The Dead Wife's Handbook

by Hannah Beckerman

  Ellie and her friends have moved on to Pass the Parcel now, the children sitting in a watchful circle bound by hope. With Mum and Harriet still chatting surreptitiously in the corner, I decide to eavesdrop on them first.

  ‘I was as surprised as you were to find her here, Celia. I knew things had got serious but … Ellie’s birthday party?’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know I wasn’t the only one to have been kept in the dark about her coming today. It was rather a shock when I arrived, I have to admit.’

  ‘How long have you known about her?’

  ‘Clearly not as long as everyone else. He told me on the telephone a couple of weeks ago. But I’d guessed something must be going on from a few things Ellie’s said.’

  Mum glances over at her granddaughter just as the music stops and she unwraps the final layer of wrapping paper to discover a set of fluffy pens inside. Trust Connor to ensure that she wins the prize.

  ‘So what do you make of her? She’s not what I was expecting. She’s looks so … young.’

  ‘Everyone looks young to me, Harriet. She seemed perfectly friendly in our very brief introduction earlier. I barely got time to form an opinion. It’s just so strange, seeing her here, in Rachel’s house, with Max.’

  So this must be the first time either of them have met her. I can’t say I’m impressed by Max’s timing. Doesn’t Ellie have enough to contend with without her birthday party playing host to myriad adult complications too?

  ‘It feels strange to me so I can’t imagine how odd it must feel for you. What’s Ellie said?’

  ‘Not much, and I haven’t wanted to push her on it, not least since I’ve only spoken to her on the phone for the past two months. Max cancelled her last visit ostensibly because it was half term but Ellie let slip it was then that she’d met Eve. At the zoo.’

  ‘Ouch. That’s rough. I’m sorry, Celia. This must be so hard for you. God, Rach would be furious if she knew how insensitive Max was being.’

  Not furious, no. Just sad that Max is being so much less thoughtful than I’ve come to expect him to be.

  ‘It’s not that I mind him having someone new in his life per se. I do think it’s far too soon, obviously, but Max made his feelings about that quite clear to me before. I just worry about what might happen in the future.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, none of us know quite what this woman’s intentions are. Or how serious they are about each other. And I’m well aware how precarious my position will be if Max has a new partner on the scene permanently.’

  ‘What, you think they’ll try and freeze you out?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be entirely surprising, would it? Why on earth would she or Max want his ex-mother-in-law hanging around? I couldn’t bear it, Harriet, if I didn’t get to see Ellie very often. It would break my heart.’

  It would break my heart too. In all my anxieties about Eve stealing my life, I hadn’t contemplated the prospect of her excluding Mum from theirs too.

  ‘I wouldn’t go jumping the gun, Celia. It’s very early days yet.’

  ‘You wouldn’t guess it from the way Joan’s behaving. You’d think Eve was already a permanent fixture here.’

  Mum and Harriet look over to where Eve is laughing with Joan and Ralph, just as Joan takes Eve’s hand in hers and rewards it with an approving pat. Mum’s right. The adoration on Joan’s face is undeniable.

  ‘Joan does seem to have taken a bit of a shine to Eve, but who knows how long that will last?’

  ‘It’s mortifying. She’s behaving as though Rachel never existed. It’s disrespectful as much as anything else.’

  Before Harriet has a chance to respond, Ellie bounds over and grabs her hand.

  ‘Come and judge the dancing competition, Hetty. I want you to judge the girls and I’m going to get Eve to judge the boys. Come on.’

  Ellie drags a less-than-thrilled Harriet to the other side of the sitting room where the sofas have been pushed back to create a temporary dance floor. Harriet and Eve stand awkwardly side by side, on opposing sides of so much more than a child’s competition.

  Mum is left standing alone in a crowded room. It’s a scenario she hates, I know, although it’s possibly preferable to the alternative winding her way towards Mum now in the shape of Joan.

