Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  “How long’s he been gone? Two days?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I watch her pour the wine. Her face is taut with tension. I realize she’s been crying and I think she’s about to cry now. “Let’s sit down,” she says and I follow her into the sitting room.

  We sit opposite each other. She picks up her glass. “Down the hatch,” she says and guzzles it down like water.

  “Is there a problem, Liv?” I ask.

  “Just a minor one.”

  “How minor?”

  “I don’t want to get married.” She looks back at me, her eyes daring me to challenge her. “There you are. I’ve said it.”

  For a moment I’m speechless. I take the smallest sip of wine. I’d like to drink more but I’m not taking any risks no matter how tense this is going to be.

  “You sound like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “I have. It’s not that I don’t love Dan. I just don’t want to get married to him.”

  “Does Dan know?”

  “No. You’re the first person I’ve told. You’re always the first person I tell.”

  I weigh up what she’s said, wondering if it’s classic prewedding nerves or if something’s happened that she hasn’t told me about.

  “So cancel,” I say. “No one’s twisting your arm.”

  “My dad will go crazy if I cancel.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “Don’t you remember? He said he’d been saving up for my wedding my whole life. He’ll kill me.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to go through with the wedding.”

  She forces a laugh.

  “What about Dan? Won’t he want to kill you?”

  “I can deal with Dan. Oh God!!!!” she groans. “What have I done? What was I thinking?”

  I’m really amazed she feels this way. She’s never mentioned any doubt before. “You were thinking what you’ve been thinking since I’ve known you. That you’ve always wanted to get married, that a legal commitment is everything, and that you’ve never been happier than you are with Dan.”

  That dismissive laugh comes up from her throat again. “That’s true. But suppose marriage ruins it all? I mean if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? And it ain’t.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re getting married. Because he’s wonderful and you’re terrific together and it’s what you both want. Why should a piece of paper change that?”

  She sighs deeply. She reaches for the bottle and tops up her glass. “Don’t worry, I got an Uber.”

  We sit, looking at each other in silence because I can tell that Olivia’s mind has drifted somewhere far away; she might be looking at me but she’s not present. And she looks very drunk.

  “I haven’t heard from him since he’s gone on the stag,” she says, suddenly. She rocks slightly in her seat. “Not a fucking word.”

  Bingo! I swirl my wine in the glass. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No! No.” she objects. “I’m not that lightweight. But suppose it’s indicative of how things are going to be. That we get married and he starts to take me for granted.”

  “Oh, Liv.” I sigh. “There could be a million reasons why he hasn’t phoned you. He’s on a stag for a start. In Ibiza. He’s probably drunk—”

  “Isn’t that when you send multiple I love you texts? Like hundreds of them?”

  “Is that what you want? I can’t think of anything less attractive.”

  “Oh!”

  “How many have you sent?”

  “Not been counting. But one little bitty reply from him would be nice.”

  “I’m with you on that. But does that mean he’s now fallen into the official ‘taking you for granted’ category? Come on. Let’s be real here. Maybe there’s some great explanation. Although I’ll put money on it that he’s hammered. I mean, that is the point of a stag, after all.”

  “Oh, stop making his behavior sound acceptable. You’d be exactly the same as me.”

  “Definitely. I don’t deny it. I’d hate it. And I can’t think of anything worse than a bunch of drunken middle-aged men. Yuck.”

  She looks back at me, a reluctant smile forcing up her downturned mouth. “Really. You think that too? We’re not being judgmental? After all, I am half sozzled myself.”

  “It’s not the being drunk, I hate. It’s the blokey gang mentality that takes over. That’s the turn off.”

  “Ha! Yeah. Especially when one of the blokey gang should have bloody texted me.”

  I get out of my chair and move to sit down in front of her. “Liv. I’m with you. Honestly, he should have texted. But it doesn’t mean you should cancel the wedding. It means that when he gets back, you’re going to tell him that no matter what, he should always text you back—at least once—and that he should never, ever take you for granted. And then you’re going to have the most amazing makeup sex. Okay?”

