So, I’m angry; fuck, am I angry. But I’m hurting, too. And confused. And maybe… maybe I’m even a bit worried about him. We’ve been gradually losing touch as the years have gone by. He’s slowly built a wall around himself. He’s detached – maybe from when he met Lisa – to the point now where we barely see him. We barely know him. He rebuilt his life after taking a few wrong turns. After losing confidence, turning to drink. He saw it was killing him and he fixed it. At that point, I thought we’d rebuild our relationship too, but Lisa… she seemed to want him all to herself. And so, it never happened. I lost him. I didn’t know him any more. And, clearly, I still don’t. I mean, what kind of person sends a text message of ‘sorry’, when that person killed your wife?
He killed my wife.
Which is why I sit here, waiting for someone to return, my itchy fingers drumming on the steering wheel. My heart is racing, my mind is fogged in disbelief.
A tap on the window makes me jump. Steamed up, I open the door to find Lisa standing on the pavement, her coat pulled around her in the cold air. The light is going, I haven’t noticed that near dusk has swallowed the street, the houses. ‘Ed?’ she says, her eyes narrowed. Is she suspicious of me? What the hell for?
‘Where’s Simon?’
Lisa laughs, nastily, then turns on her heel and walks up to the house. I get out of the car and notice, for the first time, that their curtains are drawn and there’s a recycling box of empty bottles and cans on the doorstep. ‘Well,’ she says, pointing to the box. ‘It looks like he’s drunk everything in the house now, so if recent behaviour’s anything to go by, he’s out to find more. Again. Like he always does.’
‘Where? Where does he go?’ I chase after her, knocked back slightly as she throws her handbag back on her shoulder after extracting the house keys.
‘He goes anywhere, Ed. Everywhere, if you will. He goes down the Arboretum, by the tram stop up at the goose fair site. I found him in a pub down Hockley the other day, a tip off from a neighbour. Apparently he’s been found curled up on the steps of the town hall before now too. You name the location, he’s probably drinking, drunk or passed out there.’
She reels the facts off as if it’s totally normal behaviour. As if she’s numb to it because he’s been doing it for so long, but to my mind, he’s been sober for years. At least, that was always the message from Mum.
‘Since when?’ I spit. ‘When did he start drinking again?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Since the accident?’
She unlocks the door, stepping inside, pausing as if she’s trying to remember that far back.
It was eight weeks! I want to shout. Eight weeks!
‘God knows, Ed. If you find out, perhaps you could let me know. I haven’t been able to track him down for months. He’d disappear without a trace then turn up out of the blue. He’d ignore my calls. He’d come home, late, without a reason for where he’d been. Without routine, or purpose. He’d drink his way through God knows what.’ She points down to the recycling. Apparently as evidence. ‘Jesus, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was having an affair, he was so secretive about everything. Good luck finding him. And if you do, good luck getting any sense out of him. I’m done, washing my hands. Our marriage is over.’
‘An affair?’ I say. Lisa turns to face me, staring, her face frozen in the moment. ‘Who with?’
‘Who with?’ she repeats. She looks up and down the street, then right back at me. ‘Who knows. Maybe Ellie could have answered that question, were she still here.’
Lisa slams the door shut and I start knocking again. My knuckles still sore, red raw now from knocking harder. ‘Lisa! Lisa! Open the door! What do you mean Ellie could have answered? What are you talking about? LISA!’
I bang my fist on the door in frustration as a bloke passes the end of the path. ‘Everything alright, mate?’ he asks, blocking my way from leaving. He folds his arms and fixes me with a glare that adds fuel to my anger.
‘Not really. Mate!’ I labour the point.
‘Well, maybe Lisa’ – he nods towards the house, and I’m not sure if he knows her or is jumping to conclusions, based on hearing me shout – ‘doesn’t wanna talk to you.’ He steps back, inviting me to leave. I glance back at the house, then at my car, eyeballing the bloke.
My watch beeps six o’clock and I realise I should be at the nursery to pick up Oli. ‘Fuck!’ I growl, climbing into my car. As I start the engine, the bloke perches on the wall as if to check I’m really leaving.