  ‘Celia. It’s nice to see you. I wasn’t sure if you’d make it this year.’

  I sense Mum’s hackles rise from a whole world away.

  ‘Of course I’d make it. Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

  If Mum’s cemented smile is an attempt to hide her irritation under a veneer of social niceties I fear she hasn’t been altogether successful.

  ‘Well, you know, what with it being such a long way for you to come. It’s so good of you to make the journey just for a couple of hours.’

  ‘It’s really not that far, Joan. And I’m hardly likely to miss my own granddaughter’s birthday party, am I?’

  ‘No, no of course you’re not. I just wish you could have seen Ellie this morning when we were getting everything ready for the party. She was so excited.’

  This is, of course, the last thing Joan wishes and all three of us know it.

  ‘So what did you get Ellie for her birthday? I don’t think I saw her open it.’

  ‘No, we gave our present to her earlier, before everyone else arrived. We got her some roller skates. Well, they’re more like boots really. It’s what she asked for. She was thrilled with them.’

  There’s an expectant pause in the conversation while Mum waits for Joan to return the question. When it doesn’t materialize, Mum’s left with little option but to fill the conversational hiatus.

  ‘I’m sure they’re very nice. I’m going to save my present for Ellie until later. One last present when she thinks they’re all done for another year. It’s a little surprise, a special trip I’ve got planned for the two of us. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her.’

  Mum smiles and I suspect she’s not even trying to keep the note of triumph from her voice. I wonder if the ‘little surprise’ is the trip to Venice that Mum’s been promising Ellie ever since she was a toddler, ever since she saw footage of it on the television and couldn’t believe there was a real city where people travelled by boat rather than by car.

  Joan is spared the necessary ingenuity of an appropriate response by Max, who has lowered the volume on the music and is standing in the middle of the room with his arm around Ellie’s shoulders.

  ‘If I can just have everyone’s attention for a minute, please. Now Ellie made me promise that I wouldn’t embarrass her by making one of my – what did you call it? – “silly soppy speeches” so I’ll try not to make it silly but I can’t promise it won’t be soppy. I can barely believe it was eight years ago that I first held this little lady in my arms and brought her home here to this house. I know it’s a cliché but it really does feel like only yesterday. It seems astonishing that such a tiny bundle of a baby has become the lovely, thoughtful, kind young lady standing here now who I can see is getting more embarrassed by the second – sorry, munchkin, I’m nearly done. I’m so very, very proud of you, angel, and I love you very, very much. So, everyone, please raise your glasses and join me in saying “Happy Birthday, Ellie”.’

  As everyone toasts my little girl, Max hugs her and I can see she’s trying to conceal the delight on her face as though she’s not sure whether it’s socially acceptable to look as pleased as she does by all the attention she’s getting.

  Suddenly the lights are dimmed and the room goes quiet, and I detect the flicker of candlelight emerging from the kitchen. As the cake comes into view I can barely believe my eyes.

  The cake bearer isn’t any of the obvious candidates: not Max, nor Mum, nor Joan, nor Harriet or Ralph or Connor.

  The cake is being carried in by Eve.

  Eve is presenting my daughter with her birthday cake. I can’t believe Max could be so insensitive.

  As Eve goes to place the cake on the table where E
llie and her friends are crowded round expectantly, I catch a glimpse of it and all at once my chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe all over again except this time I know it’s not the mechanics of my heart at fault. I glance over at Mum and she’s seen it too and she’s looking at Harriet, both of them exhibiting the panic I’m feeling, and I look up at Max standing next to Eve, assuming he’ll display some sign of concern too, but he’s grinning proudly at Eve as though there’s a triumph to be celebrated, and she rewards him with a smile filled to the brim with pre-emptive success.

  And then Eve puts the cake down on the table and Ellie looks at it and then she looks at Max and then she looks back at the cake again, and then her bottom lip just begins to tremble.

  And then she bursts into tears.

