The Man You Meet in Heaven: An absolutely feel-good romantic comedy

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, reaching for the loaf of bread on the worktop and slotting a couple of slices into the toaster.

  ‘You look shattered. Not coming down with anything, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘I’m sure our girl is fine, Penny,’ said Dad, from behind his newspaper. ‘If you’re making a cuppa, Hattie, stick one in here for your old pa.’ He tapped the mug beside him, and I moved across the kitchen to take it. ‘Ready for the office I see. Mum and I have taken the day off to tackle some outstanding chores together. We’ll go back to work tomorrow for a rest, ha ha! How’s that boss of yours? Still making you work late?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, sometimes.’ My father didn’t know too much about Nick. Certainly nothing about me hoping to become Nick’s new girlfriend. He knew of him, obviously, mainly due to the aforesaid ‘acute mentionitis’ I’d suffered ever since stepping through the doors of Shepherd, Green & Parsons, but Dad had never put two and two together. It was only my mother, with her female intuition, who’d finally joined up all the dots. I could tell from her body language she was itching to get me on my own, so she could grill me further about what had happened with Martin.

  As it happened, that conversation never took place. Not that day anyway. Instead a very different one occurred. When the telephone rang…

  Thirty-Two

  ‘Hello?’ said Mum, picking up the handset. ‘Oh hi, Joy. Heavens, you’re ringing early.’

  I watched my mother from the chair I was perched on at the kitchen table as I mechanically chewed my toast. Mum tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she listened. Joy was Martin’s mother, but there was nothing untoward about her ringing my mum. She and my mother often rang each other up for a gossip, although quite why my mother found Joy good company was beyond me.

  I turned back to the headlines I’d been reading from my father’s newspaper as he sat opposite me, screwing my eyes up myopically to read about Tony Blair visiting Libyan leader Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi in return for the dismantling of Libya’s Weapons of Mass Destruction programme.

  ‘Joy, what’s the matter? Can you slow down, I don’t understand—’

  My concentration on the leading story fragmented. As I watched myself in this ethereal review time, the young Hattie sitting at the table in her parents’ kitchen had paused, an anxious look upon her face. Had Martin told his mother about my accusation on our final night together? Had Joy been outraged? Was she, even now, bending Mum’s ear and telling Mum exactly what she thought of her despicable daughter?

  I froze, listening carefully as Mum talked to Martin’s mother, a woman who was nothing like her given name. Like Blair and Gaddafi, she had the ability to smile to your face whilst stabbing you in the back. Today, as it turned out, Joy had valid reasons to be joyless.

  ‘Oh my God, what?’ Mum shrieked. Such was the volume of this last word that Dad lowered his newspaper, a frown upon his face, and I paused in taking another bite of my toast. Mum had spun round to face both Dad and me, colour draining from her complexion faster than last night’s bath water. She looked stricken.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Dad.

  Mum shook her head at Dad. ‘I can’t take this in, Joy.’ And with that she burst into tears, one hand fluttering up to her mouth.

  Dad abandoned his paper, noisily scraping back his chair as he hastened over to Mum, placing an arm around her shaking shoulders, taking the phone from her with his free hand.

  ‘Joy? Penny’s gone to pieces. What’s—?’

  From the ethereal safety of my viewing platform, I now watched myself watching my parents. Dad’s brow puckered with both puzzlement and then incredulity, his face visibly paling, as had my mother’s moments earlier. His eyes widened with horror.

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘There are no words, Joy. No words.’

  My mother had put her head in both her hands and was openly sobbing. Dad held her away slightly, so he could better hear what Joy was saying. It was obvious to the observer that, at the other end of the phone, it wasn’t just my mother who had gone to pieces and that Martin’s mother was in emotional bits. Dad was coaxing information from her, encouraging her to form sentences, put stuttering words together, so he had the full picture of exactly what Joy was trying to tell him. His tone was gentle, prompting her to keep talking, and the interim silence this end was only broken by my mother’s sobs and the occasional ‘I see’ from my father. At length though, his back stiffened. ‘Now then Joy, that’s not fair. At the moment, I don’t think you know what you’re saying – which is perfectly understandable. No, that’s not true. No, Joy. I understand you’re distressed, but I won’t have Hattie blamed.’

