Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  It was a week since the funeral and life had simply come to a halt for Libby. She got up late, watched TV but couldn’t discuss a word of what she’d seen, only showered every second day and hadn’t washed her hair once. Vera brought the post up to her room each morning with her breakfast tray. The food remained untouched; the huge mound of letters and cards were still unopened.

  This evening, Christina set down a bottle and two glasses and went to sit beside her daughter on the comfy windowseat. It was pitch black outside but Libby’s eyes searched the darkness, hunting for a clue in a landscape where nothing could be seen clearly.

  It wasn’t a typical mother and daughter pose. Christina felt the yawning gap and reached over and gently stroked her daughter’s lifeless hair. There was no response for a moment and then the younger woman moved closer for warmth and succour.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’ It was a regular request.

  ‘I’m wondering where he is.’ The subject matter was always the same.

  ‘I feel he’s up there, somewhere, watching over us.’ It was the way she felt about her own husband.

  ‘I want him back with me.’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  ‘I can’t survive without him.’ For the first time, despite what she’d said at the funeral, Christina saw a spark of anger in her daughter and decided it was better than the nothingness she’d come to expect.

  ‘You know what he’d want.’ She chose her words for impact. It worked.

  Libby turned sharply. ‘What about what I want? He went away. He knew how much I needed him and yet he left me.’

  ‘It wasn’t a choice he made.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ She was like a truculent child.

  ‘What would you say to him?’

  ‘I’d shout at him. I’d hit him. I’d scream.’ She paused and remembered their few fleeting rows. She wilted. ‘But it wouldn’t do any good, he’d only laugh at me. He always did when I lost my temper. He enjoyed thwarting me.’ A ghost of a smile escaped at the happy memory and Christina clutched at the straw.

  ‘I think it’s time, darling, to start living again.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can. Just tiny steps. I’ll be here and so will everyone else.’

  ‘I want to die.’ She turned and looked closely at her mother. ‘I fantasize about it all the time, how I’d do it, what the papers would say.’ She looked almost elated.

  ‘What about me, your friends, David’s family? What do you think it would do to us if anything happened you?’

  ‘Know something, Mum? I don’t really care. I suppose that sounds selfish but it would be the answer to all my pain.’

  ‘The hurt will lessen, I promise. And eventually you’ll begin to look forward.’

  ‘But I don’t want to start again. My life was perfect. I had everything. I’ll never have that now and besides, I’m nearly forty, I’ll be on the scrap heap soon.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re a beautiful young woman in her prime with a fantastic career and everything to live for.’

  ‘No. I’m all alone and the fact is that I’ve never had to look after myself. I went from Daddy to David basically and I liked being protected.’

  ‘You still have your friends.’

  ‘Do I? I have lots of acquaintances, like Moya, that I used to call friends, but I only ever saw them as part of a couple and it was always very social, no deep conversations there.’

  ‘What about Carrie?’

  ‘Carrie’s a dote but our lives have gone in opposite directions. Maybe if she lived closer, I’d meet her now and then but,’ she shrugged, ‘David was all I wanted really.’

  ‘Well, at least make a start by returning a few calls.’

  Christina knew that David’s parents and brothers were concerned about her, as was John Simpson and a couple of David’s other friends who telephoned or dropped by. Despite what Libby had said she knew Moya had called twice and Carrie had written and telephoned each day, urging her to visit.

  ‘You know what, I’m not interested. Helen Radley mentioned a charity event the day of the funeral. Can you believe it? And that Selena is already trying to pump me for information on what I’m doing with the business. Did you hear what she said in that message she left yesterday? No, thank you.’

  ‘Maybe you could start by having dinner with Charles and Monica before they go back home the day after tomorrow.’ Christina ignored the violent shaking of the head beside her. ‘They’re worried about you. They need to know you’re going to be OK.’

  ‘I can’t go out. I just can’t face it.’ She hadn’t been outside in a week and her grey face reflected the lack of air and exercise.

  ‘Well, how about we cook dinner for them here? We can both do it.’

  ‘I can’t cook any more.’

  ‘Nonsense. Tell you what, I’ll plan it, you just do one dish.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.’

  Christina took the long pause and reluctant sigh as agreement. It was a start.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE RECOVERY PROCESS hadn’t even begun but at least she was up and washed and dressed and, most importantly, had been occupied for an hour or two. Christina was relieved and she tried to ignore the hollow eyes that watched her constantly but said nothing.

  David’s parents were shocked when they saw Libby, despite her mother’s best efforts. She wore a simple black shift dress and her pale hair had been caught loosely back, but there were black circles around her dead eyes.

  Dinner was quiet. Afterwards they had coffee and brandy in the drawing room.

  Charles English sat beside Libby while the two mothers looked at happy family photos.

  ‘Elizabeth, Monica and I are worried about you. Have you any plans?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Would you consider coming back home with us for a while?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t really make any arrangements yet. I’m just not up to it.’

  ‘I understand. What about David’s business? I met Alex O’Meara yesterday by chance. He seemed unsure. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No.’ Libby had completely forgotten that the chief financial officer had telephoned her yesterday. ‘I’ll call him next week.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay on and see that things are ticking over, or will it run itself for the next few weeks, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ She meant it. ‘I know nothing about David’s business interests, really.’

