by Andrea Darby
***
As far as tonics go, they don’t come more potent. I have Imogen sat opposite and a huge slice of chocolate and toffee pecan cake right under my nose. It’s been worth enduring a tedious drive through heavy traffic to Heathrow airport, dodging impatient sunseekers and recklessly wheeled suitcases in an arrivals lounge with the air con set to Arctic chill – just to see her huge, infectious, gummy smile. Shame it’s only for a couple of hours.
We’re sitting by the window of a crowded café in Terminal One, watching the mayhem and madness of departures, flustered travellers fretting beneath flight information screens and joining queues that never diminish, while immaculately dressed women clip-clop across the concourse in shiny red shoes and matching lips and neckerchiefs to aid and appease.
‘You look really well,’ I reiterate.
‘Thanks, lovely.’ Imogen beams. Her hair’s a brighter chestnut, the fringe short and showing off tinted brows and eyes shaded in two tones of green. She removes her tailored jacket, revealing a striped top.
‘Where are the onions?’
‘Funny,’ she says. ‘I think horizontal stripes are a mistake – they make you look bigger apparently, not good when you’ve being enjoying French food a bit too much. It’s why I wore a long top, means I can undo my skirt and breathe.’ She fumbles at her waistband, expels a force nine gust of air. ‘Phew, that’s better.’
It’s not long before she asks about Ashley. ‘So are you going to meet him again then?’
‘I think so.’
Imogen’s shapely brows take flight. ‘I wonder whether he’ll tell his wife he’s meeting a significant ex?’
I’d wondered the same. I shrug. ‘I feel guilty asking for a day off when I’ve just booked a week so Eleanor and I can escape somewhere sunny.’
We talk a bit more about all the media madness. Then I get out the letters.
‘Look at these.’ I watch Imogen’s eyes pop, jaw slackening as she reads. Two begging notes. One’s professional-looking, on thick paper, with logos and several different typefaces, from a charity appealing for funds to send aid workers to Africa. The other’s badly typed on a thin, crinkled sheet, littered with errors, from a man desperate for a life-saving drug.
‘Sodding hell. So they assume Dan’s donation means you’re loaded and can ...’ She stops. ‘What a cheek! And how did they get your address?’
‘I’m not sure. I have another pile of post I haven’t opened. I think there’s more. The thing is, although it makes me cross, they’re probably genuine requests, and I feel really bad—’
‘Whoa, stop there.’ Imogen holds up the letters, ripping them straight down the middle, then throws them on to the tray by her feet. ‘Your local paper has a lot to answer for.’
I relay how Sunny’s efforts to get an apology have been fruitless. She’d turned up at the newspaper’s offices demanding to see the editor, but been fobbed off by his deputy who’d defended their right to quote people’s opinions, however controversial. He maintained the story had been balanced, suggesting she write a letter for them to print. But Mark had fared better. He’d got access to the top, persuaded the editor, in lieu of an apology, to run a small story – not another big headline, he assured me – defending people’s rights to donate their hard-earned cash to whatever they wanted and highlighting Dan’s donations to good causes. Lots of people had contacted the newspaper voicing support for Dan and others like him. One woman had happily confessed her intention to squander her whole estate on cruises before she died, determined to enjoy every penny. Hopefully, that would be the end of it all.
‘Anyway, how are things with you?’ I realise I’ve hijacked the conversation and, as our cake has long departed and my Americano’s a few degrees from iced coffee, it’s clearly been a long time.
Imogen tells me she’s started French lessons, Katie has a full set of teeth, Laura’s taken up ballet and insisted on wearing her tutu to the Super U, practising her steps down every aisle. And, after exchanging several letters and emails, Ben’s arranged to meet his biological mum, in Ireland. He’s excited, but very nervous.
‘I thought it might be a distraction,’ she says. I knew there was a ‘but’ coming.
‘But he’s insisting we see a sex therapist,’ she says, voice hushed.
‘Really. Are you OK with that?’
