Worn Out Wife Seeks New Life

by Carmen Reid

  ‘Relationships are hard,’ she said, ‘except when they’re new and then they’re really easy and absolute bliss. If only you could bottle that bit and keep it to sprinkle over yourselves when you’re old and sour and grumpy with each other.’

  ‘Divorce is hard too,’ Larry said. ‘I guess you choose your hard.’

  That comment stopped Tess in her tracks: ‘I guess you choose your hard.’

  This was a fork in the road. She could choose to divorce, or she could choose to make her marriage better. Neither would be easy, but which would make her happier? That was the question she couldn’t yet answer.

  It was obvious that she couldn’t stay still, standing where she was in this horrible, uncertain unhappiness. And it wasn’t just her choice. What about Dave? Was he sitting in the summerhouse thinking about this choice too? Would they pick the same path? Which one would make him happier?

  She looked up at Larry and realised she didn’t want to talk about this any more, so instead, she asked him, ‘What else is outside your comfort zone?’

  He gave a deep sigh and admitted: ‘Finances, I guess… I’m pretty terrible with taxes and savings and 401(k) accounts and all that stuff. And the result is that I’ll be teaching my students how to make a tidy move until the day I drop.’

  Tess could feel her ever-ready-to-help antennae prick up at this. A tax return was to her what a plié was to Larry – effortless. Surely helping Larry would be about sorting tax returns, timing pension payments for maximum benefit and setting up some low-to-medium risk investments. She could definitely help him with this.

  ‘Larry, have I told you that I’m a trained accountant?’ she ventured gently, ‘I’m pretty good at all that kind of thing.’

  ‘Well… we can maybe talk about that another day,’ Larry conceded, ‘but right now, you are playing hooky from my class and it is time for us to get back to the barre.’

  And so they did.

  And something about their heart-to-heart helped with Tess’s dancing. She was finally looser, able to go with the music and throw herself into it more. To music that was faster and louder, they continued to work on arms and shoulders and deep knee bends until Tess’s t-shirt was staining with sweat.

  ‘This is so hard,’ she complained, but already she could roll, rock and move her arms and shoulders in entirely new and different ways.

  ‘Okay, one last game to end with. You’re going to like this, just trust me – absolutely no freaking out and crying, promise!’ Larry encouraged her.

  ‘So, down on your hands and knees, just like a kid. That’s all we’re trying to do here; remember the looseness and the freedom of movement and sense of play that we had as kids. Okay, so down like this…’

  Tess crouched down and then got onto her hands and knees, uneasy about what he was about to ask of her.

  ‘And then you’re going to prowl round the space, just like a cat. Not a kitty cat, a big cat… a leopard or a panther, on the prowl. Sometimes your head will be up, you’ll be surveying the plain. Sometimes your head will be down as you sniff the ground. You might arch your back now and then and you’re definitely going to extend those front legs…’ Larry demonstrated each move. ‘And light, light… keep it oh-so light on those paws.’

  No, Tess wasn’t convinced immediately, and her first thought was I don’t want to make a tit of myself. But the dancing had gone so well that she decided to at least try properly. So she began to stalk around the space on all fours, feeling just a touch more panther-like with every move. Her shoulders were loose, her back arched and stretched and she felt the extension of her arms was graceful. For the first time in a very long time, she was aware of the way she was moving. She was aware of the space she was taking up and she liked the way she felt.

  She was aware of her body, all of it, from her fingertips to her toes. And it felt good to move like this.

  ‘Very good, panther lady!’ Larry encouraged her, ‘and stretch out the back, and arch and stalk. I love it! And we are going to stop right there, on a happy note, and before any sort of spinal disc injury occurs.’

  Tess shook her arms and legs loose once again, as instructed. She was grinning with the pleasure of this achievement, as they arranged the next lesson.

  ‘And what about you make an appointment with me, Larry?’ she asked.

  ‘What kind of…?’ he began, but then remembered exactly what he had confided in her.