How dare she? How fucking dare she! That was my wife, MY wife. Why would she have the answers? Does Lisa mean Ellie and Simon were…? Ellie wouldn’t have done something like that, I know she wouldn’t.
Except the sound of Simon’s voice when he called after the accident comes flooding back, louder than it ever was before. ‘Ellie was with me, Ed. Ellie was with me… she’s… she’s…’
He never finished the sentence; a paramedic took over telling me where to meet them. A & E at Queens. Ellie was dead on arrival and, from the look in his eye, so was Simon. I’d asked him what they were doing… she’d left a note saying she was going for fresh air. She’d said nothing about Simon. I’d asked how they’d met up and now I realise he’d never answered. Mum had ushered me away. Was she protecting me or him? They wouldn’t… would they?
No! No!
I start the car up, pulling off with a tyre spin as I head back to the city centre. If the bloke outside their house watches me leave, I don’t notice. I’m dialling Simon’s number, one last time. But it doesn’t ring. There’s no voicemail this time either. Just a dead line, number not recognised.
Pulling into the nursery car park, I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the crumbs of doubt that are collecting in the back of my mind. I rub my face, my hair, I knock sense into my skull with the heel of my hand. How could Simon let things get so bad with Lisa that she would say something like this, now, to me? How could either of them do that?
I swallow back the salty sting of tears, anger still spitting in my chest. It’s nearly half past six. First day back after ten weeks off and I’ve achieved nothing at work. First day leaving Oli at nursery and I’m late to pick him up.
I can’t do this. I need her, I need Ellie!
Twelve
Rachel
It’s past six thirty when Ed finally bursts in. ’Sorry, I’m so sorry!’ he says, flustered and distracted as he bends down to pick Oli up. ‘I didn’t realise what time it was, I…’ He pulls Oli into him, holding him tight, eyes closed. He lets out a deep breath as if he’s held it since dropping Oli off at eight thirty this morning. He fumbles him to his left- then right-hand side, before trying to turn him round in his arms, almost dropping him in the process. ‘Shit,’ he says, as I leap towards them both, pushing Oli safely back into his arms.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, taking his arm to try to steady him.
‘No, it isn’t. Not really. Far from it, but there we go, that’s just…’ He looks around for Oli’s stuff. ‘Look, sorry I’m so late. Let me get out of your way, I’m sure you wanna go home.’ He jogs over to the peg with Oli’s things on, pulling at the bag, which won’t come away from its hook. ‘Fuck!’ he says, when he eventually liberates it only for the contents to spill and clatter onto the floor. ‘I can’t do this!’ He stops, thumb and forefinger from his free hand pulling his eyes closed, dropping against the wall as if out of energy, sliding down it, Oli still in his arms.
I pause a second, not sure what to do. Ed swallows, wiping his eyes, kissing Oli on the head. ‘Here, let me,’ I say gently, bending down to pick up the dummies, bottles, nappies and spare change of clothes that lie scattered around his feet. Bag open, I rest back on my heels, folding and placing things neatly inside. The sound of my packing Oli’s bag is amplified somehow. The energy in the room is thick. I glance up at Ed, who’s staring at me.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says again, quietly.
I lean forwards. �
�You can,’ I say gently.
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, giving yourself time, maybe. Being patient with yourself and others. Asking for help.’
He lets out a hiccup, as if I’ve just suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world to him. ‘Who do you think I have?’ he asks.
‘Okay, so I can’t answer that. We barely know each other.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘But, look, I’m here to help, with Oli at least. He’s been brilliant today, so calm. You must be doing a great job, for him to settle so quickly.’ His eyes fill again and I feel compelled to place my hand on his knee. ‘It’s going to take time.’ He looks up. ‘And all those other clichés, I know.’ He smiles sadly. ‘But let’s agree at the very least, that this bit, the Oli at nursery bit, let’s agree that we can do this together. I was going to leave, as it goes. Retrain. No idea what as, just something with career prospects. I’m hurtling toward thirty at an alarming rate and I’m not sure I like it.’
