by Beth Thomas
‘Impressed? That my wife has died? That’s a bit creepy.’
‘No, no, God, no, sorry, I didn’t mean …’ Stop. Deep breath. Start again. ‘I’m not impressed by that. Although, I suppose yes, in a way I am. I mean, it certainly left an impression on me. But no, what I’m trying – not very well – to say is, I’m impressed with you. How happy you are, in spite of this horrific tragedy happening to you. I’m … in awe of you, Felix. How do you do that?’
He takes a step closer to me, and my belly starts to churn like the frenzied water in the spa earlier. He looks at my face for a long time then blinks rapidly and jerks his head. ‘It’s …’ He looks down. ‘Every day is like … It’s like a battle of wills. I have to decide, every day, that I won’t be crushed by it. I … will myself to keep moving and not curl up in the dark somewhere on my own and let myself be sucked down to the depths. I make my head focus on things, good things, like the sunshine, or cake, or other people. As long as I’m thinking about something, as long as I’m busy, then I … get by.’
I stare at him until my eyeballs dry out.
‘Oh, God,’ he says, breaking out into a grin and putting his palms out towards me, shaking his head. ‘You look …’ He moves his hands briefly towards my arms, as if to touch me, then drops them. ‘Shit.’ He rubs the back of his head distractedly. ‘No, it’s not really like that any more. I mean, I’m a lot better. Honestly. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’
My eyes have lost all power to revolve away.
‘I’m … really sorry, Daisy.’ He takes a couple of deep breaths and inches still nearer to me. ‘It’s awkward enough trying to talk to someone about their bereavement, and I just carved three more notches on the awkward stick.’
There’s a brief silence. ‘You … have an awkward stick?’
He huffs out a laugh. ‘I do.’
‘Can I see it?’
He shakes his head solemnly. ‘I don’t carry it round with me any more. Too … awkward.’
‘Of course.’ He smiles at me and I’m pinned to the spot. ‘Felix, I really didn’t mean to intrude …’
‘No, no, you didn’t. I’m serious. In fact it’s better – for me anyway – if people actually acknowledge that it’s happened. Don’t you find that? It’s hard, but not talking about it doesn’t make it easier. Even my family avoid the subject completely and act as if I’ve never even been married. Or that no one has. In fact women in general don’t exist. They get all uncomfortable if ever they accidentally refer to their own wife in a disparaging way. They cut themselves off mid-moan, bite their lips and look as if they want to apologise for even daring to be annoyed that she forgot to Sky Plus House, or whatever.’ He shakes his head. ‘How on earth could their little spat have any bearing on what happened to Louise and me …?’ He breaks off and blinks rapidly, then jerks his head. ‘Oh, Daisy, God, I’m sorry, I don’t usually …’
‘No, I know what you mean. Just after Mum died, just about everyone that knew about it stopped referring to their own mums. I mean, ever. A few of them were still living with their parents, but where they used to complain about the restrictions that puts on your social life, they just stopped. Never spoke about their mums at all. I found it kind of … offensive. Insulting, even.’ I consider that a second. Yes, that’s it. ‘Mm, insulting. Can’t explain why.’
He’s nodding too. ‘You’re right. It’s as if they think you’re going to have a complete mental breakdown right there in front of them if they so much as mention their own wife. Or mum.’
‘Or that they’re reminding you, by bringing mums – or wives – into the conversation. Like, I don’t know, maybe you’d forgotten that she was dead, and then they say the thing, whatever, which reminds you of your loss and makes you start feeling sad again.’
He nods, smiling. ‘So. You lost your mum. When?’
‘November.’
‘That’s not very long.’
‘No. Six months.’
‘I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t really get the chance to talk to you about it the other day. It’s very tough, losing a parent. How are you doing?’
‘I think … I’m over the worst.’