  ‘What, munchkin? What on earth’s the matter?’

  Max endeavours to part the sea of children blocking his path to Ellie but Celia gets there first and swoops Ellie into her arms.

  ‘Max, what on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘What? Ellie, what’s wrong? Come and have a cuddle with Daddy.’

  Ellie tightens her grip around Mum’s neck, sobbing effusively.

  ‘The cake, Max. How could you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it? I think it was really kind of Eve to make it. I can’t see what the problem is.’

  Can’t he? Can he really have forgotten?

  Mum turns her back on Max to exit the circle of bemused children whose only preoccupation is when they might be allowed their long-promised sugar rush. She keeps hold of Ellie in the corner of the room, trying to rock her out of her distress, leaving Harriet to take up the aggrieved mantle. And it’s Eve whom Harriet turns to face.

  ‘You should have checked with one of us first.’

  Eve looks slightly shell-shocked as though she’s come under attack without so much as a warning that there’s even a battle to be fought.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry. We just thought it would be nice if Ellie had a home-made cake. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. And I certainly didn’t want to upset Ellie.’

  ‘Of course she’s upset. Did you think she wouldn’t remember, Max?’

  ‘Remember what?’

  Max’s annoyance very slowly begins to dissipate, the first tremors of a disquieting memory unsettling his earlier confidence.

  ‘The cake, Max. The purple butterfly cake. The cake Rach made for Ellie’s sixth birthday. The cake that’s almost identical to the one your girlfriend has just presented her with two years later. You didn’t think that might be a problem?’

  Harriet has hissed the words at Max so as to be audible only to those in her immediate vicinity.

  Max’s face turns the colour of fire-grate ash. Eve intakes a sharp, shocked breath and covers her mouth with her hand as though to ensure she doesn’t let escape whatever it is she’s feeling.

  ‘Oh my god. I totally forgot. It’s not Eve’s fault, it’s mine. It was my idea. It’s totally my mistake.’

  Max joins Mum and Ellie in the corner of the room where my little girl is still sobbing quietly on Mum’s shoulder. He rubs her back slowly, rhythmically and eventually she allows herself to be slid into his arms.

  Harriet remains in the circle of children, glowering at Eve – whose face is now flushed with the self-consciousness of unwelcome attention. The room is quiet save for Ellie’s whimpering, all eyes on the two women now at the centre of the storm, the children bewildered and impatient, the adults intrigued and apprehensive.

  Eve picks up the cake from the table, the candles still flickering uncertainly, and carries it towards the kitchen, blowing out the eight fading flames on the way. As the candles go out so, in an instant, does my access.

  The disappointment churns deep in the pit of my stomach. It’s too soon for me to be excluded today, before I can be sure that Ellie recovers, before I can know that she’s able to enjoy the rest of her party, before I can determine that adult conflicts aren’t going to spoil her day further. Before I can discover how on earth Max could possibly have forgotten a single detail of a day I’ll always remember.

  Alone in the whiteness, I think back on the last birthday I shared with Ellie. Her sixth birthday, with the other, inaugural butterfly cake and the garden swing we’d given her as a present and the chaotic party we’d foolishly held at home rather than in the local church hall, against the better judgement of our wisest friends. I’d give anything to turn back the clock, to relive that day, to share one of life’s milestones with my daughter again. Or, if not to relive it, then at least to have known at the time that it was going to be my last.

