Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  Yesterday morning, I called the doctor’s office to tell them I was going to a spa and to ask if there was anything I should avoid. I’m put through to a nurse who checks my notes and says I should probably avoid saunas and Jacuzzis, anything that involves a lot of heat or could hold bacteria, but otherwise she says she’s sure it will do me a world of good. Whatever helps improve my state of mind is as beneficial as any medication. I tell her my state of mind is pretty sound and she says she’s glad for me. She has no idea that my state of mind is called Harry.

  “My favorite Sally!” he says. “Your carriage awaits you.” He points at a shiny Range Rover. “Check it out!”

  “Is that yours?” I say.

  “For the weekend. I could hardly take you in the old banger. I don’t want to make you more ill.”

  “Oh, Harry!” I jump up to his cheek and kiss him. “That’s so thoughtful.”

  He opens the door for me then grabs my carry-on and puts it in the boot.

  “It’s like the interior of an airplane,” I say, as he climbs in.

  “I could probably get used to it,” he says, smiling. “But I wouldn’t want to turn in the old lady.”

  “Of course not.”

  Ten minutes into the journey, I say, “So fess up. Where are you taking me?”

  “Come on! It’s a surprise,” he says. “You’ll have to wait till we get there.” He smiles across at me. “You feeling okay? Do you want me to open the sunroof for a bit of air?”

  “No, this is perfect. This is luxury.”

  Having expected to suffer in the old banger, I’ve brought a tin of travel sweets, the kind my parents always had for car journeys. I dig around in my handbag and pull them out, struggling to unscrew the lid. This was always a good game in our family. I can hear Isabelle in my head.

  “Jennifer, give it to me! You’re useless.”

  “No. I felt it twist. I’ve nearly done it.”

  “Give it to your sister, Jennifer. You’ve had your turn. You’ve been trying for quite long enough.” That would be my mother.

  “Ta-da!” says Isabelle as the icing sugar bursts out in a puff of the sweetest white smoke.

  “But I was the one who made it twist,” I’d say.

  “What are you laughing about?” says Harry.

  “Travel sweets. Want one?”

  He looks across. “Oh my God! I haven’t had one of those for years. My parents always had them in the car for long journeys.”

  “So did mine,” I say. “That and Dramamine. My mother was never without her disgusting pink Dramamine. What color do you want?”

  “Red, please.”

  “Reds are mine,” I say, immediately coveting what was once always reserved for Isabelle. I’m sucking fervently, thinking they used to feel so much bigger. “You’ll have to fight me for a red one.”

  He snorts. “You sound like my brother!”

  “Actually I sound like my sister.”

  “Okay, since it’s you, I’ll have a purple one.”

  I pop a purple sweet in his mouth and his lips get a white dusting. I glance at him and smile. He looks adorably silly.

  “Lick your lips,” I say and he does.

  “Now make your tongue touch the tip of your nose.” He goes to attempt it and I laugh. “You’re very well behaved this morning.”

  “Very funny,” he says. “But it’s nice to see you happy.”

  “Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that bring the most satisfaction. That and pratfalls.”

  “Ah,” he says. “I remember love of slapstick.”

  I realize we’re heading south. “Are we going to Brighton?”

  “Maybe,” he says, his smile the giveaway.

  “Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside. I do like to be beside the sea.” I’m singing. Happy, happy, happy.

  “I do like to stroll along the prom! Prom! Prom!” he rejoinders. “But today is for special treats. Maybe tomorrow.”

  It’s not too long before he pulls into a sweeping driveway and we cruise down an elegant avenue of trees. In the distance is a magnificent stately home, the kind you see in the dusty copies of Country Life left in doctors’ waiting rooms, my least favorite place

  “Honey, we’re home,” he says, looking across at me. “Well, let’s pretend we are. For a couple of days.”

  “I can do pretend,” I say.

  “And we can pretend the other guests are our servants. Watch the horror on their faces when we ask them to bring us tea. Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you were a member of our staff.”

  I laugh. “First one to do that wins a tenner.”

  “Oooo. High stakes,” he says.

  He grabs our bags from the boot and we crunch across the gravel, up some wide limestone steps into a grand reception hall. It smells of wax polish and lilies. “Our” staff are warm and charming, talking us through everything. After check-in, we are shown to our suite, which is vast and luxurious, full of silks and velvets and piles of perfectly plumped cushions covering the four-poster bed that beckons me. I throw off my shoes and lie down on the bed, closing my eyes, listening as Harry pads about, inspecting everything. My head starts to fool around. Is this what it would have felt like if we’d held on to our relationship? Fun? Cared for? Special?

  “You dreaming?” he says. I open my eyes and he takes a photo of me on his phone. “Pretty,” he says then jumps on the bed. “Selfie, please,” and he holds out his phone arm and we both smile. “One more.”

  “Let me see first.” He shows me. “Jeez, look at my hair!” and I smooth down the back. “Okay, ready!” He takes several of us making ridiculous faces then passes me a brown leather sleeve. “For my darling,” he says. “You’ll need to get going.”

