Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  That’s it then, I think. It’s over. Everyone dealt with. Harry, Andy, Elizabeth, and pretty much Emily, too. I’ve lost them all. In different ways but they’ve all gone. The only one who’s stuck by me is Isabelle. Who’d have thought it?

  I think back over everything and, weirdly, I know I will miss them. Because you can’t end relationships, no matter how toxic, and not feel some kind of grief.

  But with all the loss and grief, I have this. I place my hands over my stomach. Yes, this.

  What’s meant for you will come to you.

  “You’d better stay in there, little bunny,” I say, placing my hands over it. “You’d better stay right where you are.”

  21

  Come in, come in,” says Isabelle. “Let me take your bags.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “All the presents are in the big plastic one.”

  “Oh, how exciting,” she says. “You take that one then. Put them under the tree in the drawing room. We don’t open presents until tomorrow. After Christmas lunch.” She looks at me. “If you can wait?”

  “I think I’ll manage,” I say. “You were the one who could never wait.”

  “I still can’t,” she says with a mischievous giggle. “I’ve already sneaked a peek at what Martin’s bought me. Very, very generous I can tell you.”

  “Lucky you!”

  “Don’t tell him, though, will you.” She looks momentarily panicked. “I’ll act surprised when I open it. And don’t make me laugh.”

  There’s something reassuring about her behavior. The fact that as we get older, at Christmas we can still be the same child. Cheeky and silly and ridiculous, and we can throw sausages and—oh, never mind.

  Isabelle’s house is decorated beautifully. Far more sophisticated than I could ever imagine, let alone achieve. More sophisticated than our family home ever was. It smells delicious: of oranges and cinnamon and cloves. There are scented candles burning everywhere. There are decorations beautifully draped over doorways, along the dado rails and up the wooden banister. I have a feeling she didn’t buy any of them from a pound shop.

  I wander with the heavy bag into the drawing room where the biggest tree I’ve ever seen sits in the corner by the French windows, laden with baubles, all white and silver and wonderfully coordinated like something out of a magazine. The white fairy lights are elegantly trailed around it, in such a way you can’t see the wire (how does she do that?), and there are literally mounds of presents pooling from the large pot base, like Santa’s entire sack has burst in their house.

  Back home I threw out all my decorations, the picnic, everything. I just grabbed a bin liner and shoved it all in. Christmas tree included. I am broken. I wanted to throw out Harry’s jumper but I managed to stop myself and relabeled it to Martin. And then I sat down and cried my way through It’s a Wonderful Life.

  I start laying out my gifts underneath Isabelle’s tree. Martin’s present stands out as the most glamorously wrapped of my collection. I wish I’d have at least rewrapped it. It brings back too much of what I want to forget.

  How did I ever allow Harry back into my life? Believing in him all over again.

  Because the truth is people don’t change. It’s our perspective that changes. We see what we want to see and I only wanted to see the best in Harry. I didn’t want to see the lies. I could have said all the things I regretted not saying the first time around but the end would always have been the same. Because Harry never really loved me. He was just a convincing charmer. And that’s tough to acknowledge because there will be no third time. It’s really over.

  But hey! It’s Christmas and I’m alive and even though I’m hurting, holding together what’s left of my heart, I’ll pull through. Because that’s what you do.

  I fold up the empty carrier bag and stand back, looking at the tree. It’s so beautiful. It lifts my aching heart. “Jennifer,” I say out loud. “It’s all going to be fine.”

  “What’s going to be fine?” says Isabelle.

  “Jesus! You startled me.”

  “Do you talk to yourself a lot?” she says.

  “No idea,” I say. “No one’s around to tell me.”

  She comes over and puts her arm around my waist. I rest my head on her shoulder and we both stand there looking at the tree. “You’ve done a beautiful job,” I say. “You’re quite good at this, you know.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “Not just a pretty face.”

  “Oh, I’ve realized that for quite some time,” I say.

  She squeezes my waist. “Oooo,” she says. “I feel a little bit of menopausal thickening. You need to start doing yoga. You should deal with it sooner rather than later. Later it all goes to pot.”

  “I’m pregnant,” I say flatly. Just like that.

  She laughs. “Shut up!”

  “I am.”

  “Pah!” she says, turning me round to face her. “Don’t joke.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Holy cow!” she says. “You are just one miracle after another.” She pulls me into her skinny frame. “I can’t keep up with you. One minute you’re a goner, the next minute you’re perimenopausal, and now you’re eating for two.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I’m around thirteen weeks. I’ve never gone this far before.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “Thirteen weeks is good,” she says. She breaks away and we look at each other. “So how does Harry feel about it?”

  “Well . . . How do I put this . . .”

  She sees my discomfort. “Is this a conversation we should be having when everyone’s gone to bed?” she says. “Before Santa comes down the chimney, knocks back the sherry, and tries to fuck me.”

  I make a half-amused grunt. “Yes, I think we need to have one of those conversations.”

  Her face falls. “Just tell me you’re okay with it.”

  I nod. “I am. I’m very okay with it.”