  ‘I can come over and you can make us a cup of beautiful tea and first of all we just talk about where you are financially and where you want to be. That’s all. Then after that, we start putting together the paperwork and the online files and then we set up whatever accounts might be needed and make sure you’re up to date with…’

  To Tess’s astonishment, Larry pressed his fingers to his eyes and just shook his head. ‘No, no, no…’ he insisted. ‘No! It’s too difficult. It’s so messed up… and if I do anything now, I’ll trigger back payments I can’t possibly afford. No Tess, definitely not.’

  And with that he held open his front door and then she was on the other side of it as it shut abruptly.

  Comfort zones, she thought as she walked back to River’s apartment. This was exactly the same for him as when she had rushed out of her first dance lesson. She hoped he would come to see it that way and realise that she could help him as much as he was helping her.

  29

  ‘Can I have a black coffee and the baked strawberry cheesecake, please?’

  ‘Do you want extra whipped cream with that?’

  River considered… the cake was probably already an entire day’s worth of calories, so did it make any sense to stint on the cream? No, probably not. Probably she should just get a little jug of double cream to pour into her coffee as well and be done with it. So far, the day had gone well. She’d walked around Stratford, then she’d found a quiet theatre café where she had worked hard for several very productive hours. Now she was in need of sugar and cream, so she’d come back to the outrageously over-the-top cake café to satisfy the cravings. It was approaching 3.30 p.m., potentially peak cake time, and the café was full.

  She declined the tray on offer and took the coffee mug in one hand, plate with cheesecake in the other. Strawberry cheesecake… now that was a slice of New York childhood memories on a plate, right there. And it looked so luscious – the firm creaminess of the cake, shiny, jelly-coated strawberries on top and then that unrestrained dollop of glossy whipped cream. And the whole thing placed on a pretty white and green napkin on a white china plate with gold around the edge. So elegant.

  Now, where to sit… where to sit? The front of the café was completely full, but it looked like there was seating tucked away at the back too, so she headed there. The walkway between tables and chairs was tight and with her laptop bag over one shoulder and handbag over the other, plus coffee mug and plate in her hands, this was trickier than she’d anticipated. Why did they not have waiter service? Why was everyone in England obsessed with standing in front of the cake display and then carrying their food and drink to their table themselves? Was this all about dodging tipping?

  ‘Hey! Careful!’

  Her laptop bag clipped some guy on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, knowing it was a weighty bag. She over-corrected to the right, which had the entirely unexpected result of sliding her handbag off her right shoulder.

  This was a heavy handbag, containing her phone, wallet, cigarettes, lighter, lipsticks, the novel she’d stuffed in there at the last moment, not to mention other random items. She had a split second to brace the cheesecake-carrying hand but there was very little she could do. The strap of the bag landed on her forearm and catapulted the cake from the plate. Maybe if it hadn’t been sitting on a soft and slidey napkin, she’d have stood a chance. But the cake took off, turned over and landed whipped cream side down on the caramel suede-jacketed arm of a man with his back to her, who had a blue baseball cap jammed down over his head.


  The funny thing was, he didn’t even need to turn round for River to see who it was. She just knew. She recognised the hand, the posture, the back of his neck… maybe even the expensive suede sleeve too.

  ‘Oh my gosh, I am so sorry…’ she began, placing her coffee cup on his table so she could crouch down to scoop up cake, aware of the fuss breaking out around her.

  Franklyn, who had clearly been enjoying a slice of forbidden dairy and calorie-laden treat alone in the baseball hat of anonymity, turned round and looked at her with a mix of irritation and surprise.

  ‘Good grief, River,’ he exclaimed, but in a stage whisper, obviously anxious for the famous Franklyn voice not to reach too many ears.

  ‘I’m sorry… I had no idea…’

  ‘Damage limitation,’ he hissed and passed her several clean napkins, as she remembered how it would drive her wild that whenever they ate out, he would take eight, ten, twelve napkins to the table with every course to clean his hands, his mouth, the table, even the plate sometimes. Not that she wanted to dive deep into Franklyn’s weird childhood right now… she’d leave that to Oprah.

