by Karen Ross
Are you looking at my heart? It’s not broken, not any more. But look closer and you’ll see the scars. The permanent damage.
When Ryan finally does speak, I jerk in my seat, lurching dangerously close to a lorry on the inside lane. ‘So whose funeral was it?’ he’s asking me.
‘Her name was Sybille Newman.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘So tell me about her. I always enjoyed your stories, Robin. What was it you used to say …’
Robin.
My nickname. As in Robin of Sherwood. That and the fact that on our honeymoon there was a naturist island twenty minutes by boat from St Tropez, where I got sunburned so badly my new husband couldn’t touch me for the rest of our holiday. I had never been more in love …
My brain freeze is starting to thaw, and I am finally able to answer Ryan’s question. ‘Sybille Newman was my neighbour.’ I feel like a child who has correctly passed a test. The early afternoon traffic is light, and I finally manage to get the van into top gear.
‘What happened?’
‘She died in an accident.’ There’s a shortcut ahead that will take me up through West Hampstead. Mirror … indicate … I indicate right and concentrate on my driving.
Mirror, indicate, manoeuvre.
Mirror.
Indicate.
Manoeuvre.
I’m getting into a rhythm, saying the three words over and over in my head. Calming myself with every repetition. I need to branch left once I’ve passed Swiss Cottage Odeon, then—
Then I become aware that Ryan is talking again.
‘Your sense of direction never was great,’ he’s telling me, ‘And that’s not how to get to Hyde Park. You need to go straight ahead. Otherwise we’ll end up in Regent’s Park.’
I slip into the nearside lane and turn left, feeling the tiniest thrill of defiance. ‘We’re not going to Hyde Park,’ I say.
‘Oh?’
Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. I turn right, past the Marriott Hotel.
‘I hope you’re taking us somewhere interesting.’ The way he says this, with just the slightest hint of a fake laugh, stabs my memory. Ryan is irritated but doing his best not to show it.
At the final junction I go straight across. And – it’s a miracle – find a parking space right outside Happy Endings.
31
I get out of the van and push the door shut, giving Ryan no choice other than to follow suit. ‘If there’s something you want to tell me, we’ll do it here,’ I tell him. I’ll feel safer once I’m inside my shop.
As I unlock, I look upwards, as I always do, half expecting to see Mrs Happy spying on my comings and goings. That will never happen again.
Ryan is checking out my shopfront and window display. He grimaces at the skeleton. ‘Happy Endings, huh? Well there’s a name that’s open to all sorts of interpretations, hun.’ A smirk as he follows me inside the shop. ‘But seriously, it’s great you’ve opened your own business. Doing well, are we?’
Has Ryan come here looking for a cash handout? If so, he’s well out of luck. But that was never his style. My husband was always generous with money.
‘Let’s talk downstairs.’ I lead the way. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Then you can tell me why you’re here.’ I busy myself with cups, saucers, teabags, and milk.
Another routine that makes me feel calmer. Until I realise Ryan has settled himself into the couch and the only place for me to sit is next to him.
I procrastinate with teaspoons, while my brief – and spectacularly unsuccessful – career as a military wife comes flooding back to me. There was a time when I wasn’t so bad with army sayings, and the one I remember now is: Never show fear, even when you’re in a tightly contained space.
‘Do you take sugar?’ I enquire. Ryan has – had – a sweet tooth and always went for three heaped spoonfuls.
‘You can’t have forgotten!’ For the first time since he reappeared, Ryan sounds rattled. ‘Still three,’ he mutters.
I put two teaspoons of sugar into his cup, pass it to him, finish making my own brew, put it down on the table in front of the couch, and then sit down next to him.
Into the lion’s den.
Close enough to touch.
Okay.
Here I go.
‘So, Ryan. Lovely to see you and all that.’ I think I sound suitably casual and composed even though I’m anything but. ‘I’m still waiting to hear what exactly you’re doing here? What is it you want with me?’
