I turn to catch Harry studying me. He throws his head back, laughing, managing to brush away what for anyone else might have been an awkward gaffe. “I’m sorry but I just . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stop there. I just. End of sentence.” He nods, as though he’s not quite sure what’s happening, as though this is a bit of a dream for him, too.
“That sentence works for me,” I say. “Short perhaps, but I get it.”
“You always did, didn’t you?”
There’s this strange feeling bouncing between us, that this is so normal and yet so fragile. It’s as if we both want to acknowledge how sad this is but we’re afraid to say it out loud, in case we risk breaking the spell. For a brief moment we gaze at each other in silence.
“Can we not be sad?” I say. “I’m not very good at it.”
“No,” he says. “I guess I know that now. Can I just say it once then? That I’m really, really sad.”
“Ha! Okay. Just the once,” I say. “And in case you were wondering, I am, too.”
He hands me the drinks menu. “Sorry,” he says. “Started without you. You ready for one? I’m ready for a top-up.”
“I’ll have my usual cocktail,” I reply, not really caring. I’m not into alcohol these days, but I guess it would be odd to come to a cocktail bar and not drink. Alcohol tastes like poison, but I don’t need to tell him that.
He nods and I realize I’ve said it as though he should instantly know my usual. “You remember?”
“Hello! How many times did we used to come here? You never once drank anything different.”
“And neither did you. I bet that’s a vodka tonic.”
“Reassuring, isn’t it?” he says, “To know some things don’t change.” He signs at a waiter.
Harry orders my Bellini and another vodka tonic. “Oh, and a bottle of still water,” he adds, throwing me a look as if to say he remembers I’m a lightweight too. As though assuring me he remembers everything.
I can feel the muscles in my face tugging and know I must be one big eager grin. I can’t help myself. Fortunately, his face looks the same. Awestruck, open. His wide-set eyes, glossy and bright. And yet he looks different. I’m not sure why. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have said anything out of politeness; I would have just sat and wondered in silence. But my axis has shifted. There’s no time to sit and wonder so I just come out with it.
“You look great, Harry,” I say. “But there’s something different about you. What is it?” The directness feels liberating.
“There is?” He checks his face with the tips of his fingers, pressing his flesh. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. Something. Please don’t say you’ve had Botox?”
“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who would have Botox?”
Yes! “No,” I say. I’m not that brave. Then it occurs to me. “What have you done to your teeth?”
“Ohhhh! My teeth.” He runs his tongue across his gleaming upper set, as if he’s suddenly remembered they’re there. “I’ve got veneers.”
“Nice!”
“Thanks.”
“Why, though? I didn’t think you were that kind of guy either.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “If you really want to know, Melissa thought I should.”
“Really?” I say, hackles instantly rising at the mention of her name. She’s obviously still very much around. I’m annoyed by my reaction. What was I hoping for? Some happy reunion? “I never realized your teeth bothered you.” He notices the change of tone and leans back awkwardly in his chair, arm slung over the side.
“They didn’t. They bothered her.”
“So if I’d have asked you to fix your teeth, would you have done it?” Down, green dragon, down!
“Why? Did they bother you?”
“No. In fact, I liked them. That little crooked incisor had its own personality.”
He laughs. “And that’s why I’m here with you now.”
“Well, that . . . And the fact I’m dying.”
I can feel him struggling. I’ve had a few more weeks’ practice at this.
“I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Let’s change the subject. I didn’t mean to bring it up . . . So where were you then? On your trip.”
“Munich,” he says. “Next stop Milan.”
“I love your life.”
“You’re really making me feel bad now.”
“I don’t mean to. I enjoy hearing about nice things.”
“It’s all work, though. Not that nice.”
“And how is Melissa?”
He all but jumps. I can’t help myself. I have to know and I might as well ask while he’s feeling bad.
He sweeps back his hair. “I hear she’s okay. We’re not together anymore. I thought you knew.”
My turn to jump. “No. I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Harry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” We both laugh, sharing a curious smile. How does this news feel? What does it mean?
“So what happened?”
“Nothing epic,” he says. “It simply fizzled out.” He exhales deeply. “Can we leave it at that?”
“Sure. It must still hurt?”
He throws me a bothered look. “No. I just don’t want to upset you with talk of her. I realize I’ve said too much already. Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour.”
“Oh, really,” I say. “And I thought you reserved that one for me.”
His face drops. He shifts uncomfortably like he remembers.
But I wonder if he remembers every word, every gesture, every nuance. The way I do. My mind wanders and I’m pulled back into the depths of that memory. . . .
* * *
—
I saw you on the local news today,” I say, not even allowing him to take off his coat. “They were doing a report on shopping centers. You were in the background. And then the foreground.” I watch his face pale. “You had your arm draped over some girl’s shoulder. She looked very pretty.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “Why would I be in a shopping center?”