  ‘Neither do I, dear. But I can find out pretty quickly.’

  ‘No, thank you, Charles. You go back home. I’ll call John Simpson tomorrow. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘What about your own work?’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘I haven’t given it a thought. We’re supposed to start shooting a new series soon.’ She paused. ‘Next Monday, in fact.’ She was taken aback. ‘I’ve no idea what’s happening. I suppose they’ll phone me one of these days. I really couldn’t care less, to be honest.’

  ‘I know how you feel, but you need to get going again.’

  ‘You sound like Mum.’

  ‘Well, you’re almost my daughter too.’ He looked sad. ‘Don’t forget that. We care about you very much.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You will keep in touch?’ It had always been David who’d phoned before.

  ‘I promise.’

  They didn’t stay late. Libby was glad to go back to the safety of her room, but sad to say goodbye to another link to her husband.

  Next day she made her first decision and it took her mother completely by surprise. ‘I think I’ll go home, today.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have to do it some time.’

  ‘Why don’t I come with you and stay for a few days?’

  ‘No, thanks all the same. Mrs O’C. will stay as long as I need her. I rang her just now so she’s expecting me.’

  Her mot
her seemed to understand. ‘I’ll let you go – on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You promise to call me anytime you need me. Day or night. No shouldering this alone. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  They drove home together early that evening. Everything looked exactly the same as her mother swept up the immaculate driveway.

  ‘Where’s his car?’ Libby was anxious.

  ‘I asked for it to be put into one of the garages.’

  Libby bit her lip; she hadn’t wanted David’s things touched, yet knew her mother meant well.

  Mrs O’Connell was out as soon as she heard the car. ‘Let me take your bags.’

  ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  ‘George is doing the garden. He should have been finished by now.’ The woman sniffed in the general direction of the elderly man whose life she made hell. ‘I’ll ask him to move to the back.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine. There’s no need.’ Libby sounded agitated.

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely,’ said Christina, ever the peacemaker.

  ‘I’ve lit the fire in the small sitting room. Everything’s ready. I’ll bring it right in.’

  After tea, her mother left, sensing Libby wanted to be alone. She sat by the fire until it got dark, refusing all offers of food, flicking channels relentlessly, anything to avoid going upstairs to their room. She could hear her housekeeper still working and she glanced at the clock: it was almost eight.

  ‘Mrs O’Connell . . .’ The woman turned sharply as Libby entered the kitchen like a ghost in black. ‘Please don’t keep working. It’s late.’ The busy bee approach was intensely irritating to Libby and she knew her voice was unnecessarily sharp. ‘I appreciate you staying for tonight but honestly, I’m fine, so go to your room or sit down and relax and watch some TV.’ It was a vague attempt at friendliness, the most Libby could muster right now.

  ‘Let me make you a sandwich, at least.’ God, the woman never gave up. ‘You haven’t eaten anything.’

  Libby poured herself a large glass of white wine as the food was prepared. She barely thanked her housekeeper and returned to the sitting room, leaving the food untouched. She headed upstairs only when she could no longer avoid it.

  David was everywhere. She touched his cufflinks still on the bedside locker, hugged his towel tightly to her face, ran her hands over his casual clothes, perfectly organized in the regimented closet, and smelt the cool, clean smell of him in his walk-in wardrobe. It was heaven: for a split second she almost didn’t believe he was gone – then a raging torrent flooded her and she knew that this was what hell must be like. But it was a torment she was addicted to. She wandered around, smelling his soap and fingering his razor, wrapping herself in his bathrobe and sliding into his leather slippers as she’d watched him do so many nights after they’d made love. The wine dulled the pain slightly so she headed downstairs and fetched the bottle.

  She didn’t sleep for hours and when she did it was an unnatural slumber and she woke early, feeling thirsty and groggy. When Mrs O’Connell knocked gently Libby wanted to scream at her to leave her alone. Nothing on the beautifully prepared silver tray of warm croissants, fresh juice and sweet-smelling coffee was remotely tempting.

  As it was Sunday she stayed in bed till lunchtime. Her mother stopped by and tried to persuade her to come for a walk, without success. Mrs O’Connell seemed to have fires burning in every room and the only time Libby relaxed even slightly was when the lamps were switched on and the heavy curtains drawn against the dull grey, but still too bright day. She refused a late lunch and sat by the fire with her mother, still wearing David’s dressing-gown. They had coffee and toasted sandwiches and later Libby made hot whiskies without asking. Christina hoped she wasn’t using alcohol as a crutch but wisely didn’t mention it, thinking she’d probably be doing the same herself in her daughter’s situation.

  Next morning an exhausted Libby showered and dressed in a pair of black trousers and soft black sweater, catching her unruly mop in an equally unruly twist at the nape of her neck. She phoned John Simpson and he agreed to drop by on his way home that evening.

  The only other call she had the energy to make was to Leo Morgan, her friend in RTE. She rang his mobile to avoid having to talk to his secretary.