  “Not really . . .” She lets out a loud burp. “Oops.” She flaps her hand in front of her face. “I cried about this all last night you know. I haven’t slept a wink.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but I kind of guessed. You feeling any better? A glass of wine done the trick?”

  “You mean a bottle,” she says. “And yeah, it’s helped. Until I get sober.”

  “Or he does. You do know he’ll call, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t make the silence all right. Why do they never get that?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, Olivia, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, pregnant and single.”

  “Being single is so much less complicated,” she yawns.

  “Sure,” I nod, yawning with her. “But who says less complicated makes you happier?”

  4

  “Happy birthday to you!

  Happy birthday to you!

  Happy birthday, dear Jennifer.

  Happy birthday to you!”

  The waiter puts the cake down in front of me and I blow out the candles. The women around the table clap heartily.

  I take the knife and plunge it into the chocolate sponge.

  “Make a wish,” says Olivia.

  “You’ll know what I’m wishing for.” I smile.

  “I’m wishing that for you too,” says Isabelle. “I can’t wait to see that scan.”

  “Are you going?” Olivia says.

  “Yup,” She smiles proudly. “Braving the NHS.”

  “Rita says your baby’s going to be just fine,” says Anna Maria. “You can widen your wish spectrum.”

  Isabelle leans into my ear. “Who is this Rita woman she keeps talking about?”

  “Her reiki healer.”

  “Jesus! I thought it was her lover!”

  Anna Maria is looking at Pattie’s palm.

  “You see that line,” she says. “It means you’re going to meet someone and he’s going to be the perfect man for you. A spiritual man.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” says Pattie.

  Anna Maria looks back at Pattie, horrified by her contempt, then stares into her palm. “And you will have two children. No! Make that three.”

  Pattie scoffs and retrieves her hand. “He’s not a spiritual man, Anna Maria, he’s a bloody miracle worker.” She pulls her fan from her bag, waving it furiously around her glowing face.

  Anna Maria sucks in her cheeks. She knows exactly what she was doing. No one mocks the offer of a spiritual man.

  We’re at the Wolseley not just to celebrate my birthday but also because I want to celebrate these women. To thank them. I look around the table, committing this moment to memory because it’s special. Because I never expected to have another birthday. And because these women are the best most supportive, loyal friends a once-dying woman could wish for.

  I divide the
cake into generous portions. “You all have to eat it. We’re celebrating life and I’m not accepting any of this dieting nonsense from anyone. Not even the future bride. You’re thin enough, Olivia.”

  The wedding is back on. Not that it was ever off. Turns out Dan had had his phone confiscated by his best man as soon as he arrived at the airport. No surprise there. And no surprise that Olivia decided to forgive him. I don’t think she ever told him she had considered canceling.

  “You look great, Olivia,” says Isabelle. “A bit drawn, maybe, but that’s understandable.”

  “Isabelle! She looks fabulous,” I say.

  “And I agree; it’s just she’s got that prewedding gaunt look.”

  “Take no notice, Liv. Whatever your look, it suits you.”

  I place a piece of cake on each of the tea plates in front of them. Isabelle pings on her glass with a fork.

  “Happy birthday, Jennifer,” she says, beaming as she holds up her glass. “To my wonderful sister.”

  I’m chuffed.

  “Hear, hear,” they say.

  She carries on. “To think she used to be such a boring old Goody Two-shoes.” She blanches. “Sorry! She hates that. But look at her now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She dips her chin at me, as if I should know. “It means I’m proud of you. You’re brave and gutsy.”

  “Why, thank you, Isabelle!”

  “You are. You’re the bravest and we love you,” says Olivia, and the others nod in agreement.

  I feel strangely overwhelmed. “On that note,” I say. “I need to pee. How many times in a day does a pregnant woman need to pee?”