“It’s funny you should say that . . . I was wondering the same. But it was definitely you. Well . . . either you or a man impersonating you, wearing your khaki jacket and your orange trainers and YOUR FACE!”
He’s standing there in his khaki jacket, with his orange trainers, and his face is a picture.
“I’m sorry you had to see it like that, Jennifer,” he says. Bad sign. He only ever uses my name when he’s angry. He takes off the jacket and throws it over the banister. “I mean, what are the chances? A local news program. Anyway, she’s no one. Just a business acquaintance who’s become a friend. I would have told you about her but there’s never time to talk.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Then we ought to make time to talk,” I say.
And that’s when we have that conversation; the one where he assures me that he and Melissa—the no one gets a name check fairly quickly—are honestly nothing more than friends.
“Men and women can’t be friends,” I say. “Because the sex part always gets in the way.”
“That’s just a line from a fucking film,” he parries.
“Fine,” I say. “I happen to love that film. I’m just sad that you think there’s never any time to talk.”
“Well, there isn’t.”
“So . . . have you given up on us then?”
“No. No! Not at all,” he says, all innocence. “Not unless . . . you have.” Which is how he betrays himself. He sticks his hands in his pockets and starts pacing. “Is that what you want then? To give up?”
Well, that’s my cue, isn’t it. Because that’s exactly what he wants, only he
can’t be the one to say it. That would label him the guilty party and no man ever wants that. So now I’m convinced I’m right about Melissa and I want to cut to the chase and get this over with.
I do my thing and make it easy for him. I tell him that yes, maybe he’s right, there’s never time to talk and perhaps that’s a symptom of a dying relationship. I suggest that maybe subconsciously we’ve been avoiding real conversation because we’re afraid it will end in tears. He listens, saying nothing, so I plow on and hand him his get-out-of-jail free card and tell him that if he wants to be more than “just friends” with Melissa, then that’s fine. He says that’s not what he wants at all and he’s not sure why I keep pushing her on him.
“I’m not. But I can’t help feeling that maybe there’s more to this than you’re saying.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“What does it matter? I’m right about us being over. Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” he says and my heart lurches. “It certainly seems like that’s what you want.”
He turns it back on me again, ensuring it’s my decision and now I’m past the point of no return.
We try to have a normal evening, pretending that everything is fine and that we still care about each other and we’re being very grown up about this and we’ll talk more in the morning, but then he says, “Maybe it’s better I go home now. I mean, I can only play charades with you for so long. I just wish you’d trusted me.” And he puts his khaki jacket on and leaves.
Somehow I’ve maneuvered myself into a corner and made myself history while handing him his future on a plate. Within a month, I hear he is with Melissa.
* * *
—
Don’t get upset, Sally,” he says. “What does it matter now? We’re here, aren’t we?”
“Just about,” I say. “But I need to talk about it. To get it sorted in my mind.”
“I understand,” he says. “But I honestly thought you wanted out. Maybe I was being obtuse, but that was the message you gave me. I’m sorry I misread the signs.” He appears to be genuinely remorseful. He rubs his forehead and sighs. “Sitting here now it all feels quite ridiculous, doesn’t it? I feel . . . so foolish. Your letter made me feel awful.”
“I didn’t write it to make you feel awful. I wanted you to know, that’s all.”
He shrugs. “I’m really sorry. Trust me. I’ve never been more sorry.”
“Ditto,” I say. “I don’t know why I was so scared to fight for you, to tell you how much I cared. I guess I didn’t want to be made to look a fool and yet, you’re right, look at us now.”
He nods sadly in agreement. “So you really wanted to fight for me?”
“Yes. But I wanted you to fight for me, too.”
“Oh, Lord,” he says and runs his hand down my cheek, his fingers following the line of my jaw, the gesture so tender it hurts.
I’ve imagined the possibility of this moment a thousand times, long before I became ill, but I never dreamed Harry would be as warm and sensitive as this.
Our drinks are put down in front of us and Harry hands me my cocktail. He holds up his glass. “To old friends,” he says.
“Old fools,” I say and he laughs.
We sip. It makes my tongue curl.
“There’s a plant pot over there,” he says. “Shall I?” His eyes crinkle with a sad smile. He makes a show of surreptitiously pouring away the cocktail and comes back. “My aunt couldn’t do alcohol either. It robs you of everything, doesn’t it?”
Veneers or not, he has me. He’s right back there under my all-too-delicate skin. I don’t think he’s ever not been there. Why is it that some people can do that? Occupy a space they don’t necessarily deserve.
“So,” he says, pouring me some water. “How are all the old friends?”
“Olivia’s great. She’s getting married.”
“Really. Crazy fool!”
“She’s very happy.”
“I bet she’s been shattered by your news.”
I nod, unable to speak for a moment. “And Anna Maria is . . . Anna Maria.”
“Ah, Anna Maria. She always made me laugh.”
“I think she has that effect on everyone.”