He nods. ‘The first year is the hardest, I think.’ He reaches out a hand and gently touches my cheek. ‘You know, I always thought there was something a little bit sad about you.’ His fingers on my cheek feel like they’re made of white hot metal and blaze a burning trail across my skin. ‘A little bit sad.’ I feel his breath on my face. ‘And very, very special.’ He pushes his hand into my hair and round the back of my head, gently pulling me towards him. ‘Daisy, I think … I think that … you …’
‘You do?’ I breathe, moving closer to him until our bodies are touching. His other hand creeps around my waist and seals us together, then he bends his head down and, not grabbing and shoving tongues in all over the place, but very gently and tenderly, he kisses me. And finally I know for sure: movie love really does exist.
TWENTY-THREE
Abby Marcus
Picture the builder who pointed a blow torch at a pressurized can of insulating foam to see what would happen, and then multiply by one million. That’s how stupid I am.
Wendy Harber What you bin up to Abs? xx
Suzanne Allen Everything ok???
Tracey Owen Lol, surely you’re not quite that stupid?!
Minutes later I’m sprinting away from him. Stretching my legs, pumping my arms, expanding my lungs, running like the devil is behind me; not a charming, funny, kind and sensitive man. Running is not something I’m good at, but I am definitely a lot fitter than I used to be and it’s a good thirty or even forty seconds before I have to stop, bend over and gasp hoarsely with my hands on my knees. Felix cannot see this, fortunately. Actually, no, it’s not fortunate at all. It is precise and careful planning. I walked serenely away from him just now, after nonchalantly agreeing to have dinner with him in one hour, while he walked away from me in the opposite direction. Then as soon as he couldn’t see me any more, I legged it like I was being chased by demons. For forty whole seconds.
Doesn’t matter, I’m nearly back at the flat now, and I can walk very fast the rest of the way. I need to be back at Felix’s in about fifty-five minutes, which will give me time for a lightning shower and panicked change of clothes. As I walk, I plan what to wear, but my mental clothes rail is pretty empty, mostly because all my clothes are littered around the room in untidy heaps, and I don’t have much anyway. I meant to do my ironing a few nights ago, on my last night off work, that was the plan, but I didn’t do it, oh God, why didn’t I? (Oh, yes, I wanted to watch that thing about the woman who was pregnant for forty-five years. Most disappointing that she didn’t then give birth to a slightly overweight, balding accountant.) So I now have twenty minutes to find something, iron it, change into it, and transform myself into an irresistible siren. I picture my dirty, sweaty tracksuit and steam-frizzed hair. I might just do it.
The front door ricochets off the wall behind it as I slam into the flat and I fling it quickly shut behind me with a bang. Immediately I notice the preternatural quietness blanketing the entire flat, which stills me where I stand. Too late, I remember that I’m making myself scarce while two-timing Tom – oops, gotta stop calling him that – knocks a lamp over in his distress at being told the bad news by Abby. I creep up to the living room door and listen for a few moments but there’s no sound of sobbing or a magazine being put down in anguish, so I push it open.
Abby’s there, on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped together against her forehead, head bowed, elbows on her knees. It’s a human sculpture of misery and my heart contracts at the sight.
‘Abs?’ I walk over and sit down next to her.
She looks round at me. ‘He’s gone, Daze. He’s left me.’
‘Oh, Abby …’
‘I told him about … everything, and he just stared at the floor the whole time, not moving. Like he was … I don’t know …’
‘A marble statue
?’
‘Hm? Yeah, yeah, I suppose. He went so pale, like, in shock, which, you know, he probably was of course, then he looked at me, stared at me for a second, and left.’
‘He didn’t say anything at all?’
She doesn’t respond for a few moments, only holds her head with both hands as if shielding it from the danger of a world without Tom. Then she frowns fleetingly and blinks.
‘No, no, he did say something. He said …’ She chews her lip, and looks suddenly very distressed. ‘He said … “Thank God.” Or something. As if …’ She looks right at me, stricken. ‘As if he was … glad.’
I take hold of one of her hands and rub it gently. ‘He’s not glad, Abs. Of course he’s not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know you. I … kind of know him. A bit. He adores you, and rightly so. Who wouldn’t? There’s absolutely no way anybody would be glad about this.’