  River scooped the cake back onto her plate and wiped the floor clean, while Franklyn napkin-ed his jacket sleeve.

  ‘Sit down,’ he hissed at her, gesturing to the seat opposite his.

  She obeyed but if he was hoping things were just going to quiet right down, so they could have a cosy chat about the delightfulness of English cream cakes, he was mistaken. The Franklyn cat was out of the bag and now there were at least four camera phones pointed in their direction.

  River glanced at Franklyn, whose jaw muscles were flexing with tension.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I had no idea…’ she told him again, feeling somehow guilty, although this was both a coincidence and an accident.

  ‘I think some people had noticed and had started to film before you… landed,’ he whispered.

  Just that one little scowl of disapproval sent in her direction and she instantly remembered what a diva he was. Yes… it had always been all about Franklyn, which is why she wasn’t his wife or the mother of his daughter. She hoped Franklyn loved and appreciated his wife very much.

  ‘Mr Gregory? Is that really you?’

  The camera phone holders were coming closer… soon the whole place was going to know he was here and in this narrow space at the back of the café, there was a real danger of crushing in a stampede situation.

  ‘Don’t you have security?’ she asked in a loud whisper.

  ‘In the car, parked across the street. He’s lactose intolerant.’

  As Franklyn hunched down into his jacket under his hat, River decided it was time to take action. ‘Woah, woah, guys… let’s give Mr Gregory a moment now. Thanks so much for your attention,’ she said, standing up and not putting her hands in front of the cameras exactly, but sort of steering people back from him.

  ‘Thank you so much. Mr Gregory is so grateful for your attention, but I think he’d quite like to get home and clean up his jacket now. Thanks so much.’ This seemed to be working. People were lowering their phones and heading back towards their tables, the space around River and Franklyn was beginning to clear.

  ‘Do you have any cash?’ Franklyn asked her.

  ‘You’re going to hit me with the bill for this?’ River couldn’t believe it.

  ‘I only have a card and I don’t want to stick around. We need to get out of here.’

  This was true. People were still looking their way, fingers itchy to take more footage and get it up out there on social media just as quickly as they could. In fact, that guy over there, he looked as if he was already hitting upload. There was nothing she could do. She was going to be the woman who threw cheesecake at Franklyn Gregory for the rest of all time.

  She might have worried about this one a whole lot more if at that moment she hadn’t heard a rough gulping, barking sound along with something much more high-pitched as a woman called out in a loud, southern US accent.

  ‘Oh Herb! Herb… what’s the matter? Oh, heeelp!’

  Both River, Franklyn and every other set of eyes in the café turned to the table in the corner where a portly man and woman were midway through one of the understandably legendary cream gateaux. At first glance it looked as if Herb might be choking, he was deep red in the face and the gulping, barking sounds were coming from his open mouth, but the clutching at his left shoulder rather than his throat was telling a different story.

  As River had oh-so-light-heartedly predicted on first setting foot in this place, Herb was the guest who was having an actual real-life coronary.

  River had taken full first responder training in the month after her father’s heart attack. She knew what she needed to do. And like every other person who has been on the training course, she hoped, prayed, plea-bargained with whoever may possibly be listening up there to please, please, please let there be someone else right here in this café who could do this instead of her.

  ‘We need a doctor,’ she heard the café owner say behind her, ‘is anyone a doctor?’ he asked loudly, sounding very anxious.

  There was deafening silence. For a moment or two, River heard her blood pulse in her ears with fright, then she breathed in, out, and she couldn’t exactly say a sense of calm descended on her, but a sense of clarity, yes.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ River said, turning to the café owner to address him directly, ‘can you call it, right now, please?’

  ‘Get your security guy,’ she told Franklyn, ‘we need this place cleared.’

  Then in four purposeful strides she was at Herb’s side as he collapsed and fell to the floor.