‘Your thirties are nothing.’
‘No, probably not. But it feels like something, and it feels like I want to achieve something. Let’s make it this – working together to help you to get into a new routine, where arriving late to pick Oli up doesn’t tip you over the edge!’
‘I’m a potential achievement, am I?’ Ed moves Oli to his knees. ‘Hear that little man?’
‘Well… for want of a better word, I’m going to say yes. You are. Let me help you find a new routine. Besides, you’ll be an excuse that buys me time. My best friend and my dad are desperate to pack me off to university and I’ve no idea what to do there. This is as good an excuse as any for me to postpone a life decision I feel unprepared for.’ He gives a shallow nod. ‘Look.’ I reach out to his arm, but he pulls it back and I can feel the moment moving on; he’s building his barrier back up.
I get up and move away to pack up the last of the room. ‘Take as long as you want,’ I say over my shoulder, giving him the space I can see that he needs. ‘I’ve got a few jobs here, some packing away. Bet you that you’re ready to go before I am.’ And I set about making jobs up to occupy my time for as long as it takes.
‘You okay?’ I ask, when Ed eventually stands up to leave.
He shrugs.
‘See you tomorrow?’
‘See you tomorrow.’ He nods, pausing at the door before heading out of it.
I stare out of the window a moment, wondering if there is anything I could have said or done differently just now; something that could help him process whatever is going on in his mind. Then I remember how impossible it is for anyone to understand what you go through when you lose a loved one. Every experience is unique. I guess the only thing he needs, or the only thing I can give him, perhaps, is patience.
By the time I get home, I find Mo unscrewing a bottle of Pinot, then pouring a generous glass, which she promptly knocks back before breathlessly telling me she’s had ‘a shit of a day’. I reach for an empty glass, clinking hers so she’ll pour. ‘You too?’ she asks. ‘Good job I bought two bottles then. Get the pizza menu, meet me in the lounge in five. You can offload first, then it’s my turn and, prepare yourself, I have ALL of the swears for today. Literally ALL of them.’
That’s when I’m reminded how reassuring it is when someone has your back, and how good it feels to have theirs in return… especially when they need it most. And I can’t help feeling as though Ed doesn’t have that person.
Thirteen
Ed
Embarrassment and discomfort creep across my chest each time I think about last night, picking Oli up, and then again this morning, dropping him off, pretending my ‘breakdown’ – for want of a better word – hadn’t happened. I avoided Rachel’s eyes. I aimed for an air of efficient and grown-up, desperate to prove to her that I am not completely falling to pieces. I don’t know why it matters to show that to Rachel, or to anyone, but it does. It just does.
Perhaps it’s part of the mask I need to wear for work. The suit of ‘in control’ that proves I am ready to come back. That now is the time to find a new normal among the devastation. That I have the strength to do it.
The sweaty palms, nervous voice and sleep deprivation suggest entirely the opposite.
‘Hi, this is Ed from IT. You… I just wondered if…’
People hanging up on me each time I try to make a call and offer them a job isn’t helping. Three more contractors left this morning. If I dip any lower my company car is at risk. Not to mention my bonus.
‘Hi, it’s Ed. How are you? Long time no… oh, are you? Permanent now? Okay, thanks anyway. If you know— Hello? Hello?’
I slam the phone down, leaning back in my chair with a groan, then a yawn. I was up all night, analysing the last few months of Ellie’s life. Looking for clues that prove Lisa wrong… there are plenty. The only clue to suggest she wasn’t wrong is the most obvious – Ellie being in Simon’s car. But that doesn’t prove anything, I know it doesn’t. And yet, she’s not here to ask and that very fact means I keep turning it over in my mind. Trying to get rid of it, burying my head in pillows to suffocate the sound of a voice in my head saying, But how do you know?
I called Mum, asked her if she’d heard from Simon. Nothing, he’s avoiding her now too. She said she was getting worried, thought she might have to try to track him down and talk to him. Get him to listen to her, maybe even get him help. I asked her if she knew he was drinking, and she stuttered and faltered over her answer. Yes… no… she didn’t know.
