Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  “Terrible. So are you going to go? It’s going to be very traumatic. Haven’t you been through enough?”

  “I must.”

  “Do you want me to come with you? I can go get a coffee while you’re with her. You might need support when you come out.”

  “That’s so thoughtful. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. But you must stop worrying about her. Isn’t tonight Harry night?”

  “Yes. And I have to bake a fish pie.”

  “You’re cooking for him? Is that wise? Why don’t you just order in?”

  “Because I’m trying to put together a romantic dinner.”

  “Good luck. But if the way to a man’s heart is through a fish pie, I’ll eat my veil.”

  13

  As I’m making the cheese sauce for my pie, I get a bit hot and bothered, wondering why it refuses to thicken. Eventually it starts to take and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a sign that everything’s going to be okay—Emily, Harry, Isabelle—and all I need is patience.

  As if to confirm my rationale, Isabelle’s name flashes up on my phone. At long bloody last. I grab it.

  “Isabelle!”

  “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I know, I know, I should have called you back but it’s been crazy,” she says. “I haven’t had a second. Getting costumes organized for the girls’ Christmas plays has been a nightmare. And I have a terrible headache—dinner party last night. Late one. I think I might be coming down with a migraine so don’t shout at me. I’ve phoned even though I feel terrible. You see! I can do nice.” She lets out a groan. “Oh, my poor head. Are you okay?”

  “Are you serious?” I say. I’m sorry, but I really don’t care about her head.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” She gasps, acknowledging her oversight. “Oh, sorry, Jen. I’m really sorry. Are you all right? I’m not thinking straight. The girls said you looked great when they saw you the other night. Amazing in fact. Why did you come round by the way?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Lying down on my bed in a darkened room waiting for the pills to kick in.”

  “Where’s Martin? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. He’s taken the girls ice-skating.”

  “So what happened after the other night?”

  “What do you mean what happened?”

  “You know. When you got home? After Barry.”

  She sounds mystified. “Nothing much. Martin was half asleep. Told him we’d had a nice evening and he went straight back to sleep. Well, straight back to snoring if you want the full details. I know how accurate you like to be!”

  I’m starting to get a headache, too. “So why, when I called and asked if everything was okay, did you say no?”

  She’s silent. She puts on her innocent voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. When did I say that?”

  “I asked if you were okay and you said ‘No. I can’t talk right now.’”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes! You did. And I’ve been off my head with worry.”

  “Oh, Jennifer,” she says. “Stop worrying. My marriage is fine. The last thing Martin wants to do is to find out about Barry. He trusts what I tell him.”

  “Well, he didn’t look too trusting when I saw him.”

  “He hates it when I go out without him.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “Ohhhhhhh!!” she drawls. “Ohhhhhh, Jennifer. I’m so sorry. Ohhhhhh deeeear. I’ve just realized what you’re talking about. What a mix-up.” She snorts. “It was just Sophia. She was having a tantrum about her costume for the play. She didn’t want to be a pink fairy. She wanted to be a purple one. It was all a bit intense. I mean, that’s the way it is with kids sometimes. Oh, hon!” she says. “That’s why I couldn’t talk. I’m really sorry. Nothing sinister.”

  I glare at the phone, like it’s her face. That’s it? Oh, hon! The color of Sophia’s costume has been responsible for hours, days no less, of panic and concern?

  “Anyway, you haven’t told me why you came round.”

  I’m speechless.

  “What’s wrong?” she says, uncomfortable with my silence.

  I let it go. Wasted energy. And breathe.

  “My friend Emily’s in a coma. Attempted suicide.”

  “Oh, Jennifer. I’m so sorry.”

  “But that’s not why I came round.”

  “Oh?”

  “Actually, there’s nothing wrong with me. That’s why I came round. To tell you I’m not dying.”

  “Don’t mess with my head, I can’t take it.”

  “It’s true. I’m not going to die.”

  “What?” Her voice changes, no longer languorous. I feel she’s sitting bolt upright now, paying full attention. “Tell me honestly. You’re not fooling with me because you’re pissed off?”

  “I’m not that petty, Isabelle. The doctor’s office made a mistake. They gave me someone else’s results. I’m not dying.”

  She screams.

  “Your head must be really hurting now,” I say.

  “Are you kidding me? Forget my head. This is this best news ever. You’re serious? Dr. Mackenzie made a mistake?”

  “Yes.” I feel uplifted, like I’m enjoying the mistake with her.

  “That’s outrageous,” she says, screaming with delight. “Honestly. Mum’s good old Dr. Mackenzie! What a major cock-up but I couldn’t be more pleased.” She draws breath. “It’s almost funny. I hope you’re laughing. We must celebrate. Can you come round? Now? No, don’t—I’m in no state for champagne. When then? I know. Come for Christmas. Come and stay. As long as you like. It will be the best Christmas ever. Promise me you’ll come and stay.”

  “Yes,” I say, smiling along with her joy. “I’d love to.”

  “You must bring Harry, too.”

  “He goes to his mother’s at Christmas.”