  Isabelle’s eyes glisten. For a second, I see a glimpse of our mother. She kisses my cheek. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go have dinner. Would you mind if I tell Santa and the kids?”

  “Go ahead,” I say. “What’s the point of secrets? Apart from yours, of course.” I give her a playful nudge. I’m thinking about Martin’s present but she says, “Shush, I need to talk to you about that, too. It’s all over. I did it.”

  “With Barry?” I whisper, amazed.

  She nods her head yes. “But hold that thought!”

  “Holy cow!” I say.

  * * *

  —

  We all sit round the table and Martin pings on his wineglass with his knife.

  “Announcement!” he says, and the two girls sit up straight, paying full attention. He smiles grandly. “Let’s welcome Jennifer to our Christmas Eve dinner,” and he glances at each member of his family in turn, finally resting his gaze on me. “Now, Jennifer, let me tell you that on Christmas Eve we eat all the girls’ favorite dishes. Don’t we, girls?”

  They nod.

  “So tonight’s dinner is prawn cocktail followed by spaghetti Bolognese, and then there’s a surprise pudding.”

  “Oooooo,” we say, playing along.

  “But first, let’s put our hands together and pray.”

  I flash a look at Isabelle.

  “He finds God at Christmas,” she says, and I try to keep a straight face.

  Martin peers over the top of his half-moon glasses. “Better Christmas than never,” he says.

  “Just get on with it,” says Isabelle. “The prawn cocktail will get cold.”

  The girls giggle, then stop themselves, putting their hands over their mouths, quickly putting them together again in prayer.

  Martin takes a deep, theatrical breath and clears his throat. “For what we are abou
t to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

  “Amen,” we say, putting down our hands, but he continues in a kind of evangelical boom. “And thank you Lord . . .”

  Isabelle stares at him across the table, like this is not part of his normal performance. “. . . For allowing Jennifer to be with us and for making her illness a mistake. We have a lot to be grateful for this year, oh Lord. We have all made mistakes. Forgive us the error of our ways and grant us the strength to be your loyal and humble servants.”

  I’m really struggling to stop myself from laughing. I take a surreptitious peek at Isabelle and my glance meets hers across the table. We share a moment of childish bemusement while her daughters, serious faced, eyes tight shut, play at being adults.

  “And please, dear Lord—”

  “Amen!” says Isabelle, standing up, her chair scraping across the floor. “Let’s eat. Help me serve, girls!”

  The girls flash a look at their father, then jump up and follow her. Cecily brings me a prawn cocktail from the breakfast bar. It’s beautifully presented in a cocktail glass, the prawns arranged on a bed of shredded lettuce, dressed in cocktail sauce.

  We eat to a clatter of spoons, then Isabelle and the girls clear the table. Isabelle won’t let me do a thing. “You’re our guest!” she says. “Sit down!” She serves up the next course. The girls express their delight at the spaghetti Bolognese and Martin tells them how lucky they both are and how he never had Christmases like this when he was a child.

  Isabelle looks at me, shaking her head. “He says the same thing every year,” she whispers. “Another ritual.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Do you have something to say, Isabelle? If so, perhaps you’d like to share.”

  “Ooooo, Martin. You’re scaring me!” she says.

  I look at Martin. Whatever has happened with Barry, whether he knows about him or not, he senses something has changed and he’s strutting like a peacock.

  We polish off our bowls of spaghetti. “Right,” says Isabelle, patting her mouth with her napkin. “If everyone’s finished, collect the plates, girls, and I will serve dessert.”

  The girls do as they’re told and Martin sits there, watching them with a satisfied smile. This must be the one time he lets everyone else do the work. Either that, or Isabelle is having to earn some points.

  She disappears into the utility room and returns with a huge Pavlova laden with strawberries.

  “My favorite,” says Cecily. “Thank you, Mummy!”

  “Mine, too,” says Sophia.

  “I arranged the strawberries,” says Martin.

  I smile to myself. Maybe one day, I think, I’ll serve up my child’s favorite dessert and they’ll say “Thank you, Mummy” and I’ll be relieved there’s no one there to say “I arranged the strawberries.”

  In among the heartache, I’m allowing myself some tempered excitement. This little person growing inside me is the most important thing in my life now. It’s the one thing I mustn’t lose. It makes everything that’s gone before, all the pain, the trauma, the loss, seem unimportant.

  “There’s good news,” says Isabelle, and all eyes turn to look at her. “Auntie Jennifer’s pregnant.”

  The girls yelp with excitement, rush round and hug me. Martin raises his eyebrows, eyeing me with suspicious bewilderment. “Congratulations, Jennifer,” he says, his lips stretched into a tight smile. “You’re a walking miracle.”

  “Thanks. It’s early days,” I say.

  “It’s very exciting,” says Isabelle. Her face drops. “Oh, sis!” she sighs. “What a shame Harry has to spend Christmas with his mother. He should be here with us. They should both be with us. We’re all family now.”

  “We need that talk.”

  “Oh!” she says. “Right.”

  We all help with the clearing up—I have to protest to be allowed: “I may be a guest but I’m here for a few days and I don’t want you moaning about how lazy I am when I’ve gone!”

  “As if!” says Isabelle.