“I’m sure.” He sips his vodka and stares into the glass. “So . . . what are you going to do with your time?”
“Well, for now, I’m still working.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. I have to. Well, I don’t have to. I want to. It’s good for me. I do fewer hours and I’ll probably stop soon, but for the moment, it gives me a purpose.”
“Jesus, that’s pretty stoical. I think I’d want to run away to some beach and drink myself into a coma.”
I laugh. “Yeah, well . . . we all think we’ll do something along those lines but when it happens, we don’t do that at all. We cling on to what feels safe.”
Harry takes my hand. “Come on, let’s live dangerously and move over to that sofa. It’s just become free.” He signals to the waiter to take our drinks. I walk with him, loving the feel of my hand in his and we sit down on the long sofa. He puts his arm around me and I curl into the shape of him, exactly as I used to. Like nothing has changed.
“I’m so glad we could do this, Harry,” I say. “But so sad that this is it. The end of the road.” I can’t help myself. A single warm tear trickles down my cheek.
“Hey! What happened to the woman who doesn’t do sad?”
“The man opposite her is being too nice.” It comes out in a muffled whisper.
“I will never be nice again,” he says, wiping away the tear. “Shit! Fuck! Damn! How the hell did this ever happen? To you of all amazing people?”
“Because shit happens. Even when you’re this amazing,” I josh.
He pulls me in closer. “You always did make me happy.”
“I did?” Against my will, the tears take over. “Stop being nice!” I’m practically bawling now. “Harry, you know, you never once said that to me when we were together.”
“Yes, I did! I always told you I love you.”
“That’s different,” I say, through my sobs. “People can be tearing each other apart and still say ‘I love you.’ As if that makes everything okay.”
He hands me a paper napkin. “Here.”
“Do I look like shit?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Keep that up.”
I dry my eyes and blow my nose as inoffensively as I can. “Most of the time, I’m fine. I’m not like this at all. Honestly.”
“What are you saying?” He looks taken aback. “You don’t have to be fine. This is awful. You’re allowed to cry.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t want to. Not here with you now! I’m such an idiot, Harry. How did I ever let you go—”
“Please. Don’t upset yourself.” He kisses my damp cheeks, then looks at me hesitantly. “Here’s an idea. And you don’t have to answer now but . . . will you let me help you? I want to be there for you. If you want me to.”
Okay. We need to pause here. Did you hear that? Please bear witness to this in case I start to think I imagined it.
“You mean that?” I say. “I mean really be there for me? Through all the shitty, messy, ugly stuff?”
“Well, maybe that’s taking it a bit too far!” He laughs. He’s playing absently with my fingers, the way he always used to. “YES!!! Through all the shitty, filthy, stinking, ugly, disgusting—” He catches my expression. “Okay, now I’m the one taking it too far.” His eyes smile. “But seriously, yes! I would. I mean, obviously while you’re still working, I still have to work, too . . . but when you need me, I promise you, I’ll be there.”
I swallow. “Oh my God, Harry. I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Why? Am I that awful?”
“No! No! Of course n
ot.” And I castigate myself for my misplaced suspicion all over again.
* * *
—
Harry offers to drive me home. “And don’t look at me like that. I’m completely sober,” he adds.
“It’s fine, I’ll take an Uber.”
“Aw, come on, Sally! You don’t have to do your ‘I’m so self-sufficient’ number anymore. I’m here now. I’m not going to be here again for at least ten days. Accept my help while you can.”
“Ten days?” I sigh.
“Sorry. You know how it goes. But I can come back at any time.”
I nod. He’s being so sincere. “Okay, driver!” I say. “Take me home, please. Same address. Nothing’s changed.” Nothing, I think. Absolutely nothing. Not now.
We leave hand in hand, smiling and comfortable, as though we’ve rewound the clock and no time has elapsed. For a brief moment, I can pretend I feel well again. My hand wrapped in his helps me forget.
We walk down the street together and he puts his arm around me, protecting me from the wind and damp of autumn, toward his building, a converted industrial warehouse. We walk through the modern atrium and wait for the lift.
“I’d invite you up but you look pretty wiped.”
“I am,” I say.
We take the lift to the basement car park. There it is. A vintage Mercedes, sitting in its regular spot.
I flinch.
“You okay?” he says.
I’ve remembered his car is the most uncomfortable coupe ever built, its suspension long shot. It should be sold for scrap. Expensive scrap, of course, but nonetheless. I think Harry loves this car more than he’s ever loved a woman. It’s probably the longest relationship he’s ever had.
“You never liked this car, did you?”
“Never.”
We bump and jolt our way across London and he pulls up in a rare space outside my house.
“I’d invite you in,” I say. “But I may have to throw up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you going to be okay?”
“As soon as I get out of this car and breathe some fresh air I’ll be fine.”
“I should have thought of that. I should have taken an Uber with you.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 9
