondly, he’ll think it’s a date. And it’s not.’
‘Right …’
‘And I’ll be honest. I called my sister before lunch. And my mum. They’re both busy.’
‘Wow. So I’m your last resort, eh?’