The uncertainty of everything is eating away at me.
I dial another number. 'Hi, it’s Ed from…’ There’s a torrent of abuse down the line. ‘No? Right. Okay.’ I hold the phone out, away from my ear, the energy to hang up now depleted.
Greg, appearing like a perfectly timed apparition, takes the phone from my hand and places it in the cradle. ‘Come on, Langtry’s are serving,’ he says, rolling my chair away from my desk by way of invitation. ‘If you get up and come with me now, I’ll pay.’
I groan, but push myself out of the chair. ‘There’s motivation,’ I grunt, grabbing my jacket. We travel silently down in the lift. I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone, just in case I’ve missed a call from Simon. Or a message. I tap one out to the number he called me from:
We need to talk.
But it doesn’t send.
On the ground floor, through the revolving doors, the bright spring sunshine hurts my eyes. The air has that gentle warmth that comes in spring.
‘Nice,’ says Greg, turning his face to the sun.
Ellie loved this time of year.
Breathe.
We jog across the road, dodging a tram on its way to Old Market Square. The clock rings out on the Council House, a girl pushes past us, running up to meet a guy at the Left Lion. He picks her up in his arms and swings her round before smothering her in kisses that she passionately returns. I look down at the ground.
‘Steak and ale?’ asks Greg, reaching for the pub door.
‘Yeah, cheers.’
I find a table, stuffing my jacket on the windowsill behind me.
‘How’re you doing, mate?’ asks Greg, sitting down opposite me, sipping froth from his pint glass as he passes me mine.
‘Well, you’ve saved me from another lunch of cup-a-soup and disillusion so I guess I should be fine,’ I mumble.
‘Oli alright?’
The mention of his name brings a rare warmth to my heart. ‘He’s…’ But I can’t quite find the words to explain exactly what he is to me right now. ‘The only reason to get up in the morning’ seems heavier than a lunchtime pie and pint warrants. ‘He’s good, cheers.’
Greg peels at a beer mat, ripping the advert clean off and folding it into a square that he fiddles and twists. ‘Are you coping?’
‘Ha!’ I remember last night’s meltdown again. And this morning, my hands shaking as I handed Oli over and Rachel tried to search out eye contact so she could tell me to have a good day. ‘I’m as okay as I guess I can be. I mean, w
hat else can I do?’ I say, hoping that this makes me sound stronger than I really feel.
Greg nods, and drinks more of his beer. I wonder if he’s looking for something else to say, but it’s a relief that he doesn’t try to fill the void in conversation with well-meant advice; a pie and a pint is exactly what I need, and nothing else.
Lunch arrives and I stare down at the plate of classic pub grub, which is also the most food I’ve seen on one plate in months. I pick at the pastry and mash, overwhelmed. Greg chats about his single life, the football, our boss, his plans for a new car. I let it all wash over me, instead staying focused on finishing lunch, then actually going back to work, rather than the more appealing option of sitting here and getting slowly, but spectacularly, drunk.
The break in my day proved to be exactly what was required. As five o’clock arrives, I’ve set up a few candidates for interviews and organised a meeting with a new client. Maybe I can do this after all. If I can get back into the swing of things; if I do what Rachel said, and take my time; if I’m patient. What felt like a mountainous challenge last night still seems mountainous, but perhaps I can find a way to scale it regardless. I pile files and papers in some semblance of order, preparing for tomorrow, before picking up my keys, wallet and phone and heading out of the door. I won’t be late for Oli today.
The sound of my shoes echoes through the stairwell as I jog down the stairs and then across the newly polished marble floor. Pushing through the revolving doors, I check the sky for the weather.
And that’s when I see him.
Simon.
Standing across the road. Staring.
My feet root, my body turns ice cold and he looks at me. Does he know what Lisa said? Did she tell him I wanted to see him?
‘Shit, is that Simon?’ Greg comes through the doors behind me, but before he can finish the sentence, a run of three buses, then a tram, passes between us and the other side of the road. I strain to try and keep sight of Simon through the rush-hour footfall that busies along the pavement, but as the end of the tram passes, he’s gone.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 5