  ‘Leo, it’s Libby.’

  ‘Libby, I was wondering whether I should phone you today. How are you?’

  She wanted to tell him, but it was too much to inflict even on an old friend.

  ‘I’m OK.’ They’d spoken the day of the funeral when he’d come back to the house for lunch.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I just moved back home last night.’

  ‘That must have been tough.’

  You’ve no idea.

  ‘Is anyone staying with you?’

  ‘No – at least, Mrs O’Connell is sleeping over. My mother offered but I’m better off . . . I have to get used to it.’

  ‘Don’t try to take on too much, Libby. Would you like to have lunch?’

  ‘Not yet, Leo. It’s . . . too soon for me.’

  ‘Of course, I understand. I could call round and see you. You could make me one of your glorious omelettes.’

  She didn’t want that, for some reason.

  ‘Actually, I won’t take up that much of your time,’ she said. Leo knew a brush-off when he heard it. ‘I just wondered if you knew what was happening with the show.’

  ‘Well, I had a meeting with the production company a few days ago. Shooting was to begin today but I’ve told them to postpone it for a week, at least.’

  She recoiled from even the thought of facing people in a week. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be ready.’

  ‘I understand. I simply couldn’t put it off any longer because there’s pressure on the editing and post-production studios at the other end. There are several options, though. Why don’t you think about it for a day or two and I could drop by for a coffee, say, on Wednesday.’

  She hadn’t the energy to argue. ‘OK, just call me an hour before you come.’ Anything to get off the phone and back to her own private world.

  John Simpson arrived about seven, clutching a huge bunch of white lilies and looking uncomfortable. ‘Joan’s idea,’ he grimaced, referring to his secretary. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘They’re beautiful, thanks. I’ll just get Mrs O’Connell to put them in water. She has food prepared for you, if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Are you eating?’

  ‘I’ll have a bite.’ He knew she wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m famished and Anna’s away, so I’d love something, if you’re not too tired?’ Anna, John’s wife, was a psychologist and worked with a number of corporate clients, so travel was a major part of her job.

  ‘What’s she doing at the moment?’ Libby asked. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to her at the time of the funeral.

  ‘Some big recruitment drive for one of the banks, she’s involved in the assessment. She sends her love.’

  Libby excused herself and gave the flowers to her housekeeper, who was delighted that someone was prepared to eat her food.

  ‘Drink?’ she asked on her return to the formal sitting room, which they rarely used. Mrs O’C. regarded John as important because he was a ‘legal gentleman’, so she’d prepared the room specially, stacking the fire with logs, plumping the cushions and lighting the lamps but leaving the curtains open. It was a magnificent room and David had loved it.

  ‘I’d murder a G&T, thanks.’

  Libby poured him a generous measure and one for herself.

  ‘Will I set up the dining room?’ a voice enquired from the doorway a little while later. Libby wished the older woman would stop fussing.

  ‘No.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘No, thank you Mrs O’Connell. I think we’ll just have a plate on our lap, if John doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all, I’m easy.’

  Soon Mrs O’Connell appeared with a tray for each of them – a slow-cooked chicken cass
erole with rice and salad. Her cooking was dead plain but very tasty, and John cleared his plate. Libby picked at hers and opened a bottle of wine.

  ‘I’d better only have one glass, I’m driving. Thanks.’ He accepted the crystal goblet and she sat down beside him, comfortable because he’d been so close to David, even though she’d never been on her own with him in the house before.

  ‘John, I don’t have any idea where to start with the business, the bank and so on. I don’t even know if there’s a will. I need help.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I was going to talk to you about things anyway. As you know, I act for David’s companies as well as for him personally, so that simplifies things.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Actually, he hadn’t made a will, but that needn’t necessarily be a problem.’ He noticed Libby’s reaction and kept going. ‘It will just delay things, so don’t go dwelling on it.’

  Libby was shocked. ‘But he always talked about sorting out his affairs when we married, I just assumed . . .’

  ‘It’s not uncommon. A lot of people mean to do it but don’t get round to it and he was under a lot of pressure most of the time. Don’t worry about it. Look, I haven’t been doing very much for him on the business front recently so I need to update myself. Why don’t I sit down with Alex O’Meara next week and go through everything?’

  ‘Alex did leave a message wanting to talk to me but I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘No problem, leave it all to me. It will take me a couple of weeks. I’ll get a clearer picture of where things stand and then we can talk. By that stage you’ll probably be feeling a bit stronger anyway. No need to take on too much just yet.’

  He smiled at her and Libby was grateful for his friendship and easy sense of calm.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LEO MORGAN CALLED on Wednesday morning and he too was taken aback by the gaunt, lifeless woman who greeted him, still dressed in black. She shuffled around, with no energy or spark about her. Somehow, he’d felt she would have bounced back. Libby even seemed to have shrunk in stature, he noticed as she led the way to the small sitting room where coffee and scones, muffins and tea brack were waiting to tempt them. It seemed that Mrs O’Connell wasn’t sleeping well either and was baking at all hours. Most of the food was thrown out or given to her own friends or the few visitors Libby allowed.