  I regarded myself sitting at the kitchen table, my own face becoming pinched upon hearing my father’s words to Joy. At this point I didn’t know for certain what Martin’s mother was blaming me for, but was pretty damn sure it was going to be along the lines of me daring to sully her son’s integrity. However, I didn’t have to wait long to find out. My father’s expression was grim as he briefly glanced my way, but upon seeing me hunched over the table, eyes wide and fearful, he quickly looked away again. At length, he solemnly thanked Joy for her call and hung up.

  ‘Come on, love, sit down,’ he murmured to Mum, guiding his distraught wife over to the table and pulling out a chair for her. She sat down heavily, swiping her hands across her face to stem the flow of tears. Dad pulled out the chair next to Mum and slowly lowered himself down, before his eyes came to rest on me. ‘That was Joy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice small and uncertain. ‘I gathered.’

  ‘You’re going to have to be very brave, darling.’

  I saw myself regarding my father ominously, still unaware of the news he was about to deliver to my younger self.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Martin has died.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all I said.

  The words went straight over my head. I couldn’t take it in. On a scale of one to ten, it didn’t even register. Was there something wrong with me? Was I some sort of emotional cripple? Was my father talking about the same person I’d been out with last night, a man who only a few hours ago had… My brain instantly swerved off in another direction. Far away. Protecting me. As I said before, the mind can be a marvellous thing.

  Mum promptly collapsed over the table, her head sinking down on its wooden surface, a few strands of hair falling across the butter dish.

  ‘I appreciate this is a hell of a shock,’ said Dad, peering at me intently. ‘I can’t take it in myself. Understandably, Joy is distraught.’

  ‘Obviously,’ I nodded, my face emotionless. ‘What happened?’

  Dad took a deep breath, suddenly looking as if he’d aged twenty years.

  ‘Apparently, after you left him last night, he rang his parents, and was in a state. Joy said he woke them up. It was late. Martin told her you’d ended your relationship with him, and you’d accused him of something unspeakable, although he didn’t say what, but Joy gathers you had a row. Did you, darling?’

  ‘Did I what?’ I whispered.

  ‘Tell him that you and he were over?’

  I gulped and nodded, as Mum continued to sob, still prostrate across the table. So that’s why Dad had told Joy that it was unfair to blame me. I could almost hear Martin’s mother in my head, ranting in her grief, pointing the finger at me. A part of me shrivelled within, mentally throwing up my hands to ward off the accusation, but failing dismally. Oh, I felt guilty all right and spent years afterwards weighed down by it. From the moment the news of his death had broken, I had worn my culpability like a concrete cloak around my shoulders.

  ‘Why did you end it, love?’ asked Dad gently.

  ‘I didn’t love him any more,’ I mumbled, ‘but I don’t think he loved me any more either.’

  ‘Not according to Joy. She said he was preparing to propose to you on your birthday.’

  I shook my head, my mouth
suddenly dry. ‘Whatever he said… whatever he’d planned… that was never going to happen. He told me he’d been having a fling with someone at his office. Recently they’d gone back to her place and… well, you know.’ I wasn’t used to having conversations like this with Dad, about sex and infidelity. We were close, but there are some topics you don’t share with your father.

  ‘Maybe telling you about this other woman was simply bravado on his part,’ said Dad, thinking aloud, ‘a bit of getting his own back and trying to hurt you, because you’d hurt him by ending it?’ When I didn’t reply, Dad carried on speaking, carefully picking his words. ‘The thing is, love, whatever he told you, the fact remains that he was distressed enough to wake up his folks in the middle of the night. Joy told him to come on over, that he could sleep in his old bed. He told her he would sling a few things in an overnight bag and be on his way. Except he never turned up.’