She shakes her head worriedly. ‘I don’t know …’
‘Abby. Believe me. That man is devastated beyond reason and has probably gone somewhere to contemplate death.’
She looks up at me. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
She smiles weakly and sniffs. ‘Thanks, Daze.’
‘I didn’t do anything, softhead. But don’t give up on him. He’ll think about it, probably with a beer or two, then he’ll grasp what he’d be losing and realise that it’s not worth it.’
She nods sadly. ‘At least I’ve been honest with him. Now. I gave him that much.’
‘Absolutely.’ I risk a furtive glance at my watch. It’s getting dangerously close to the time I need to leave. My transformation will be breath-taking, exquisite, stunning, and will need at least fifteen minutes. I stand up and walk to the door, then turn back and look at Abby as a tear rolls slowly down her cheek. Nah, I can transform in five minutes. Easy. ‘Come on,’ I say, going back and putting the telly on, ‘let’s watch About a Boy.’
‘You hate that film.’
‘No I do not, what are you talking about? Now budge over.’
She’s right, I do hate it. Hugh is not a hero in that film. He’s selfish and thoughtless and lazy. All the things I hate.
Thirty minutes later, I leave Abby dozing on the sofa and creep to my room to scrabble around for an irresistible siren costume. For the second time this year I’ve forgotten to invest in siren clothes. My wardrobe is short of exactly one sexy black dress and a make-up professional. I plump for skinny jeans and my best black tee shirt (the one that’s still the blackest), coupled with some smoky purple eye shadow, a hint of mascara and some pink lip-gloss. There’s no time now to shampoo, treat, dry, style and straighten my hair, so I smooth the front down as best I can and pull the rest up into a knot at the back. My hands are shaking so much most of the hair is back to a frizzy ball by the time I’ve finished fiddling with it, but there’s no more time.
Only twenty minutes later than I planned, I’m tiptoeing silently across the hallway the best I can with every muscle shaking and my stomach twisting and churning in knots.
‘Can you make a bit more noise please?’ Abby says, coming suddenly into the hallway. ‘I’m still half asleep.’
‘I was being quiet!’
‘No you were not, Queen Elephant. I thought the house was falling down!’ She stops and stares at me. ‘Where are you off to? What’s that on your … Holy hand cream, it isn’t … are you wearing … make-up?’ She sounds like a dad speaking to his teenage son. ‘You can’t go out wearing that. Come with me.’ She grabs my hand and leads me into her and Tom’s room, where she sits me on the bed and flings open the wardrobe. She inserts one hand into the clothes there, then turns to me. ‘OK, so where are you going and what do you want to happen there?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Abs …’
‘I’m serious. The outcome you want is dependent on what you wear. Where are you going?’
So I tell her about Felix and the dinner, determinedly continuing over her squeals of excitement, but I leave out the part about what I want to happen there. I would tell her if I knew the answer.
‘Right,’ she says, rubbing her hands together. ‘You need fresh, chic and feminine. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ And she plunges her hands in.
I sit on the bed and watch, and while she’s umm-ing and ahh-ing I’m brought back to a time not too long ago when I was rummaging through her wardrobe without her knowledge. Shame burns my face from the inside out.
‘Abs,’ I say quietly. ‘I have a confession to make.’
She turns with one hand still on something tiny and transparent. ‘Mm-hm?’
‘I found your cigarettes.’
Her eyes flick automatically to the floor under the bed. ‘Ah.’
I nod. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were smoking, I recognised the signs. The breath mints, the sneaking out after meals. It reminded me of Graham. So I came in here a couple of weeks ago and had a root around.’ I hang my head. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Oh.’ She looks away. ‘Well, I guess you were proved right, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah, but so what? What does it matter if you’re smoking? It’s none of my business what you do. If you want to smoke, you go right ahead, do it openly, you don’t have to hide it. It’s not as if it’s illegal or something.’
‘But, Daze,’ she says, taking her hands out of the wardrobe and turning to me properly, ‘how could I do that, knowing about Graham, and your mum? It’s so monumentally insensitive. They lost their lives and I’m blithely playing Russian roulette with mine. It’s appalling.’