‘What is it I want?’ Ryan sets his cup and saucer down on the table. ‘Well, if you put it like that …’ I’m still waiting for an answer when I feel his index finger painting a trail down my cheek. ‘Your skin is just as soft as I remember,’ he whispers.
I push his hand away.
Never show fear, even when—
‘Look.’ Ryan’s voice is back to normal volume. ‘I’ve been abroad a lot, lately. But I’m in London for the next little while, and I wanted to see you. Catch up. I’ve always felt bad about what … what happened. I was such a fool, Nina. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I blew it.’
I don’t know what I had been expecting Ryan to say. But not this.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Ryan takes my hand in his own.
This time, I don’t pull away.
Connection.
It’s still there.
Like a broken electric circuit that’s been repaired.
Inside, I’m glowing like the Blackpool Illuminations.
If only you’d said all this five years ago …
I shift position and turn towards Ryan.
A face I once knew as well as my own.
A body that used to be my personal adventure playground.
An uncertain smile playing on those über-kissable lips.
‘Yes, Ryan,’ I say finally. ‘You blew it.’ Actually, he threw me away like a half-smoked cigarette.
‘So you’ve moved on?’
‘As you can see.’ I gesture at the room.
‘With, um, relationships, I mean.’
‘After five years? You’d think so! What about you? Have you moved on?’
‘I suppose.’ Ryan shrugs.
‘Okay.’ We’re still holding hands, and I need to be the one who severs the connection. But not quite yet.
‘Anyway,’ Ryan continues. ‘Small world that it is, we have a mutual friend.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Kelli Shapiro.’
‘You know Kelli?’ I’d be less surprised if Ryan announced he’d become a brain surgeon. ‘How do you know Kelli?’
‘I’m the military adviser on her film. In the Philippines. We were all in a bar one night, cast and crew, and I overheard her talking about her friend, Nina. London’s coolest undertaker, she called you.’
‘Military adviser?’ So I’d been right about his longer hair meaning he was no longer in the service. ‘When did you leave the army?’
‘Couple of years ago. Resigned my commission and got headhunted by an old mucker who was setting up a specialist firm to work with the big studios. I’m a partner. Out in Manila, I’ve been teaching the guy who’s supposed to be an army general how to act like one. Tough gig, because the actor in question is accustomed to having everything done for him. Definitely lacking in leadership qualities.’
And just like that, it really is as if we’ve never spent a day apart.
Ryan starts telling me about the movies he’s worked on. One with Brad Pitt. Another with Samuel L. Jackson. Locations as diverse – and glamorous – as Australia and Brazil. And now the Philippines. With Kelli Shapiro.
Somewhere between the Gold Coast and Rio, I finally manage to tear my hand away. Ryan interprets that as a signal to move a little closer, and drapes his hand around my shoulders. Where it remains.
‘So how is Kelli?’ I ask.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Ryan says. ‘There was a bit of a misunderstanding on the set. Won’t bore you with the details. But the up
shot is that I got fired. They’re refusing to pay up the contract, and I can’t afford for that to happen. They’ve even threatened to have me blacklisted across the entire industry. So I want you to help me, Nina. For old times’ sake. Will you do that for me? Have a word with Kelli. Tell her I’m basically a good guy. She’s got enough clout to get me reinstated.’
Ryan might as well have poured a bucket of ice over me.
I’m such a rubbish judge of character. Until this moment I really did believe he’d sought me out to apologise. Maybe even to suggest we make a fresh start. What’s that saying … Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
I unwind myself from Ryan’s embrace and start clearing away our cold cups of tea. ‘So did you tell Kelli we used to be married?’ I ask.
‘Thought I’d leave that to you. You’ve got her email and phone numbers, right? If not, I can give them to you.’
‘I’ve got everything I need, Ryan. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got tons to do.’
‘Yes, well look. It’s been great seeing you. Dinner next week? You’ll probably have heard back from Kelli by then, right?’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say. ‘You’ve still got the same personal email?’ Mine is different.
