by Shari Low
I looked away, kept going.
Pete was lying on our bed, fully clothed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. His light brown hair, normally meticulously short, was longer than usual, after circumstances had caused him to miss his fortnightly appointment. His jacket and black tie had been cast aside, but he still wore the white shirt, open at the neck, broad at the shoulders and then tapering down to the point it was tucked into his suit trousers. If this was any other time, my thoughts would go to a place that would involve nudity, but not tonight. Instead, it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe, and what was there had some kind of tranquilising powers. I now understood the meaning of the phrase ‘bone-tired’.
I sat at the bottom of the bed, facing him, my back against the grey chenille footboard.
‘Hey,’ I said softly.
His reply was a sad smile.
‘I know it’s a cliché, but I still can’t believe any of this has happened. I can’t believe she’s gone, Pete.’
I didn’t cry. There were no tears left.
‘I know. Doesn’t feel real.’
A pause. The last two weeks had been the most devastating event in our lives and yet neither of us had the stomach to talk about it.
‘You know, she’d hate us to curl up and stop living. The last conversation we had was her telling me to start making the most of life.’
‘Why did she say that?’
‘Because I was telling her that you wanted to go on holiday.’
‘What holiday?’
No wonder he’d forgotten. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘The one to the Maldives. I saw you looking at the brochure I brought home from the shop.’
A few moments of silence made room for a thought to come out of nowhere and blurt straight from my gob, without pausing at my brain’s common sense or financial checkpoints for approval.
‘She was right, Pete. We should go.’
Another silence. This was the wrong time. I knew that. I mean, who makes holiday plans on the night of the funeral of their best friend? I couldn’t explain it, and I knew it seemed hopelessly insensitive, but it almost felt like a mission to honour Dee, like somehow, by doing exactly what she would have wanted me to, what she’d told me to do, I was doing the right thing.
I was so busy refereeing the conflicting emotions in my head that I almost missed his reply.
‘I… can’t.’
‘Oh come on. Work will give you time off if you ask them. I know it seems weird, but it just feels… right.’
‘It doesn’t, Jen. Nothing about it feels right. I can’t do this.’
He sounded odd. Not surprising. Our grief was undulating, swelling and surging like crashing waves.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Maybe next year.’
What was wrong with me? A crashing tsunami of guilt took down everything in its path. What had I been thinking? A holiday? I’d just buried my best friend. No holiday was going to change that. And how could I even think about making plans when all I should be doing was mourning my best friend?
He spoke, but in such a low whisper that this time I didn’t catch it.
‘Sorry?’ I said gently, both an apology and a question.
‘Not next year.’
I thought again how his face was etched with weariness and sadness, every line carved out by our loss. I immediately realised what he was saying. After what I’d just told him, about Dee saying we should go, we’d always associate the Maldives holiday conversation with Dee, so of course, going there would only bring sadness. We couldn’t go there. Not ever.
‘I get it,’ I told him, starting to undo the tiny buttons on my black cardigan. I suddenly needed to be out of these clothes right now. I’d undone two when he spoke again.
‘I don’t think you do.’
‘Do what?’
‘I don’t think you get it. Dee’s d—’ He paused, choking on the word. ‘What happened to Dee, it’s made me see that…’ It was so uncharacteristic for him to be struggling to get his words across, but I didn’t interrupt. ‘I want to live a different life, Jen.’
‘So do I. You’re right. That’s what I was trying to say. We can do that. We can change…’
He stiffened. ‘Not “we”.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t do “we” anymore.’
I started to shiver, a malevolent shudder that spread from my gut as I began to see what he was saying, yet convinced I must be wrong. Fifteen years. You didn’t last that long for it all to dissipate with no warning.
I realised I was trying to speak but no words were forming. Instead, my jaw jammed in a semi-open position as he climbed off the bed, picked up the jacket he’d dropped on the chair in the corner and headed for the door, paused, turned, spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t want to say this and especially not today. I was going to wait. But this just isn’t what I want anymore.’
Then he kept on walking.
Gone.
And I couldn’t actually grasp what was happening.
Had the love of my life just left me on the day of my best friend’s funeral?
Chapter 6
Jen
‘He left me.’
The water that was gushing into the kettle started to overflow as Val stared, open-mouthed, waiting for a punchline to a really bad joke. It was a cold February morning, a week after the funeral and it looked like she hadn’t slept since.
‘What do you mean “left you”? Like, went for a run to cool off?’
‘No. He left me. Came back the next day, packed all his stuff. All he would tell me was that he’d moved in with someone from work. I haven’t heard from him at all. Tried calling him a couple of times but he doesn’t answer.’
‘Oh, love. Why didn’t you tell me?’
I didn’t need to reply. The answer was written all over her face. Her lids were swollen from a relentless onslaught of tears, her cheeks sunken because, usually no stranger to a home-cooked feast, she hadn’t been able to keep anything down since the day her daughter died. Her skin was dry, her lips chapped from lack of nutrients. Yet, despite everything she’d been through, the frown lines between her eyebrows showed that she was worried about me. That was the kind of woman Dee had been raised by. No wonder she became the woman that she is.