  “Come alone then. It will be such fun.. This is the best news ever. Wait till I tell the kids. They’re going to be so excited.” She falters. “Hang on a minute! If you’re not dying, then what’s wrong with you?” Another beat. “Anything?”

  I garble. “Early menopause.”

  She splutters down the phone. “Seriously?” she sniggers. “Oh bravo, Jennifer! Welcome to my tribe.”

  14

  The signature growl of Harry’s car announces his arrival and I fuss at organizing the table. I need to light the candles! I strike a match, which instantly disintegrates. “Bugger.” Fumble with another and try again, struggling to control the involuntary shake of my hands, willing each wick to take. “Come on! Come on!” At last!

  His car engine stills, followed by the beep of his alarm. I’m quivering. Jittery. It’s the moment of truth and I’m scared and excited in equal measure. I’m uncertain what the truth is, but I’m going to give Harry my version of it and hope it turns out to be correct. My thumb starts to burn and I blow out the match I’ve forgotten I’m holding.

  The fish pie is baking in the oven. Not particularly romantic I know, but it’s cold out and we need nice warming comfort food.

  I’m freezing. I’m wearing lots of layers, but I’m still cold. Nerves.

  Harry rings the doorbell.

  This is it. Prepare yourself.

  I open the front door and he’s standing there, wrapped up against the chill, looking cold and kind and adorable. His outline is backlit by the streetlamp giving him a golden aura as his breath leaves ghostly blue clouds in the freezing night air. He pulls a bunch of flowers from behind his back.

  “For the lady of the ’ouse,” he says, in mock Cockney. “And this, my good woman, is for the gentleman of the ’ouse.” He pulls a bottle of wine from his coat pocket and I’m expecting it to be followed by an endless trail of colored scarves and white doves.

  Suddenly I’m terrified. Terr
ified of losing him. He’s completely lovely. His every mad gesture, so caring and thoughtful. I find myself bargaining again. Please let everything go to plan. Just for once. Please!

  He steps into the porch and draws me to him. “Quick, cuddle me. I’m freezing but most important . . . I’ve missed you. God! I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” I love the smell of him. The touch of him. The everything of him. Is it possible to love someone too much?

  “Are you feeling better?” he says.

  I gulp. “In what way?”

  “You were so angry last time.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m not angry now. I feel a lot better. You can relax.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Well, thank God for that.” He holds up the bottle of wine and turns the label toward me, like a sommelier hoping for my approval. “I bought it on good recommendation from a German art dealer. I remembered you like red, so I got it just in case you might fancy a sip. He says it’s from one of the best vineyards.”

  I relieve him of the flowers. “It’s perfect,” I say. “But I’ve made fish pie. Isn’t that breaking the wine rules?”

  “To hell with that,” he says, throwing off his coat. “Let’s make it a night of breaking rules. Let’s be crazy people.”

  “You’re happy,” I say.

  “I am now I’m here.”

  I try to smile, but my mouth will only twitch.

  He grabs my shoulders. “Listen, Sally, I was seriously bloody frightened when you weren’t returning my calls. You had me properly panicked. Can you please not do that again? Promise me you’ll always keep your phone on.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t intend to panic you.”

  “Good. Well, now you know.”

  But you don’t, I think.

  He walks through the house into the kitchen, an air of relaxed acquaintance with his surroundings. As much as Andy irritated me, I love to watch Harry behave as if he’s at home.

  I find a vase and fill it with water. Start to cut the ends off the stems.

  Harry opens the tall kitchen cupboard and grabs a couple of glasses. “Corkscrew?”

  “Drawer.”

  He finds it immediately. “I’m wrecked. What a week! And now I’d like to unwind and relax with you! Put it all behind me.”

  “Why the bad week?” I say.

  “Oh, you know, clients,” he says. “Usual crap.”

  I arrange the flowers and put the vase on the windowsill. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

  There’s the satisfying sound of the cork leaving the bottle.

  “I’ve had a bad week, too,” I say.

  He looks up from pouring the wine.

  “My friend Emily took an overdose. Her husband found her just in time, but she’s in a coma.”

  “Bloody hell! Poor bastard.” He frowns. “Emily? Did I know her?”

  “No. I fell out with her a while ago over something ridiculous. But it doesn’t make it any easier. In a way, it makes it worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. That’s hardly what you need, is it? I mean . . . well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. We need to talk about that.”

  “Yes, we do!” he says, emphatically. “But first we need this.”

  “Listen,” I say. “Don’t waste good wine on me. I saw the doctor. He advised against it.” Why did I have to say that?

  “Spoilsport,” he says. “I mean the doctor, not you. Just a dribble? What’s the harm?” He’s insistent. He hands me the glass and opens his arm for me to slide into. “So what else did he say?”

  The oven timer dings. Saved by the bell. “Fish pie’s ready,” I say, grabbing the oven gloves. I open it to a whoosh of steam, which instantly clings to my face. “Ow! What the hell?” I despair. I’m so keen to keep things under control I’m managing exactly the opposite. I put the burning dish down on the metal trivet. My hands are shaking with nerves.

  “You okay?” he says.

  “Heavy dish.”