‘Not really …’ she leans in, voice barely audible, ‘… talking about my sex life in front of a stranger fills me with dread – but I guess I should. I owe it to Ben to try. Things aren’t getting any better. In fact, the longer it’s gone on, the bigger deal it seems to be and the more pressure I feel. I can’t do – it – at all now.’ She fiddles with her gold pendant. ‘Our first session, with Genevieve – I insisted it was a woman – is on Friday.’
‘I’m sure it will help. You’ll be OK. Lots of couples go through it. Having children changes things, you just need time.’
‘I hope so. If it takes much longer, Ben will certainly be off with some Parisian nymphomaniac; if he isn’t already. And you’ll have three new lodgers.’ Imogen giggles nervously. I rest my hand on her wrist, watching her chase cake crumbs with a fingertip.
Although it’s ancient history, I’ve never been entirely convinced Imogen’s totally over Ben’s misdemeanour when they were first together. He’d got off-his-face drunk at a nightclub and slept with a mate’s girlfriend. They were both distraught, Ben deeply regretful. They parted for months, but got back together. I’d seen hints of Imogen’s insecurity and a thin jealous streak, though she usually hid both well beneath her bubbles, leaving everyone to assume they possessed the perfect recipe for relationship success and their sex life must be as steamy as her treacle puddings.
Ben oozed charm, with his permanently tousled hair and melodic Irish voice, and women loved it, one or two perhaps misinterpreting friendliness for flirting over the years, though I’d never seen him cross the line.
I recall one of Imogen’s dinner parties when the super skinny wife of Ben’s colleague had overdone the Pinot and flirted outrageously with him. She’d sat next to him, giggling through whitened teeth at every word he uttered, nudging him with a toned arm; even pawing his sleeve a few times. Imogen didn’t say anything, but I watched her simmering. Her revenge was sweet. The flirty female got the only soufflé that hadn’t risen – served with a sugary smile, of course.
I’m concerned the problem in the bedroom is reigniting Imogen’s old anxieties.
‘Come on – who’s being a daft mare now?’ I ask, as Imogen stacks her plate on mine. ‘Anyway, Eleanor and I want a holiday in Reims. You can’t come back.’
CHAPTER 13
A noisy crew of hollering workmen with hefty power tools, all wearing matching low-slung grey trousers and showing several inches of arse-crack, greet me as I open the pencil pleat curtains on a misty May morning. A drunken motorist has knocked a street lamp askew and it clearly takes four burly blokes to dig out the foundations and realign it. I look up at a feathery chrome sky that could go either way, just like my day ahead.
A monobrowed weatherman appears on the TV as I dress, promising an abundance of spring sunshine in Cherlsbury, the Cotswold town where Ashley and are meeting. I’m only marginally less nervous than before the previous meeting, I think as I pull on a cami top, trusting the forecast.
Pete agreed to give me a day off, despite it turning into a last-minute request. I dallied for a couple of weeks, unsure whether I had the courage to go through with it. ‘Take your time owing now, because we’re going to be busy bees if we get the Lorex contract,’ he’d said in an almost optimistic tone. Yesterday, Tash kept referring to my planned outing as a second date and I had to correct her. ‘He’s married. We’re just meeting for lunch. We have – unfinished business; a few more things to talk about.’
‘Of course.’ Tash raised one razored eyebrow.
I’m emptying the dishwasher when Eleanor shuffles in, one arm gripping her tummy.
‘I feel really sick – an
d I’ve got a headache.’
‘Oh dear.’ My first thought is: ‘Not today! I can’t meet Ashley if Eleanor’s too ill for school’. My second is that my first should have been ‘My poor daughter, what if it’s something serious’, and my third ‘I must be a bad mother because of my first thought’. I feel Eleanor’s forehead, trying to make amends for the badly prioritised thoughts.
‘You’re not overly warm, darling.’ She looks normal – well, what passes as normal before she hits the bathroom; dozy, dishevelled, eyes barely open (‘like pee holes in the snow’ as Dad says). No rashes. No smell of bile on her breath. Nothing obvious. But she’s still in pyjamas, a clear sign she’s planning a return to the duvet.
‘When did it come on?’ I try to hide the disappointment, but not the concern.
‘I don’t know,’ she growls. ‘Duh, I was asleep!’