Was.
That thought was all it took. A wave of grief twisted my gut and I had to fight the urge to buckle over, to howl, to scream with utter fucking rage that she wasn’t sitting here, at the kitchen table, ranting that Pete was being a dick, fighting me for the last chocolate digestive. I’d always loved this kitchen, with its blue walls and cream units and chaotic collection of gadgets. Every gizmo ever sold on QVC now had a resting place somewhere on these oak counter tops. The omelette maker. The sandwich toaster. The coffee percolator. The one-cup kettle. The under-unit drop-down TV. The Soda Stream. The slow cooker. The portable grill. In past days, the Museum of Superfluous Technology would make Dee and I giggle.
Not now.
My heart hurt. It truly ached.
‘You know the weird thing is, if anyone had told me a month ago that I’d lose Pete, I’d have said it was the worst thing in the world, but it doesn’t even come close.’
I should be angry. Fucking furious. Distraught. Devastated. Raging at the brutality and unfairness of it all. How could he leave me after everything we’d been through, after everything that had happened? But somehow, mostly what I felt was numb.
Perhaps it was the fact that my heart was already shattered. Or maybe it was more that Dee’s death had left me empty. Like the pain sensors had been charged so high they’d short-circuited and powered down.
None of it seemed real. Nothing. I just wanted her back. And then, when she was at my side, we could plot a cunning plan to sort out Pete and whatever aberration was making him act so out of character.
Val nodded, a sad smile playing on her lips as she put the kettle back on its stand and f
lipped the switch on. ‘I know, love. She’d have given him a right bollocking for this.’
‘She would have,’ I agreed, trying to force some levity into my voice.
‘I hate him so much.’
The venom in her voice caught me off guard, but I knew immediately who she was talking about.
She went on, ‘He’s due in court for the first hearing this week. The police liaison officer said it’ll be months until the trial and he might get bail or remand until then. Depends on the judge. But the thought of him walking the streets is eating at my guts. I want to kill him.’
This was a Val I’d never seen before, a seething, brooding, tormented Val.
‘He’ll pay, Val,’ I said softly, trying to comfort her. ‘Dee will make sure of it,’ I added, ‘she never let anyone get away with anything.’
I saw immediately that it was what she needed to hear. The mention of Dee’s name and the assurance of justice brought the anger down, until it morphed into something more positive.
A pause. ‘You know, Jen, she’d have hated this. She’s up there right now telling the two of us to get a grip.’
‘You think?’
‘I do. Especially now that Mark’s home. You didn’t half used to have a thing for him,’ she added, trying desperately to lighten the mood.
I decided I’d give her that one. Mark had been my first crush, and when he’d gone off to do a gap year in Australia, he’d left a huge swirl of my almost‐teenage hormones in his wake. A few months later, I was grateful, though, as it left a room free for Val to take me in when my mum died. The year stretched into two, then three, then six.
Working as some kind of diver, he didn’t get home very often, but Dee and I had gone out to visit him a couple of times and Val and Don went out once a year. Thankfully, my crush had worn off the second I met Pete, and by the time I was twenty I could look at him without going weak at the knees and hearing Take That singing ‘Love Ain’t Here Anymore’.
‘How long is he staying for?’ I asked.
Val shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve told him he has to get back to his life. Nothing he can do here. I’d actually told him there was no point coming back after Dee… you know…but…’ Her voice trailed off. She didn’t say it unkindly. Val was fiercely protective of both her adult children. She’d do anything to protect their lives from disruption and sadness. I suddenly realised there was no more ‘both’. Just one now.
‘He wanted to be here with you, Val.’
For the first time, her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away. She sat down opposite me and pushed a mug towards me. ‘I know. And now Mark’s here and Dee is gone. How does that make sense? I don’t know what’s happening anymore, Jen.’
‘Me neither.’ I wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t. Val needed me to be strong and together, and a comfort to her, not a snivelling wreck. Don’t cry. Do not cry.
‘Och, love,’ she whispered, leaning in and enfolding me in a hug.
My resolve shattered. I cried.
‘That Pete doesn’t know what he’s done. Our Dee said he was having an early mid-life crisis.’
‘I wish he’d bought a motorbike and a bomber jacket instead,’ I said, laughing despite the tears and snot.
‘You know he’ll be back, don’t you? It’s just some kind of overdramatic reaction to… to Dee…’ She didn’t finish. There were so many half-spoken sentences these days. It was like neither of us had the words to express Dee’s death, and if we did we couldn’t say them out loud. And while I wanted to believe she was right about Pete, I wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t one who was prone to drama, or emotion or knee-jerk reactions. He took days to make any decision, longer if it was an important one.
‘I don’t think so, Val. I think it’s exactly what it looks like. I think, if I’m honest, I knew that he’d been unhappy for a while and Dee’s… leaving… made him realise life’s too short to stay where you’re not happy.’
Saying that should hurt. It should eviscerate my heart. Yet still, all I felt was numb. It was like I was a casual bystander, analysing and objectively commenting on someone else’s life.