  “Shall we move inside? I’m starving. You take the glasses, I’ll take the pie.”

  He takes the oven gloves from me and picks up the pie dish.

  “This is all very romantic!” he says, nodding at the candles on the table, sitting down, placing the pie between us. “Great looking pie, Sally-o!”

  I’m not sure if his cheerfulness will play for or against me. I sit down opposite him and tuck the serving spoon into the pie, releasing a puff of steam.

  “I think this is the most heat I’ve had in this house all day,” I say, serving him a generous portion.

  He rubs his hands together over his plate, warming them. “This can’t be good for you,” he says. “This cold.”

  “Do you want to talk about your bad week?”

  “Nah. Boring! Just some pain in the ass clients.”

  “Go on. . . . I’m interested.” I’m playing for time. I know I am. I’m getting more and more agitated.

  “Well, okay. . . so there’s this wealthy couple, I mean BIG-time wealthy who are getting tetchy . . .” I’m not really interested. My mind is elsewhere. I’m just staring at him like I’m listening. He picks up his fork and toys with the potato crust. I watch as he sips his wine. “. . . and there’s a painting they want in California . . .” He looks over at me and I sit to attention. “But I told them they’re going to have to wait because I had to see you.” He smiles.

  “Thank you.” My stomach clenches. “How did they take it?”

  “They were livid but don’t worry. I’m here, aren’t I? I can handle them. I told them the dealer’s a mate, so it’s not going to be a problem even if they have to wait a month or so.” He checks my face again. “Stop worrying. Waiting is good for them. They’re like spoiled children. They need to be shown who’s boss.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway,” he says. “I’ve been thinking . . . about us,” His expression changes. “. . . and I’ve come to a decision.”

  I absentmindedly sip the wine. It catches the back of my throat and I feel I’m going to choke. “Give me a second.”

  I run into the kitchen, stick my mouth under the cold tap and guzzle, a technique my father taught me. It works. I lean my back against the warmth of the oven, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. This is going to be embarrassing. I can feel it in my bones. I take a deep breath, dab my face with some paper towel, and walk back in to see his anxious face.

  “That’s better,” I say, sitting down.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “This happens a lot now, doesn’t it?”

  “No, no. In fact—”

  “So let me tell you my decision.” He clears his throat and breathes in sharply. “I’ve thought about what you said . . .”

  I must appear puzzled.

  “That if I genuinely missed you, I’d give up work.”

  “Oh, Harry, I was upset and—”

  He holds up his palm. “Let me finish! I need to say this.” He gets all choked up. “That weekend together was so special—”

  “It really was.”

  “And I want to be free to do more things like that with you. To make the time we have left even more special. . . .” He looks at me with morbid longing. “So I’m going to take a sabbatical.”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously,” I say, gulping. “I mean, are you sure?” Suddenly, I am hugely encouraged. He must love me if he’s prepared to give up work for me.

  He squeezes my hand. “I couldn’t be more certain. It’s taken a weight off my mind. I only want to make you happy?” He sits back. He looks raw with emotion.

  “You do make me happy, Harry,” I say. “And I know what a huge decision that is for you.” Beat. “But you might be here for me in a different capacity from the one you’re expecting.” I grin stiffly.r />
  His eyebrows shoot up. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I have some news.”

  “You do?” The soft lines around his eyes fan into deep crinkles.

  “Yes,” I say. “Good news.”

  15

  I’m watching him closely, trying to discern his reaction in the candlelight.

  “A mistake?” he says, in an odd voice.

  “Yes,” I say.

  I’ve said it now.

  It’s out there.

  Not so bad.

  “They mixed up my file. Can you believe it? They gave me the results of someone else’s blood test. They got it WRONG!”

  I’m expecting him to scream the way Isabelle did. Or bounce up and down and hug me like Olivia. After his thoughtful declaration, he might even burst into tears of joy or burst into song. What I’m not expecting is for him to fold his arms and rock (quite precariously, I think) on the two back legs of his chair.

  “You are fucking kidding me!” he says in a kind of deadpan.

  “No,” I say, shocked. “I’m not.”

  His chair slams down. “Jeez, Jennifer. That sure is one hell of a mistake!”

  Bad sign! He’s called me Jennifer.

  He makes a puffing sound like it’s quite ridiculous. And I can’t blame him. Because it is. BUT STILL. “You’re not messing with me, are you?” he says.

  My face falls. “Why would I mess with you on this, Harry?” I dig my fork into the potato crust and the cheese sauce oozes out like pus from a wound. “It’s true,” I say. “I got someone else’s results. God knows what’s happened to her.”

  “Bloody hell,” he says and shovels some food into his mouth.

  “But it’s good news for us, isn’t it?” I say, feeling the need to prompt him.

  He flaps his hand in front of his mouth. “Hot!” he says, hand still flapping. He blows out quick breaths, swallows, grabs his wine, and knocks it back. “I think I burned the roof of my mouth! Fuck!!” His eyes are watering, this time from pain. He gargles with the wine then looks across at me, clocks my horrified gaze, knowing I’m waiting for a more appropriate response.