  “At least twice, so far. But I’m not counting,” says Olivia.

  “I think you’ll find it’s three times. But I’m not counting, either,” says Pattie.

  “Anna Maria,” I say. “Would you care to give your estimate?”

  “I don’t think I’ve noticed you leave the table once,” she says. “Your aura is so present.”

  Isabelle flashes me a look that says, Is she completely mad?

  “She’s kidding,” I say.

  I wander through the restaurant one more time, squeezing round the outside tables, slowly negotiating the stairs down to the all-too-familiar ladies’ room.

  I push open the door, expecting the room to be empty, but standing in front of the basins, looking at herself in the mirror, putting on lipstick, is a large woman I instantly sense is familiar.

  She turns her head, casually checking the intrusion, and jumps out of her skin, dropping the lipstick, which rolls into the sink. Her mouth falls open, one red lip, one smudge.

  “Elizabeth,” I say, mirroring her shock. “How are you?”

  “Jennifer?” She looks me up and down. “Is that really you?”

  I check myself. “I think so,” I say.

  “Are you preg-nant?” She elongates the two short syllables conveying undisguised disgust.

  I’m wearing a figure-hugging floral dress. At seventeen weeks my bump is now undeniable. “Yes,” I say. “Either that or I have a bad case of wind.”

  “Oh, God,” she groans. “I guess I should have expected that kind of reply from you.”

  She turns away momentarily, picks up her lipstick, checks the tip, tuts, and finishes painting her lips. I’m standing there like an idiot watching her, deeply uncomfortable in every sense, needing to pee more than ever but somehow held, rooted to the spot.

  “How’s Andy?” I say. “Is he here?”

  “He’s at football.” She smacks her lips together, puts the lipstick away, and tucks the snakeskin clutch bag under her arm ready to leave. She looms over me, posturing. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she says. “But aren’t you meant to be dead?”

  I stall. “I think you’ll find that is rude,” I say.

  “Oh, really?” she says. “Really. You think that, do you? Well, I think you’re pretty rude, actually.” Her mouth is tight and cruel with its slicked red coat of paint. Maleficent without the charm. “I mean, don’t you think you could have let us know you were still alive? With child,” she adds.

  I laugh, emboldened by her lack of grace. “If you were even the slightest bit interested, don’t you think you should have called me?” She pushes every single one of my buttons.

  “Well, we were dealing with stuff. It was a difficult time. But we’re okay now.”

  “And so am I,” I say. “I’m very okay. My diagnosis was a mistake.”

  “Pah! Don’t be ridiculous. No one makes that kind of mistake.” She rolls her eyes and squares up to me. “Ohhh,” she says. “I see it all now. You were never dying, were you? You were preg-nant.”

  “I’m not going to justify myself to you, Elizabeth. You can think what you like.”

  “Well, Andy and I are happier than we’ve ever been. So stay away from him.”

  “Why would I come near him?”

  “You wrote to him, didn’t you? Begging him to come back. Begging him to look after you in your hour of need.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Her eyebrows arch. “Did you never read the letter yourself?”

  Her eyes bug out. “Oh my God!” she screams. “It’s not his, is it?”

  She’s so exasperating. I want to slap her into a conscious reality. “Elizabeth,” I say. “It’s not his, nor would I wish it to be. I divorced Andy a hundred years ago. He’s all yours. I have absolutely no interest in him. And if you want bad sex with a serial philanderer, then you’ve chosen the right man. I moved on, and the last thing I want to do is listen to your needy, paranoid crap.”

  She’s gawping at me, speechless. My bladder is fit to burst, but this feels too damn good.

  “I wish you nothing but the best, Elizabeth, but you’re going to have to face facts. I do not covet my ex-husband in the way you coveted him when he was my husband. But my bladder isn’t going to hold on for much longer and I really don’t want to piss on you the way you’ve always pissed on me. So please excuse me. Ciao!”