  “I don’t have an ounce of get going in me but I’ll do my best.”

  I open the folder. There’s a long list of luxurious treatments. No expense has been spared. “Thank you, Harry. That’s amazing. Are you not having any?”

  “No. You go and enjoy yourself. I’m going to have a power nap and then maybe I’ll go for a long walk. Plus, I’ve got a bit of work to do.”

  “Werk, werk, werk. But, if you change your mind . . .” I retreat into the bathroom, get into my fluffy white bathrobe. I check my face and smile. I remember you, I think. That’s your happy face.

  “See you later,” I say, passing through the bedroom.

  “Get some relaxation. That’s what you’re here for.”

  “Really,” I say. “You’re sure that’s all?” I playfully inch open my bathrobe to reveal a set of black lacy underwear discovered when I was organizing my clothes for charity. Wrapped in tissue at the back of a drawer, it was gathering dust hoping for a special occasion. I found it just in time. For dinner this evening, I’ve packed a beautiful dress I’ve owned for years but never worn. From where I stand now, I would definitely tell my younger self to wear whatever she wanted, whenever she fancied. I’d tell her that if she felt so inclined, she should wear her best dress to the supermarket. That she shouldn’t waste time waiting for that special occasion, because the occasion doesn’t matter. And she should always wear pretty underwear because she deserves it even when she feels she doesn’t.

  Harry raises his eyebrows. “Put that away now or you’ll be late and that sweated-over schedule will go up the spout.”

  “You sweated over my schedule?” I smile. “That’s such a flattering and yet somehow disturbing thought.”

  “So don’t waste it.”

  “Now I feel as though you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “Hardly. I want you to be around for as long as possible.”

  “I set you up for that one, didn’t I?” I say.

  I take the sweeping staircase down to the basement where the whole atmosphere changes. The decor is modern and minimalist. The air feels war
m, humid in fact, and I follow the scent of aromatic oils toward the spa.

  The rest of the day floats by like an enchanted illusion. Every bone in my body is so tired, so infused with bad blood, I happily doze through all the treatments, sleepwalking from one to the next. I drift through my deluxe massage and my purifying facial. I float above the clouds during my signature pedicure, and my head nods off embarrassingly during my manicure. I achieve my objective to forget that I am ill until a thought flutters through my brain. At least I’ll have perfect fingers and toes when I go to my grave. Sometimes my head messes with my best intentions.

  I return to the suite feeling polished and shiny, trying to ignore the tiredness that permanently hovers, like tinnitus, in the background.

  I open the door to our suite and hear voices. For a second I panic that I’ve walked in on something then realize it’s the TV. The curtains are drawn, and Harry is lying on the bed in his bathrobe. He quickly shuts his iPad like he’s guilty. My feminine hackles jump to attention, but I push them back down. I don’t want my suspicious self to ruin this. I’m too happy.

  “Look at you,” he says. “All pink and glowing. Have you had a good day?”

  “You have no idea,” I say. “Thank you so much. It means a lot.”

  “Come and lie down then before dinner.” He pats the bed and invites me to crawl into the crook of his arm. “Fancy watching something?”

  “What you mean is the football is on.”

  “No!” he says. “But then again . . .”

  “I don’t mind,” I say through a yawn. “I can fall asleep. I’m exhausted.”

  “From all the sleeping?” He laughs.

  “How did you guess?”

  He kisses my cheek. “You smell nice. All herbal and oily.”

  “I am an oil slick. Wanna slip off me?” I may not be able to get very far but I’m not going to miss the opportunity to at least attempt makeup sex with Harry before I die.

  “Not if you’re going to fall asleep,” he says.

  I start to untie my bathrobe. “See what you can do to hold my attention.”

  He turns toward me and runs his finger down my sternum. My flesh tingles.

  “Are you sure,” he says. “I mean, honestly, I didn’t get you here to fuck you. I just wanted to give you something that would make you feel good.”

  “Fucking me will make me feel good.”

  He gives an uncomfortable laugh.

  “Don’t you want to?” I say, embarrassed.

  “Of course I want to,” he says. “I just didn’t know if you’d be . . . you know . . . up to it . . .”

  “I don’t know, either, but let’s give a try. Go gently.”

  He reaches toward the side of the bed and dims the lights.

  “Let me take off your bathrobe,” he says.

  I lie there in my black lingerie, looking back at him as he throws off his robe.

  “Beautiful,” he says, stroking me. He leans in and butterfly kisses my face. “Gentle enough?”

  “Yes.”

  He wets his forefingers and runs them across my skin, “Do you know . . . you have the sexiest . . . goose bumps.”

  I laugh and close my eyes, taking in the sensation. “Don’t let that distract you,” I say.

  I allow my senses to follow his touch, his fingers drawing my curves until he traces down my stomach, circling my belly button, slowly reaching between my legs. “This okay?”

  I just nod, I can’t speak now. I’m in raptures. His mere touch has always had this effect on me. Can it be like this forever, please? Forever isn’t long.

  He stops midarousal, his tongue lingering slowly back up my body as it moves.