  I begin to think about all those lasts of everything that I’d not known were to be finalities; not just Ellie’s last birthday but Max’s too, and the last Christmas and the last summer holiday. The last time I put Ellie to bed and tucked her in and read her a story and kissed her good-night. The last time I cooked dinner for the three of us and we sat around the kitchen table, sharing stories of our separate days, ingesting so much more sustenance than just the food on our plates. The last time Ellie crawled into our bed when she’d had a bad dream and spent the night sprawled between us, taking up more room than any six-year-old feasibly should. The last time Max and I made love, that final Sunday night, both of us too tired really but incentivized by the dates in my diary signalling the imminent closure of our fertile window for another month, neither of us knowing then that such a hungry and determined sexual encounter was to be the culmination of countless acts of intimacy. The last time, on that final, fateful morning, that I awoke with Max still sleeping beside me, feeling overcome as I did every morning, as I had felt every single day since we first moved in together, overcome with gratitude and happiness and love that this was the man I was lucky enough to be sharing my life with. The last time Max kissed me, that night in the restaurant, so surprising and romantic, as though he’d known somehow, deep down, that the evening had to be special for reasons greater than his promotion. If only I’d known, if only there’d been some forewarning that such an unexpected public display of affection was to be the conclusion of every kiss, every touch, every physical moment we’d ever shared, then I’d have known to savour it, to treasure it, to commit it indelibly to memory so that it could never be eroded.

  If only I’d known that each of those events was to be the last, that I should hold on to every one of them as though my afterlife depended on it, perhaps now I’d be able to take more solace in my memories. Memories which so often hide their finer emotional details from me as if taunting me with my inability to locate them.

  I think about the people who hope to die suddenly, to be saved from the anguish of a long, drawn-out illness, the people who claim to covet my form of death more than any other, and I think about how misguided they are. I think about how much more grateful I’d have been for knowledge of what was to come – however difficult, however distressing, however upsetting that may have been – if it had meant I’d been able to savour my lasts and to say my goodbyes. If it had prevented me from taking so many precious, final moments for granted. If I’d been spared the hours I now spend scouring my mind for fragments of memory which were fragile to begin with and now seem to weaken with every day that passes.

  And if it had meant, too, that Ellie and Max hadn’t been robbed of those lasts, that they’d been able to savour those never-to-be-repeated moments, that they weren’t also denied the opportunity to say goodbye.

  Because perhaps if we’d been able to relish those finalities, perhaps if we’d been gifted our goodbyes, perhaps now we’d all find it easier to resign ourselves to life continuing without me.

  Or maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe there’s nothing in the world – not in this world or theirs – that could take away the longing. Because there’s nothing that can change the fact that I’m dead and that they’re alive, or that all the hope in the world won’t allow me to relive a single day with them. No way of me knowing what they still remember and what they’ve already forg
otten. Nothing to take away the fear that every one of those experiences the three of us shared, every memory that currently binds the three of us together, may simply dissolve in the end into the ether, like ashes scattered on an ocean.

  Chapter 22

  ‘I’m surprised you came. I assumed Eve would be archenemy number one.’

  Connor is sitting with Harriet at a wooden table in a pub that’s almost as familiar to me as my own kitchen. It’s the pub around the corner from our house, a pub which, when we first moved there, was full of old men sporting faces permanently flushed from decades of daytime drinking, but was soon bought out by an ambitious young chef who turned it into a gastropub and began charging fourteen pounds for fish and chips without any of the area’s newest residents batting an eyelid. Max and I used to eat there almost every weekend before Ellie was born, and not infrequently after she came along. It’s where she had her first meal out, in fact, sitting in a plastic high chair, banging her spoon on the table and eating home-made vegetable purée while we laughed at the fun of having her dine out in public with us. Today there’s no sign of Ellie but I can see Max and Eve standing over the other side of the room, surveying the specials board.

  ‘Well, you know what they say: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I’ve barely met the woman so I figured it was time I got the lowdown on her.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you’d agreed to come to make up for being such a bully to her at Ellie’s birthday party.’

  Harriet pokes an indignant finger into Connor’s shoulder.

  ‘I wasn’t a bully. I was merely protecting Ellie’s feelings. Someone had to. I didn’t see you leaping to her defence.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there was barely room to move with all that angry oestrogen circling the room. Anyway, now you’re here, play nicely, will you? Max was bricking it about today so go easy on the pair of them. It’s not exactly a picnic for anyone, this situation.’