‘Oh my God. Is that why you were doing it secretly?’
She nods without looking at me.
‘I thought you were hiding it from Tom. Not me.’
‘Why would Tom care if I was smoking?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose I thought it was to do with the … affair. I mean, when I thought he was having one. You’d found out about it and were dealing with the stress by smoking. You know what, Abby, I don’t even know what I thought. I wasn’t thinking about it at all really. Only that I wanted to find out one way or another. Maybe it’s got something to do with Graham, letting my mum down when he started again. I don’t know.’
She smiles. ‘Well, you’re right about the stress. Keeping it quiet from you has been terrible!’
Eventually she comes up with a pretty little flowery skirt and matching powder blue top, then quickly and expertly restyles my hair with steady hands. When I check the mirror, I look fresh and chic and feminine, completely different to my usual straggly, butch, track-suited self. I look like a proper woman. I look like I used to look.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Abby says, smiling at me in the mirror.
‘I know, right?!’
‘Oh shut up!’
We go to the hallway together. ‘Abs,’ I say, turning by the door, ‘are you going to be OK?’
‘I think I’ll cope without you for a couple of hours, Daze. Just don’t make it any longer than that, I’ll be a wreck.’
‘I’m talking about–’
‘I know what you’re talking about, dunderhead. I’ll be fine. I’m going to watch the rest of that film and go to bed.’
‘Are you sure?’
She looks at me earnestly, thinking about it. ‘Actually, no, I’m not really.’
‘Well, look, it’s fine, I’ll stay …’
‘I might watch Mickey Blue Eyes instead.’
I stare at her. ‘No.’
‘Yes,’ she says laughing. She takes my arm and propels me towards the door. ‘So you’d better leave before you accidentally see some of it.’
Mickey Blue Eyes is a travesty of a Hugh film. Poor concept, no plot, bad dialogue. Mediocre acting. Yes, even Hugh. Although he does better than most in it. I’ve only been able to watch it seven times.
‘Well if you’re absolutely sure …’
‘Just go, you dolt.’
By the time I get to Felix’s I’m shaking s
o much, I’m practically a blur. Felix probably thinks I’m standing behind opaque glass. He stares at me a while when he opens the door, as if trying to get his eyes to focus properly.
‘Wow,’ he says eventually. ‘You look absolutely … different.’
I blink. ‘Absolutely different?’
He’s shaking his head as he invites me inside. ‘No, no, that’s not … Oh God, sorry. I was a bit – am a bit …’ He stops talking at last and watches me as I walk past him into the hallway. ‘I’m just … glad you’re here.’
‘Me too.’
I don’t know how I could ever have thought of him as rude and irritating. He’s wonderful company, and the meal is superb. He claims to have cooked it all himself, but I have a sneaking suspicion there might be some empty Marks & Spencer’s cartons hiding at the bottom of the bin in the kitchen. But I don’t care because it is delicious, and he is increasingly lovely. As we eat I focus hard on not thinking about the little shark tooth lying in the hollow of this throat, which is pretty much the only thing I can see at this proximity. He’s across the table from me, and we’re both leaning over our plates, so the damn thing is practically bashing me on the nose. When I look up at him and see it there, the little island of caramel skin and the pulse beating away below, I have to quickly look down at my food again, or over at the other end of the room, or at my hands, or at anything that’s not his throat.
‘Everything all right?’ he says, noticing me trying not to look at it.
‘Oh God yes.’
He tells me all about his time working with the sharks in South Africa – how incredible the great whites are as hunters, the power of their sense of smell, their solitary lifestyle.
‘Killer whales are classed as the top predator in the world,’ he says intensely, ‘but they hunt in groups. Great whites hunt alone, which is so much more skilful.’ By the time he’s cleared away the dessert plates (home-made chocolate orange mousse) and topped up my wine glass for the third time, I’ve got a real hankering to leave everything and go to South Africa to work with sharks for three months.