  “How are you doing?” he whispers.

  “I’m good.”

  “Then I’d like to fuck you.”

  “I’d like that too.”

  He leans across me, his hand grappling in the bedside drawer. “Hotel supply. They think of everything.”

  He tears open the foil of the condom and holds it up to the faint light, slipping it over his erection with theatrical aplomb. I smile. I’d forgotten his condom performance was worthy of Shakespeare.

  We make love in a way that is familiar yet new. The smell of him, the taste of him, the tenderness of his kiss transports me to a place of utter bliss.

  “You okay?” he gasps.

  “Yes.” I sigh. “Now really fuck me,” and that’s all the incentive he needs. We make love with the intensity of two people who know this time might be their last.

  We lie there afterward, tucked into each other, spooning, recovering our sense of reality.

  “Wow,” he says. “That was unexpected.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Temptress!”

  “Yeah, I’ve found my inner Mata Hari.”

  He laughs, swoops up my hair, and kisses the nape of my neck.

  “I like your inner Mata Hari,” he says and rolls onto his back. “Just forty winks,” he mumbles and he’s asleep.

  I feel woozy: whether with love or sex or massage oils. I fumble to the bathroom and lock the door, leaning up against the double basin unit, pressing my head against the cool of the mirror. I take some deep breaths then look at my reflection. My hair is wild, my cheeks flushed. A smirk appears across my face. “Well, what do you know, Jennifer?” I say. “You just made love to Harry and he’s asleep in that bed. The one you’re going to climb back into. Whoever’s in charge up there has just granted you one of your wishes.”

  * * *

  —

  We get dressed for dinner.

  “You look lovely,” he says. “New dress?”

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t need to explain my recent resolutions.

  We walk into the wood-paneled restaurant that is full of diners and yet somehow so quiet you can hear a pin drop. Even the waiters seem to whisper.

  “Wine, sir? Madam?”

  “You drinking, Sally?”

  “Not tonight, thanks.”

  “Do you mind if I do?” he asks.

  “Of course not.”

  We eat our meal, staring across at each other like two young lovers at the start of a budding romance, holding hands, tasting from each other’s plates, which is good because I can hide the fact I’m barely eating. Not hungry at all. And then, as if to say this is going far too well, my body decides to show me who’s boss. I excuse myself from the table and dash to the cloakroom, feeling hot and weird. There is a ribbon of sweat across my upper lip. I quickly drench one of the towels in cold water and press it over my face hoping to cool down. “Don’t do this to me, body,” I plead. “Not now. Don’t let me down. Allow me some last moments of pleasure. Please. And if you do, I promise when the time comes, I’ll go quietly.” My nose starts to bleed. Shit!

  “You okay?” Harry says with a look of concern when I return to the table. “You were gone for so long, I was wondering if I was going to have to break into the ladies’ loo.”

  I smile at the thought. “Yeah. I’m fine now. Panic over. You’re not going to have to save me.”

  After dinner, we wander back through reception and I’m expecting to go up to our room when Harry says, “Stop a moment.”

  I frown at him.

  “Relax,” he says. “You’re going to like this. Now turn around.”

  “What have you got up your sleeve?” I say as he twirls me round.

  “Magic.”

  I’m aware of him fiddling in his pocket then some silk presses against my eyelids and he ties it behind my head in a blindfold.

  “Harry! You can’t do this in reception.”

  “Stop worrying about everything. Now hold my hand.”

  I reach for his hand and walk with him blindly, not having a clue where he’s leading me. I imagine we’re going down a corridor bec
ause the sounds change and I hear him open a door. He walks me through it and the click of the latch makes my heart lurch.

  “Where are we?”

  “Ready?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, ready or not,” he says and he removes the blindfold.

  I blink for a second. I’m standing in what appears to be a small, private cinema. There are four red velvet loveseats, little couple sofas. I look around, openmouthed.

  “What have you done?” I say.

  “Match of the Day is on.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Just sit down and get comfortable.” He points to a sofa.

  My jaw remains firmly open as I sit down and he sits down next to me. “Right,” he says and starts fishing around on the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  He bobs back up and passes me a neatly wrapped rectangular box. “Because I love you, Sally.”

  My eyes light up and I shake it, smiling. I’m overwhelmed.

  “Open it.”

  I tear back the wrapping. “Oh. My. God!” I gasp. “‘Mallomars.. The greatest cookie of all time,’” I quote, my eyes gleaming in wonder. “Are we going to watch When Harry Met Sally?”

  “We certainly are. We’re going to have our very own New Year’s Eve together—come what may.”

  “Oh, Harry!” I say, welling up, swinging my arms around his neck, and kissing him. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!”

  “Now hold that thought,” he says as he gets up and disappears for a minute and I reflect on how lucky I am and how crazy this is.

  He sits back down. “Right, phones off, please. The movie’s about to begin.”

  “My phone’s been on silent all day.”

  “Good. I don’t want you shaming yourself.”

  The lights go down and he reaches across and holds my hand. I pass him the box of Mallomars.

  “Want one?” he whispers.