  ‘Okay, Herb, don’t worry, we got this, okay,’ she said and marvelled at how calm she sounded. But back at the academy of the arts she had once played a cop, so maybe that was helping.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ his wife asked, her voice shrill and terrified.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ River said, not because she wanted to lie or big herself up, but because she thought it might help Herb and Mrs Herb right now.

  Pushing tables and chairs out of the way, she got Herb flat on the floor. She tipped his head back so his airway could get maximum breath, but he had stopped breathing.

  ‘Herb! Herb!’ his wife shrieked. ‘Oh my God! He’s dead!’

  River had a sense of movement behind her.

  Another American voice, this one deep and authoritative, was asking people to ‘let’s give them some space now; yes sir, yes ma’am, if we could ask you to step outside and let us get him the help he needs.’ She guessed Franklyn’s security guy had arrived.

  The clamour and noise rose as people upped and clattered out of the café and then it fell back again. River didn’t waste time looking around to see who was left watching, she knew she had to focus on Herb.

  He was not breathing. She took hold of his fleshy chin and opened his mouth. There was a smear of cream on his tongue, but it didn’t look as if anything was stuck in his throat. He was not choking. He’d had a cardiac arrest.

  ‘Is the ambulance on its way?’ she asked, her voice still sounding so much calmer than she felt.

  ‘Yes,’ someone replied.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got to do CPR until it gets here and we may even have to get your defib off the wall. Okay.’

  River didn’t take her eyes off Herb. He was definitely not breathing. She had not seen his chest rise or fall once in the time she’d been kneeling here. She remembered that cardiac victims might snore or grunt or make the odd breath, but that didn’t matter, the important thing was to massage his heart and get the blood moving round his system again because if she could help to pump it round, there was still enough oxygen in his blood to keep his brain and other organs alive.

  ‘Okay, Herb, hello there, I’m River, I’m from LA, California, how about you?’

  ‘We’re from Knoxville,’ Mrs Herb said, the note of panic still obvious in her voice. ‘Knoxville, Tennessee.’

  River locked o
ne hand on top of the other, the way she’d been taught in class and located the centre of his chest. The massive heart of Herb. She looked at his face. He was a big guy, a fleshy mountain of a guy. Maybe he was a lovely man who really cared for his kids, maybe he ran a business back in Knoxville… maybe thirty local people relied on Herb to pay their wages every month.

  ‘Right, Herb, let’s do this, okay.’

  And with all her strength and energy, River began to push down and release right on top of Herb’s heart. Just as she’d been taught, she kept the Bee Gees’ ‘Stayin’ Alive’ song right at the front of her mind because, apparently, the beat of that song was a really good beat to pump to.

  ‘Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh, ooooh, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive,’ she whispered under her breath, ‘Oooooh, oooh, oooh, oooh, stayin’ aliiiiiiiive…’

  She wasn’t sure what she expected… ideally, for Herb to open his eyes, splutter and jump to life again. But nothing happened at all. Herb lay there, flat out, not moving, not breathing. His wife sobbed and shook right by River’s side. And she pumped, ooooh, ooooh, ooooh, ooooh, up and down, up and down. Second after vital second. She tried to picture the blood flowing up Herb’s neck and into his brain, bathing all those vital brain cells in oxygen.

  The instruction in class had been to keep this up until the ambulance arrived. But after about a minute or so, River realised how much effort this was going to be. Sweat was breaking out on her brow and she was breathing hard. She might have expected her arms to hurt, but in fact, she was feeling the burn in her butt cheeks, with the effort of kneeling by Herb’s side and moving herself up and down.

  ‘The person on the other end of the line would like to speak to you.’

  The café owner was approaching her with his mobile phone outstretched.

  ‘Put it against my ear,’ River instructed, ‘I have to keep going with this.’

  For a few moments there was a comedy of errors while the café guy tried to hold the phone in the rhythm that River was moving to, but he kept missing.