‘Why don’t you try some breakfast? Might make you feel better.’
‘I don’t want breakfast.’ She climbs on to a stool, slumping like a rag doll, head against the breakfast bar.
‘I’ll get some painkillers. They may help the headache at least.’
‘OK.’ A muffled voice rises from between her arms, which have formed a barricade around her head.
I fetch the pills from my bag, desperately wondering what else I can do – one of Sunny’s natural remedies; pray, perhaps?
‘Have you actually been sick?’
‘No,’ she says, with a whimper.
I pour a glass of water, watching her grimace and gag as she swallows the tablets, then slump again. I’m distraught. All that planning and anticipation for nothing; arranging for Eleanor to go to Bethany’s after school and telling another fib about who I was seeing.
It’s a hopeless prospect. I’ll have to cancel. ‘Shall I phone the school then, tell them you’re too ill to go in? You’ll have to stay in bed though – no TV.’
‘Yes.’ The stifled voice again.
I can’t believe this is happening. Ashley may not be able to rearrange. He may not want to. I can’t ask Pete for another day off any time soon.
In my rush to fetch the phone, I trip over Eleanor’s trainers in the hall and do a clumsy forward hop, letting go of a few expletives and landing inelegantly, but safely, a short distance ahead. I glare at the trainers.
Then I remember. Eleanor has athletics trials. Eleanor despises athletics; running fast is ‘painful and pointless’.
What an actress she’s turning into. The devious little …
***
‘What a gorgeous day.’
‘’Tis quite splendid, I concur,’ Ashley says with a wry smile, taking a big swipe at his raspberry ice cream with a pink-coated tongue.
We’re sat on a grassy bank in a beautiful park filled with exposed flesh, espadrilles and skippy excitement over the burst of surprisingly hot sunshine.
The park’s lined on three sides by elegant, balconied white houses posing behind shiny black arrowhead railings, and, at the lower end is a little wooden refreshment kiosk with a striped awning and packed picnic benches.
I’m devouring a giant tub of rum and raisin ice cream, legs outstretched on the perfectly clipped grass, catching drifts of sun cream and squeals from a huddle of high-spirited students on a blanket nearby, starting to feel truly relaxed and wishing I didn’t have to drive home so soon.
Ashley’s leant back on one elbow, a long scar on his upper arm prominent under the sun’s glare, its edges dark pink and puckered. My eyes rest on the familiar carpet of downy fair hair on his forearms, and I recall, with a rush of adrenalin, how it felt beneath my wandering fingertips. I avert my gaze.
We’ve both fallen a little quiet, sedated by the lovely long lunch taken on the terracotta-tiled terrace of a smart French bistro opposite a row of smart shops with pretentious names in elaborate fonts. I’d arrived late and apologetic. Eleanor’s little act to try to skive athletics had ended in a verbal battle – she still insisted she really did feel unwell – and then a deliberate ‘go slow’, which meant she missed the first lesson at school, I got stuck in a rush-hour jam, was late for my hair appointment, then couldn’t find anywhere to park when I finally reached Cherlsbury. But Monobrow Man had been right. A few miles before I exited the motorway, just as Oasis were belting out Don’t Look Back in Anger on the car radio and I was smiling inwardly at the irony of the song, intense golden rays bullied their way through the pale grey clouds.
‘Have you got any photos of your daughter?’ Ashley sits up.
‘There’s a few on my phone.’
‘Do show, then. I want to see if she looks like her mum.’
I smile. I’ve softened – just like our ice creams – unable to stay frosty with Ashley for long. I’d tried in the bistro; a few initial terse, brief responses to his questions in a bid to make it blatant that instant forgiveness and unflagging friendliness weren’t on the menu. He’d remained sedate and courteous, gradually winning me over with his easy chat.
I hold my mobile between us, clicking through the images. Some are from another life, it seems.
‘That was last year,’ I say at last. ‘She’s changed a bit lately – wears more make-up, frowns more, has grown her fringe and a bad attitude—’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes, she’s lovely, though it’s hard to convince her of that these days, teenage insecurity and all that. She thinks her best friend gets all the boys because she’s prettier, cleverer, more confident, less spotty – the list goes on.’