‘Yes. Nothing’s changed, Nina. Nothing. I realise that now. Thank God I met Kelli and found out where you’d gone.’ Instead of turning towards the front of the shop Ryan walks towards me and folds me into his arms and kisses me. ‘There’s never been anyone else who mattered.’ His voice is soft, hypnotic. ‘Only you. I still love you. I’ve never stopped caring. You have to believe me.’
32
I want to believe him. I really do.
But I don’t.
If Ryan had ever tried to find me it would have been so easy. Just pop my name into Google and up I come on LinkedIn. And if he wanted to ask for another chance – something I once fantasised about – how come it’s taken him five years?
No, Ryan has come back into my life only because he needs my help. Remembering that when I was his wife, I’d do whatever he wanted, immediately and without question. He trained me well, as if I were one of the soldiers in his command. Making Ryan happy was so much more important than making myself happy.
Except I am no longer that person.
When we parted, I was convinced my life was over. I coped only because the counsellor I saw at the height of my misery taught me to visualise myself moving forward in a Ryan-free life. Soon, he would just be a speck in the distance, she promised. Just so long as I took the time to build a detailed picture in my head.
At that first session, the counsellor also quoted an old saying that stayed with me. Those parted by death can wipe away tears. Those parted by life must cry and cry forever.
I’d already done enough crying for several lifetimes and the words gave me an idea. For many weeks and months afterwards I survived by pretending to myself – and then to anyone who tried to get close – that my husband had died. It became a bad habit.
I never hated Ryan enough to wish him truly dead, but now, sitting here in my shop, I realise I’m pretty much indifferent to the fact that he is alive. So yes, I did feel something when he kissed me. But I expect I’d also feel a frisson if James Norton kissed me. Or Barclay Banks …
Sleeping Beauty.
That’s who I feel like.
Not because I am beautiful, but because I have woken up to the fact that my husband – my ex-husband – is an irrelevance to the person I have become. Doing what he wants and carrying out his orders isn’t important any more. A simple yet shocking truth.
It has taken five years – and about fifteen minutes – to understand I am finally free from Ryan Sherwood.
I go back to the front of the shop and fire up my computer. I need to tell Kelli the truth about Ryan and me. And not only because he might well take my name in vain once he realises I’m no longer marching to his beat.
Hi Kelli
There’s something I need to tell you. Plus I owe you an apology. It’s a bit of a long story, but here we go. It’s about Ryan Sherwood. The Ryan Sherwood who’s been working as the military adviser on your film. You know who I mean? Well six years ago, Ryan and I got married. He was in the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment – the bit of the army you see on TV strutting their stuff at the Queen’s Birthday Parade and the State Opening of Parliament – and we were living our dream in married quarters at Knightsbridge Barracks, slap bang in the middle of London. It was eight months into our marriage and I thought we were blissfully happy, right until the moment Ryan told me we weren’t.
It began one ordinary Thursday afternoon with an out-of-the-blue text that said simply, We need to talk tonight. Ryan did most of the talking. Our marriage wasn’t working, he explained. His fault as much as mine. He’d thought he’d be able to cope with the demands of my job. But working long, irregular hours had apparently caused me to fail in my role as a military wife, and my last-minute absence from a recent Mess Ball (death pays no respect to an undertaker’s social life) had reflected badly on him. He’d been agonising for weeks, he said, and I’d surely agree it was better to cut our losses now, painful though it was, rather than continue in some sort of a loveless sham. This from a man who two nights previously had spent the better part of three hours shagging me joyfully senseless.
It still hurts, but at least now it feels more like a paper cut than being stabbed with a pair of scissors.
Ryan was about to deploy to Afghanistan and we agreed that by the time he came back I’d be living elsewhere and he would take care of the divorce paperwork.
More accurately, Ryan had already made the decisions. He was calm. Clinical. His words gentle but cold as a bayonet. By the time he got to the bit about hoping that, in time, I’d be grateful to him, and that we would always remain friends, it felt as though I was being crushed by a tank.
