by Karen Ross
Except Barclay, I realise. I haven’t done that where Barclay’s concerned.
I think of myself as an honest person, but over the years, it’s become a habit. Sometimes, when I visualise Ryan’s funeral, it’s as if he really did die. So when I’m caught unawares, as I was when you asked about my personal life, I just say the words husband and funeral in the same sentence, then change the subject. I’ve already promised myself I’ll never do it again.
And here’s the thing … assuming you’re not so cross you’ve already deleted this email. Ryan’s back here in London. He turned up today at Mrs Happy’s funeral. Which went okay, although it was a very small turnout. He told me he’s been fired from your movie, and basically asked me to ask you to get him reinstated. But I absolutely don’t want you to do that. I realise that with Ryan, you never know the whole truth, just the parts he wants you to see. He’s basically dishonest. Which is rich, coming from me! I’ll understand completely if you decide to ignore this email, and again, I’m sorry. Love, Nina xx
I hit send and wonder what Kelli will make of it all.
I try to remember if Gloria said she’d be home tonight, so I can own up to her, too. Will she and Edo ever trust me again? Now I come to think of it, what on earth was I thinking when I left the pair of them alone with my parents the day I opened my business? Imagine the confusion if either of them had said anything about me being a widow!
I’m just about to lock up and leave Happy Endings when my iPhone pings. Kelli. Well that didn’t take long! Is that good or bad? My heart thumps as I open the message.
Darling!
I was just about to give you the heads-up on a BIG announcement about yours truly. But you poor thing! Yes, I know Ryan. Complete dick. Don’t know how much he told you, but Roberto fired him for trying to shag half the woman on the set. He caused absolute havoc, and all while his wife’s stuck at home, seven months pregnant, with their third child. I’m sorry he hurt you so badly. But you know what they say about living well being the best revenge and all that. So far as you and I are concerned, there’s nothing to forgive. As for my news … Nina, you’ll never guess what I did last night! In the circumstances, it’s a teeny bit ironic. I GOT MARRIED!!!! More soon. XXX
33
So here I am in Hyde Park. Ryan has always been compulsively punctual – that’s army discipline for you – and I intend to arrive at our rendezvous comfortably ahead of schedule.
It’s been an eventful two days since Mrs Happy’s funeral and Ryan’s reappearance. For a start, Kelli’s email made me realise it was time to think hard about my own life. I wasn’t ready to confess to Gloria and Edo, so I texted to say my parents needed to see me.
Then I drove to Brighton, a pre-Ryan place where I’d done so much of my growing and been happy until Lin died …
I found a small B&B not far from the station, checked in, and slept for eleven hours. When I woke up, I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to go shopping.
I wandered around the Lanes, startled at how posh the little retail paradise had become. In my student days, the area was edgy and creative. Now it’s a maze of upmarket traders and, if I were on speaking terms with Zoe Banks, I’d ask if she reckons an ‘erotic boutique’ that specialises in ‘high-end fetish couture’ would do better in Primrose Hill than the sugar-free sweet shop of her dreams.
Eventually, I found the type of shop I was looking for and made my purchases, complete with gift wrapping and stashed inside a jaunty red and white striped carrier bag.
Next, I drove to Lewes Road and parked outside the house where Lin and I used to live. The property boasted new window frames, a fresh coat of paint, and a well-established scarlet fuchsia hedge in the small front garden. The single doorbell indicated it was now a family home rather than student accommodation.
I sat outside for a while, thinking about my friend. And how random life is. You can put two plants in the soil side by side. One will flower and flourish while for no apparent reason the other shrivels and dies. Lin had been unlucky. And I’d grown rooted in my past … Would Lin and I still be friends today, or would our lives have taken us along separate paths? It was the first time I’d ever asked myself the question and, while there’s no way of knowing, I’m pretty sure we’d still be in touch. I’m certain she’d have seen through Ryan’s bullshit much faster than I did. Part of me hopes Lin knows how I’m doing.
Fighting back.