  I push past her into a cubicle, lock the door, scramble to find my knickers, whip them down, and my bladder cheers with relief. I sit there, my head in my hands, listening for movement outside. Go Elizabeth! I plead in my head. Go! There’s the longest silence and I know she’s still there. Hovering. Waiting for me. Desperate to have the final word.

  “Just go, Elizabeth,” I say. “I told you. Get over it.” I’m not going to back down, even from the inelegance of a toilet seat.

  There’s a whoosh of the door. She’s gone.

  I regain my composure, come out of the cubicle, wash my hands, and look at myself in the mirror. I grin in triumph.

  I did it. What I’ve wanted to do for years. I told her more to her face than put in the letter she’d never read and got the pleasure of witnessing her reaction. What could be better? I smile back at myself. Well done!

  I return to the table and the women stare at me as if I’ve been gone for hours.

  “Where have you been?” says Isabelle. “You’ve taken forever. I was about to come and find you. We were getting worried.”

  “I bumped into Elizabeth,” I say.

  Olivia clasps her hands to her face. “Oh my God! I think we saw her leave. That woman, blustering loudly for her coat. Left in a real hurry, some poor woman in her trail.”

  “Must have been her,” I say. “Good! I bothered her.”

  “What happened?” says Isabelle.

  I blow on a clenched fist as if I’ve delivered a proper punch. “Well, you’d all be proud of me. I was brave and gutsy and I told her exactly what I thought of her.”

  “You’re on fire!” says Pattie.

  “She was so rude, she deserved it. I left her speechless.”

  They give me a little round of applause. “Bravo!”

 
“Andy’s going to get a shock when he hears I’m still alive. And preg-nant.” I laugh. “Do you know, she actually had the nerve to ask if it was his.”

  “Good God!” says Olivia. “That woman has no idea about anything, does she?”

  “She does now!”

  5

  It’s early morning and several blankets cold. It’s the Sunday after my birthday and I’m still feeling celebratory. It was such a good lunch. Joyful. And now I have time to be lazy in bed because I have an excuse to loll around. I’m gazing at my belly under the duvet. A moment’s peaceful contemplation.

  My phone rings, breaking the spell, and I feel for it by the side of the bed then bring my hand back under the warmth of the duvet, glancing casually at the glow of the screen. It’s Emily. It’s EMILY! I sit up immediately and pull myself into some kind of reasonable shape, finger combing my hair, as though she might catch me looking like a pregnant sloven.

  “Emily!” I say, brimming with excitement. “Oh my God, Em! I’m so pleased to hear from you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer, it’s Michael. There’s no good news, I’m afraid.”

  I feel myself go cold.

  “We’re turning off her life support later today. We thought you would want to know.”

  I’m overwhelmed with emotion, but he’s being so stoic about it, I stay in control. “I’m so sorry. Please give my love to Marion. I feel for you both. How is she coping?”

  “She’s not. The whole thing is unbearable. You think you’re prepared. You’ve had months to grieve and contemplate the worst. But now it’s here. It’s simply agonizing. But she’s a brave woman.”

  “I’m so so sorry, Michael.”

  “We’ll let you know arrangements. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  The disconnect tone resounds cruelly in my ear. He’s gone. The phone slides from my hand. “Emily!” I whisper. “You poor lost soul.”

  I curl up on my side, warm tears trickling down my face. “Oh my God!” I say out loud. “Emily is about to die.” My body is trembling; the hairs on my arms stand up. What did she do to herself? Why? Why? Why? Was her life really that bad?

  I place my hands gently on my stomach. “Baby,” I say. “I want you to know how loved you are. Even now. Even when I don’t have a clue who you are, or what sex you are, or who you’re going to be . . . You are loved. Don’t you ever forget that. And if you should ever hear that you were a mistake, and someone will no doubt say something because people can be unkind, then I want you to know, we all make mistakes, and you were the best one I ever made. You will be loved all your life. I’m going to make sure of that. All your life, you will know your mummy truly loves you.”