A Toy Story football hurtles across the grass towards us for the third time, hitting Ashley’s chest. He grins nonchalantly, rolling it steadily back to the uncoordinated toddler whose tiny legs are lost in oversized shorts. The boy’s mum mouths an apology.
‘Who do you think she looks like?’ Ashley sniffs loudly – an old habit.
‘She’s a mixture really, probably more like her dad.’
‘How has she taken it – you know … losing him?’
I’m surprised by his directness. ‘She’s coped fairly well. She hates talking about it though. I’ve tried hard to get her to open up.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but I saw your husband in the newspapers again.’ Ashley lifts his sapphire blue T-shirt, hooking one thumb in the front pocket of his cargo shorts.
‘Yes, it’s really upset Eleanor. Poor girl’s been teased at school. I’ve had loads of begging letters …’ Ashley pulls a deep frown, ‘… and you should see some of the online comments about cryonics. I just hope Eleanor hasn’t. Some people are quite vicious.’
‘Really – how?’
‘Oh – where to start? My husband’s been labelled a loony, and cryonics a crazy con. Some of the attacks have been pretty personal. One guy said it was a big scam, a tax on vanity and that the last thing the team preparing my husband’s body did was stick a note on his forehead saying ‘Mug’.’
Ashley slowly shakes his head. ‘Morons. I wonder how much those people really know about it.’ He pauses. ‘I quite like the idea – seems worth a punt. Scientists can do amazing stuff now, with stem cells and such. Impossible things are becoming possible.’ I stay silent, intrigued by his reaction. ‘I’m guessing you don’t share your husband’s desire then?’
‘No. But I respect it. I just wish others did. Dan wasn’t eccentric, or a sci-fi nerd. He was pretty clever, down to earth.’
‘I guess it’s something we’ve all thought about. Being invincible.’ Ashley gazes into the distance. ‘I was desperate to be Superman – dodging that kryptonite. I can understand someone wanting to live again, or forever. If you enjoy life, why wouldn’t you want to? You spend years learning and progressing, death seems a waste.’
‘It scares me a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ I take another spoonful of rum and raisin. ‘Probably, because I don’t understand it – science baffles and scares me in equal measure. And I’m a bit squeamish about death … corpses and all that.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Ashley knocks off some grass stuck to his scar. ‘I’d never really heard about cryonics until I read … well, not a real case.’ A pause. ‘I don’t get the science.’
‘You and virtually everyone else, it seems. Even the experts can’t agree over whether it could work. Many say neurons are destroyed by freezing, cells would turn to mush. My friend Tash said she’d worry about waking up looking like a pork scratching. She can’t bear going a few days without being exfoliated, let alone decades.’
Ashley lets out a suppressed laugh. ‘I don’t like the thought of having to die over again though, and ...’ he squints into the sun, eyes taking on a metallic sheen ‘…what about the soul?’
‘Hmmm. I’m not sure there’s a place for spirituality in cryonics.’
‘Are there many people who want to be preserved then?’
‘Oh yes, Dan won’t be lonely in the freezer – he’s in good company,’ I say, putting down my tub and wiping my hands on my linen trousers. ‘Rumour has it a few celebrities are already in there, and music mogul Sam McDowell’s supposedly booked his space – although I’m guessing he’ll want to be on the top shelf and have piped music.’
Ashley grins. ‘Does it cost a lot?’
‘Yes – an arm and a leg … and a head … and a torso …’ I stop. ‘Sorry that was a cheap shot. Dan had his own business, the money wasn’t an issue – as you may have read.’
Ashley takes my empty tub to the bin. ‘Sorry for all the questions,’ he says, ambling back. He sits, legs crossed like a primary pupil on the carpet at story time. ‘It must be a tough thing to deal with, and all the publicity—’
‘Yes. And Dan’s sister’s been a total pain. She thinks I should sign up, too, to please him. It’s what he wanted. She makes me feel guilty and … it’s as if she thinks I should stay forever loyal to Dan, just in case he comes back.’