The next thing I had to do was go talk to my parents. The journey from Brighton to Southampton didn’t take long and Dad waited a whole ten minutes before he asked – while Mum was out of the room – ‘So how’s business?’
I took a deep breath.
‘Much slower than I’d been hoping.’ I looked Dad in the eye. ‘I’ve spent roughly thirty-five thousand of your pension pot, and I’ve done two funerals. A dog. And my neighbour. Net profit just over sixteen hundred quid. I’m going to give you back the rest now. Is a cheque okay?’
‘Steady on,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve still got my salary coming in until Christmas. If you give me back my money, what’s going to happen to Happy Endings?’
‘I think I can get another investor.’ Barclay Banks. Even if the cost of his money means I’ll have to move out of Primrose Hill and start all over again.
‘An investor?’ Dad suddenly looked ten years younger. ‘That must mean you can’t be doing everything wrong. I’ll take my chances. What I was going to say is that I probably panicked about my own job.’
‘They’re not going to make you redundant?’
‘If only! No, I’ve been asking around and even if I can’t get another job in site management there’s a good chance one of my ex-navy mates will take me on as a labourer. Part-time to start with.’
Before Dad could elaborate on his career prospects, Mum came into the room carrying a tea tray. ‘I hope you’re not filling Nina’s head with nonsense about working on sites in January,’ she admonished. ‘Minimum wage for a man of your experience? I don’t think so!’
An imperceptible shake of Dad’s head signalled we should change the subject. Over home-made cherry pie and whipped double cream with a generous hint of vanilla (the Family Diet), I entertained my parents by telling them about my friendship with Kelli. A heavily edited account of how we came to meet – ‘She lives just a few minutes from the shop and we were introduced by a local estate agent’ – but even though I was tempted, nothing about her marriage. I’d checked online, and the news had yet to break.
Mum and Dad wanted me to stay, but I told them I needed to get back. ‘Work,’ I said. ‘You know how it is.’
Dad walked me to the car.
‘So about your investment,’ I began.
My father placed a gentle finger over my lips, the way he used to shush me when I was little and he needed to get a word in edgeways. ‘Will you have spent the whole fifteen thousand by Christmas?’ he asked.
‘Shouldn’t think so. And if I get any more funerals between now and then, definitely not.’
‘Well look. Don’t go killing any more neighbours. Or pets. Not on my account. Spend what you need to and let’s see where we are in a couple of months. Like I said, if you’re already attracting backers, someone else believes in you and your business. And I’d much rather we keep the profits in the family. What do you say?’
I said thank you, and drove back up the M3, feeling relieved I’d seen my parents, instead of just pretending to.
When I arrived back in London in the early hours of this morning, the house was in darkness. I felt my way upstairs without turning on the lights. Chopper must have been asleep too – a mega-fail in his duties as a guard dog – so I got to my room without disturbing my housemates. I slept badly, too wired thinking about what I intended to say to Ryan.
In my head, our meeting was going to be short and – at least, for me – sweet. Over and over, I’ve visualised what’s going to happen.
Ryan remains at the table absorbing the shock. I watch, without r
egret. Better than that, I walk away and go forward knowing the long period of mourning for my failed marriage is complete. A huge burden lifted. I am smiling.
It’s taken a long time, but finally my counsellor can be proud.
‘Hang onto that thought,’ I tell myself now, at the top of the steps that lead to the terrace restaurant in Hyde Park.
A moment’s hesitation. Then I choose a table that gives me a clear sight line. I sit down, and stare at my watch.
I’m ten minutes ahead of schedule.
34
Ryan arrives four minutes early and the face he pulls when he sees I’m already seated gives me an extra little shot of confidence. He’s wearing fashionably ripped-at-the-knees jeans, a yellow polo shirt and a leather jacket and his hair is still damp from the shower. I wonder for a moment where he lives now, then realise I don’t care. He hesitates, waiting to see if I’m going to stand up so he can kiss me. When it becomes clear I’m staying where I am, he slides into the seat opposite me.