And then I did something I’d never done before.
I begged.
Slid off the couch – it was yellow and had been on sale in IKEA – got down literally on my knees and pleaded with Ryan to give us … me … another chance. I’d volunteer for army committees. Make jam. Sack the cleaner and do all the housework myself. Have children sooner rather than later. Even my final roll of the dice, that I’d give up the job I was born to do, made no difference.
‘Hun, don’t,’ Ryan said. ‘Don’t humiliate yourself. I don’t want to have to remember you like this. You’re being pathetic. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.’
Eighteen hours later, I’d moved out. Gone to a Gumtree flatshare in Cricklewood with nothing more than a single suitcase. In the weeks that followed, I realised I’d lost more than my husband … the army closed ranks behind Ryan, and the wives and girlfriends I’d regarded as friends didn’t really want to know me. I couldn’t eat. Lost a stone, which was the only good thing to happen that entire year. I couldn’t sleep more than three hours at a time. You should have seen me at work, Kelli. I was like a zombie. And all the while, I was in physical pain. My heart actually ached. Then I discovered why our marriage ‘hadn’t been working’. Bonnie, the wife of Ryan’s best friend, took pity and finally replied to my string of messages. You’ll think I was stupid not even to have suspected anyone else was involved. Suzi Brenanden she was called. Worked for the Royal Household, and I imagine they met in the line of duty. Bonnie thought I deserved to know.
The next day, my boss caught me crying all over a corpse. He was great. Organised a counsellor. And that was where it all went wrong. As well as right. The counsellor taught me how to visualise. ‘It’s like playing a film in your head,’ she explained. ‘The more detailed the better.’ So I planned out a little horror movie, frame by frame. Ryan’s funeral. A military funeral. All I have to do is show up. His light oak coffin is shouldered by strong, stoical men, immaculate in their No. 2 service dress. Pale sunlight bounces off the highly-polished toe caps of their echoing black boots. Weeping parents. Traditional words of kindness from a vicar an
d the Commanding Officer. A lone trumpeter’s final mournful note, then silence. Precision-folding of the maroon and blue regimental flag, which is then handed to me. I’m dressed in black and dry-eyed. Always dry-eyed. That visualisation became my comfort blanket. Whenever I thought of Ryan, I pictured him dead, in the coffin. And you know what? I DID find it easier to get on with my life.
I told the counsellor the visualisation exercise was hugely helpful, although I never quite get round to saying what it was I saw. Did it really matter? After only four or five sessions, I was down to a packet of Kleenex every other week
People at work knew what had happened so I never needed to lie there. But the following year, February I think it was, I met Gloria at a supermarket checkout. We were both surreptitiously checking out one another’s trolleys, exchanging smiles that acknowledged a shared liking for red wine, pink prawns, and orange peppers. Gloria was ahead of me in the queue, shopping all bagged up, when she realised she’d come out with her Oyster card instead of her debit card.
‘Let me help,’ I offered. I paid for her shopping, then my own, and our friendship began.
Gloria was the first good thing to emerge from the wreckage of my marriage. The second time we met, the conversation turned inevitably to our love lives – just as it did when you and I had supper in the Blueberry Café. I told Gloria the same as I told you. That my husband had died. I might not have used exactly those words, but it was what I wanted you to think.
Kelli, I’m so sorry I lied to you. In the beginning, when I’d explain to new people that my husband left me for another woman, I felt diminished by pity and sympathy. Then one day, someone was being particularly nosey, so I just blurted out that he was dead, and embarrassed them into talking about something else. Worked a treat! By the time I realised Gloria was going to be a close friend, it was too late to own up, so I gave her the whole funeral visualisation thing – without mentioning I’d imagined it all. And she’s told other people, people I’ve met, like her mum and dad, and they all treat me with kid gloves, tiptoeing around my past. And because I don’t think I’ll ever trust another man ever again, not properly, I go with the widow thing – in my head usually – whenever someone shows interest in me.