Val took a sip from her pink ceramic mug, a Mother’s Day gift designed by Dee that had a cheesy Mum poem on one side and a retro picture of Richard Gere, circa An Officer and a Gentleman, on the other. Wearily, she replaced it on the table.
‘But running away doesn’t solve anything. Surely you owe it to the people you love to stay and be there for them?’
‘Then I guess he doesn’t love me anymore.’ The brutal truth.
‘You’re better off without him then, Jen. Because that’s what you want. Someone who’ll fight for you…’
Her words drifted off and I saw that she was staring out the window, her jaw set in rage, looking for all the world like someone who would fight until her dying breath for those she loved.
Chapter 7
Jen & Dee, 2005
‘You get the traveller’s cheques, the beach towels, the toiletries and the adaptors – I’ll get the Frisbee, the kaftans, the travel straighteners and that Piz Buin stuff that makes you look like an international supermodel. And everything needs to fit in one carry-on case and be under 10 kilograms, because there’s no bloody way I’m unpacking my bras in the departure terminal at Glasgow Airport… again. That’s ritual humiliation right there.’
Dee’s long mane of red waves was pulled up into a ponytail, she had no make-up on, she was wearing dungarees that had belonged in the eighties, yet I felt like the bland one.
‘No problem,’ I replied, pulling my Calvin Klein bag up on to my shoulder. It had been a graduation present from Val and Don – they’d bought both Dee and I the same leather messenger bags, in different colours: Dee’s black, mine navy. I loved it. It showed someone cared about me, unlike my dad, who had been on the rigs on the day of my graduation, and had gone straight on a bender when he got back on dry land. Four weeks later, I still hadn’t seen him. ‘But it’ll have to be later today. I’ve got that interview at 2p.m.’
Dee looked up from the copy of Heat. ‘So you have! I completely forgot. Are you ready for it? Prepared to set their knickers alight?’
I was never going to set the world, or anyone’s knickers, alight as a junior accountant at Davis McDougal but it was a start.
Pete popped his head around the back door. ‘You ready to go?’
The sight of him made me smile. ‘Just coming.’
‘Good luck at the interview. You’ll be fab,’ Dee shouted to my back.
A few hours later, I realised that her confidence in me was somewhat optimistic. I wasn’t fab. I was downright dire. Facing a panel of two middle-aged, very serious men and a woman with a headmistress demeanour who was deeply intimidating, I stuttered, I sweated and I blanked. And by the time I left, thirty-two minutes after I entered the building, I knew that despite having a degree in accountancy, the last thing I wanted to be was an actual accountant.
Bollocks.
Back at the Kelvinbridge flat I’d shared with Dee since our first day at uni, I opened the door, struggled into the kitchen, laden with bags, to see her standing there, clutching a bottle of cider and an expectant expression.
‘We couldn’t afford champagne so this will have to do,’ she informed me gleefully, as I thought, for the gazillionth time since I met her, that there was no one on the face of this earth who possessed more optimism than my cider-clutching friend, and no-one I wanted to see more when life went resoundingly tits up.
‘Is it for celebrating or drowning sorrows?’ I asked.
‘Celebrating?’ she said, with an edge of question.
I shook my head.
She immediately switched to the alternative. ‘Drowning our sorrows?’
‘’Fraid so. Make mine a large one.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d just blown the only job on the horizon, yet suddenly, thanks to Dee, it seemed hilarious.
We were on our second glass, when Dee gestured to my bags. ‘What’s
in there?’
‘The stuff for our holiday. Talking of which, we really should get packing.’
‘I didn’t manage to get everything I needed so we might have to do a quick shop in the morning before we go to the airport,’ she confessed.
‘What didn’t you get? We can live without a Frisbee.’
It took a moment and I recognised her familiar ‘should I go with the truth, or make up a great lie’ expression.
‘Any of it.’ She went with the truth. ‘Sorry. I got caught up with… with… I’ve no idea. I started packing, then Jase stopped by…’
Ah, that explained it. Her boyfriend of the moment. He was the manager of the restaurant we both worked in – a dangerous situation given the contradictory nature of Dee’s short romantic attention span and our need to make the rent every month.
‘…And we got a bit distracted, you know what he’s like…’ I knew. It’s was why I always chose to work on their night off rather than be home with them and their overtly intimate, overly loud PDAs.
So her pre-holiday tasks remained undone. I tried to remember what had been on her shopping list. Frisbee. Kaftans. Straighteners. Piz Buin stuff that would allegedly make us look like international supermodels.
‘I’ll get up early and nip to Tesco. Should be able to get some stuff there, and everything else we’ll get at the airport. Life would be so much easier if we could just get everything we needed in the same bloody place.’
Dee’s drink stopped halfway to her mouth. ‘That’s what we should do.’
‘Yeah, right – there’s no way you’ll get up early.’
‘No, not that bit, the other bit. We should open a shop that sells everything you need for a holiday, all in the same place.’
‘How much of that cider have you had?’ I asked. ‘We know nothing about shops, we’re skint, and we couldn’t even organise our own holiday stuff so we’ve no chance of organising anyone else’s.’
I could see she wasn’t listening. This was vintage Dee. She had an idea in her head and it was consuming every synapse of her brain.