‘Well, this place brings back happy memories,’ he says. ‘Great choice!’
When we lived at Knightsbridge Barracks we often came here for Sunday brunch, followed more often than not by a boat trip on the Serpentine.
I push a menu across the table. ‘What are you going to have?’
Ryan doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he takes my hand in his. ‘Full English and a double espresso, of course. And you’ll be having the French toast with streaky bacon and maple syrup. And a latte.’
A statement, rather than a question.
Call me slow on the uptake, but having thought about it for the past two days, now I see so clearly how controlling Ryan has always been. The annoying thing is that I really do fancy the French toast. But it’s a small sacrifice to make.
I remove my hand. ‘Fruit salad and a flat white for me,’ I declare.
Ryan leans back in his chair and looks at me properly for the first time. ‘Good call,’ he nods. ‘You can probably get back to your fighting weight in about ten weeks if you try hard enough.’
A remark that would once have had me rushing for the nearest salad bar. Now I’m gagging to tell him I’m not the only person sitting at this table who needs to watch their waistline. But what the hell. Let him get fat.
After we’ve ordered, and after we’ve made small talk about the weather, Ryan leans forward in his seat. I take both hands off the table, carefully out of range.
‘Thank you so much for speaking to Kelli,’ Ryan says. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve managed to sort out everything so quickly.’
I say nothing.
‘And grateful,’ Ryan adds. ‘That goes without saying. When do they want me back?’
‘That depends,’ I tell him. ‘What about you and me?’
‘Us? Well I thought after breakfast, we’d take a pedalo out on the lake. Then, maybe … well, you could show me where you’re living. Or we could book into a hotel.’ Ryan shoots me the sexy smile that used to make my heart flip. Now it only makes me feel queasy.
‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ I say. ‘I was thinking longer-term.’
Fortunately for Ryan, our food arrives, which gives him time to come up with a plausible reply.
‘About us. We need to take it slowly,’ he says. ‘What with the job, I’m away a lot. I’ll be back in the Philippines for the final month of filming. And I’m probably in Turkey in November, now I’m not blacklisted. Which is all thanks to you, my lovely little Robin. Are you sure you don’t want some of my toast? Shall I butter it for you? Maybe a few days in Istanbul if you’re not too busy with your business?’
I detect more than a hint of disapproval in Ryan’s final word. ‘November’s a long time away,’ I muse. ‘Anything could happen.’
‘I’d forgotten how good the food is here.’ Ryan bayonets a plump wedge of sausage, dips it in egg yolk, and pops it into his mouth. His way of changing the subject.
‘Do you realise you haven’t actually asked me how I see our future?’
‘I know you want to try again. But hun, it’s not that straightforward.’ Ryan destroys a slow-roast cannonball tomato with a flick of his fork and tiny fragments of basil float into what’s left of the egg.
‘No-one’s life goes in a straight line,’ I say. ‘And has it crossed your mind you might be wrong?’
‘About what?’ Ryan looks startled, and it’s satisfying to know I have his full attention.
‘About what I want to happen between the two of us.’
‘So spell it out, why don’t you? And drink your coffee before it gets cold.’
I ignore both ex-husband and coffee in favour of my fruit salad.
‘Just so we’re on the same page,’ I say between dainty mouthfuls, ‘it was you who suggested we get back together.’
I resist all temptation to fill the silence and wait until Ryan responds by way of a curt nod before I continue. ‘That’s what you told me on Wednesday, right?’
Ryan’s looking wary, as if he suspects an ambush. Another long pause, then he nods again, intently focused now on me rather than what’s left of his full English.
‘Although now you’re saying it’s my idea to try again.’
‘What is it with you and these word games, Nina?’ Ryan picks up the pepper grinder and detonates a vigorous spray of black dust over his bacon. ‘Does it matter who said what? The most important thing is that this is a new beginning for us. After I get back from filming. When do they want me, by the way?’
A new beginning. Ryan’s right about that.