  Martin gives us stage directions: how to fill the dishwasher, which plates should be rinsed first, what pot goes where. I start to understand the appeal of Barry.

  When everything’s cleared away, Isabelle announces we’re going to have a sisters’ chat in the drawing room.

  “What about the presents?” asks Sophia.

  “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. You know that. It’s the rule.”

  “Ohhhhh,” the girls cry.

  “Go and watch The Princess Diaries in the media room. And take Daddy with you. Here,” she says, looking at Martin, pouring a glass of sherry. “You’ll need this.”

  “Well, don’t be too long,” he says.

  “We’ll be as long as it takes.” She gives him a kiss on the lips and his eyes brighten. I’m fascinated. That’s all he needs, I think. One kiss and his chest puffs right out. Men are so simple. If only I could fathom them.

  Isabelle looks at me. “Fizzy drink, Jennifer, or water? What’s your pregnant tipple?”

  “I’m not sure I have one. Perhaps I’ll have some fizzy water.”

  “Well, let’s go mad and add a splash of lime.”

  We wander into the drawing room, the Christmas tree sparkling, its presents in waiting, and lie down, our heads at opposite ends of the sofa, feet entwined, hands cupping our glasses.

  “So tell me,” she says.

  She listens with rapt attention as I tell her about Harry and his massive deception. “What a bastard! That’s outrageous!” Then about the guy on the heath and my massive deception. Her eyes are wide, as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

  “That’s epic!” she says. She sits up for a moment on her elbows. “So you’re going to have it?”

  “Yes,” I say. “If it will have me.”

  She leans back down again and sips at her drink. “Well, good for you. You’re very brave doing it on your own. You’ve certainly got guts. But this time I’m here for you. No more secrets.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ve had my fill of those.”

  “Cecily and Sophia will make perfect little helpers. They’ll be begging to come and see their cousin all the time.” She laughs. “And you, of course.”

  “It will be all about the baby from now on, won’t it?”

  “Yes. ’Fraid so. Say hello, backseat!”

  I smile. I’m trying not to get overexcited, but now I’m talking about a baby cousin, making it real, it’s impossible not to.

  “And what about you?” I say. “What happened with Barry?” I’m whispering, even though there’s not another soul nearby. Even though that soul is on the other side of the hall, sipping sherry and watching The Princess Diaries.

  She groans. “Oh, don’t,” she whispers. “What a mess I’ve made.” She pushes against my feet, and we start playing air bicycles the way we did as kids. “He insisted I leave Martin before Christmas and I couldn’t think of a more selfish time for him to ask me to leave. I mean, the girls need Christmas together as a family. And then I thought, what am I thinking? It brought everything into sharp focus. The girls don’t just need Christmas together as a family. They need a family. They need Martin. They need both of us. We’re not just for Christmas. I knew then I couldn’t break up our unit. I had no choice but to end it.”

  “You see! You’re brave too.”

  “And the truth is, annoying though he can be, Martin is steadfast and he loves me. Far more than Barry would ever be capable of. I guess I got tired of all the dreary responsibility and looked for some excitement elsewhere, but in the end, if I left Martin, the dreary responsibility would simply be shifted along to another name. And what’s in a name, huh?” She gives her best attempt at a wink. “A terrible name at that. And it was the right thing for the children.”

  “You must love Martin, though, Isabelle. That�
�s the most obvious thing to me in all this.”

  “Yes,” she says. “In a funny kind of way, I guess I do.”

  “Does he suspect?”

  “He senses something, I’m sure. He’s behaving so weirdly.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He’s never asked me anything, though. Never once said, what’s wrong?”

  “Possibly for the best.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “So how did Barry take it?”

  “Not well. How does anyone take that kind of thing?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I threw some sausages over Harry and then a bowl of spicy tomato sauce.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did!” I’m remembering the pathetic expression on his face. I have to hold on to that look when the surge of sadness overwhelms me.

  She gasps. “Didn’t it ruin the carpet?”

  “Only you could say that,” I say. “My carpet is long beyond ruin. But I think it might have stung Harry a bit, and it probably didn’t smell very nice on his Prada jumper.”

  She smiles then lets out a sigh. “I wish I’d have had some spicy tomato sauce to throw at Barry. What an arse. He made his usual threat to phone Martin and when I told him ‘Go ahead, phone him’ and handed him my phone, he just backed off. He’s such a coward. They’re both cowards. Throwing sauce must have felt good.”

  “You have no idea.”

  She squeezes my feet affectionately, her toes tipping over the top of mine. “The annoying thing for me,” Isabelle says, “is I’ll have to bump into him for a few more years while the kids are at school. But so what? I’ll take up bridge and knitting and have average sex once a month. What’s not to love?”

  “Sounds blissful,” I say.

  “Marriage,” she says. “Why are we so conditioned to want it?”

  “Not sure I am . . . besides, my appalling taste in men makes me better off single. The joke is, I’m so sussed in my job. I mean, I see people for exactly who they are. I can spot all the good traits, all the negatives, and yet when it comes to my own personal life, I’m hopeless. All I want to see is the handsome prince.”