A final piece of our relationship puzzle has snapped into place. What I once took for military authority – charisma, even – is borderline bullying. My ex-husband is like a spoiled child. Delightful when he’s having his own way, nasty when he’s not.
It’s not that I was a bad wife.
Ryan was a rubbish husband.
And he still is.
‘A new beginning sounds great.’ I drain my coffee cup. ‘A new beginning for us both. Tell you what, I’ll just nip outside and give Kelli a call. See what she knows about your return.’
‘Great.’
‘Oh, and I’ve got a little surprise for you.’ I reach beneath the table and produce the red and white striped carrier bag that contains the items I bought in Brighton.
‘For me? Fantastic! You’ve always been great at presents. Let’s see!’ Ryan’s charming child mask is back in place.
I stand up, move the remainder of my breakfast to one side, and place the bag on the table.
‘All yours,’ I say. And with that, I turn my back on Ryan and walk towards the door. ‘Let’s see what Kelli has to say.’
‘You’re the best!’ Ryan calls after me. ‘Tell them they need to book me into business class, won’t you.’
I wonder if those are the final words I’ll ever hear him speak.
I leave the restaurant, go down the steps and walk quickly across the grass until I’ve got a view of Ryan at the table, engrossed in his surprise packages.
I take out my phone and put it to my ear, in case he spots me.
Then I wait.
And watch.
I’d spent ages in that toy shop before making my selections.
First, I chose something called a ‘Despicable Me Fart Blaster’, a gun that not only makes disgusting noises but also gives out a rotten banana scent every time you press the trigger. Ryan is about to remove a layer of green wrapping paper from its box.
After he’s finished puzzling about my choice, he’ll progress to the oblong box covered in blue paper with a galaxy of stars printed on it.
Inside, is an electronic drum kit. The lovely man in the toy shop warned me it’s louder than a burst of gunfire, and virtually guaranteed to cross the adult pain threshold when the base drum, snare and cymbals are played at the same time. It’s hard to suppress a smile at the prospect. I try, and fail.
Ryan looks up from his fart gun. Our eyes meet and I move my lips, so he’ll thin
k I’m talking to Kelli. As I do so, I turn my back on the café and amble across the grass. By the time I’m out of the park, Ryan will also have unwrapped the final – smallest – package.
I admit it. My final choice was heavily influenced by Barclay and the variety of slogans he wears across his chest. Nevertheless, it’s Ryan’s face I’d quite like to see when he claps eyes on the baby-sized T-shirt that tells the world, I Don’t Want to Grow Up. Neither Does My Dad, but I could always visualise it. Although I doubt I’ll bother.
Will the penny have dropped by this stage, or will Ryan need to read the note at the bottom of the carrier bag? In which I explain how Kelli filled me in about his wife. And children. And his lecherous behaviour on set. I explained the film company was glad to be rid of him because his mind was never properly on the job. That the gifts are actually for his kids. And a final paragraph saying he needs to tread very carefully from now on. Unless he fancies another divorce.
If he chooses to interpret my advice as a threat, so much the better.
At the tube station, before I disappear underground, I send Ryan a text: I wish you well. Have a happy life.
35
I get off the tube at Chalk Farm.
Procrastinating, when what I need to do is face the music, fess up to Gloria and Edo that I’m not a widow after all – just an idiot who invented a sad story because she couldn’t face the reality that her cheating husband had dumped her.
I know they’ll both be at home, because Gloria and her band of guerrilla gardeners are meeting tonight to rehearse their forthcoming assault on the Regent’s Park Festival. Edo and I have promised to help her get everything ready. But I still need a little time to myself so I’m going to drop by the shop.
When I’ve let myself in, I collect the post from the doormat. Two envelopes. One white, one brown. The white one has a stamp on it and looks official. The other’s handwritten, and I open it first.
A card from Mr Happy, thanking me for ensuring the funeral went off smoothly. And adding that ‘in view of the circumstances’, he has decided not to pursue putting a new roof on the building. My friend Robert, who you met at the funeral, will make it properly watertight at no cost to yourself and we will embark on the works immediately.