  I realised that Martin would have still been over the limit when driving.

  ‘He had a collision with a lorry,’ Dad continued. ‘The car went up in flames, as did the HGV. The lorry driver jumped clear. But unfortunately, Martin didn’t. Witnesses phoned the emergency services. Apparently, Martin’s car was still registered to his parents’ address, so a couple of policemen turned up on their doorstep a little while later.’

  ‘I see,’ I said quietly. ‘I’d better ring Joy back. Offer my condolences.’ Even as I said the words, a part of me marvelled at how detached I sounded. But nothing was registering on an emotional level.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that just yet, love,’ said Dad, shaking his head, clearly wanting to protect me from Joy’s venom. ‘She’s understandably not herself right now, and I don’t think you are either, Hattie. You might be composed at the moment, but this is going to hit you hard later. Mark my words.’

  Whereupon my mother, who had remained weeping quietly into the table throughout this exchange, suddenly reared up like a sea monster, her face blotchy and red, and pointed an accusing finger at me.

  ‘Joy’s right. This is all your fault!’

  I shrank back in my seat, appalled.

  ‘Now, Penny, that’s not fair,’ said Dad.

  ‘But it’s true,’ Mum cried. ‘Our daughter tossed Martin to one side. And what for? Or should I say’ – her puffy eyes narrowed – ‘who for?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Dad, sounding both confused and frustrated.

  ‘Hattie dumped Martin last night because she’s got the hots for someone else. Isn’t that right?’ Mum demanded, through her tears.

  I stared at Mum in dismay. Why was she doing this to me?

  ‘Hattie is having an affair with her boss,’ said Mum, her tear-streaked face now a mask of anger.

  ‘Nicholas Green?’ said Dad, looking at me, his previously grave expression turning to one of bewilderment. ‘But he’s a married man.’

  ‘Yes!’ shrieked Mum. ‘Our daughter tossed Martin away like a tatty old slipper, casting him aside for some Lothario, when instead she should have been getting engaged to Martin. I can’t bear it,’ Mum cried, ‘that poor boy. He should have been our son-in-law. We’ll never see our daughter walk down the aisle to Martin waiting with open arms—’

  ‘Mum, that was never going to happen anyway,’ I muttered.

  ‘—or see the children you would have raised together!’ she wailed.

  Which wasn’t true either. Because although I didn’t yet know it, Martin had left a legacy. And it was growing inside me.

  Thirty-Three

  Needless to say, the rest of the day was blanketed in depression. Under the reproachful eyes of my mother, I took my guilt and shuffled off back to bed, ringing the office from my mobile. Nick wasn’t yet in, but I spoke to Reception, leaving the message that a family bereavement meant I would be absent today.

  I pulled the unicorn quilt up to my chin, wishing with all my heart the mythical creature would materialise in front of me, let me climb upon its back and that we’d gallop off into a fairy forest together, my very own twirly horned mount tossing his head at anybody who dared to hurt me – physically or verbally.

  An hour later there was a tentative knock on the bedroom door and Dad stuck his head around.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake, love.’

  ‘I’ve not been asleep,’ I mumbled.

  He came into the room, a cup of tea in one hand which he set down on the bedside table. ‘Thought you could use a brew.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, giving him the ghost of a smile. Sitting up, I plumped the pillows behind me, gratefully taking the tea.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of your mum, Hattie. She was distraught. Still is, of course, but a bit calmer now.’

  I nodded and took a sip of the hot liquid. ‘Even so, she said some pretty awful things down there.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said tentatively. ‘Look, love, tell me it’s none of my business, but do you know what you’re getting into with this married boss of yours?’

  ‘He’s not married, he’s separated.’

  ‘Right, but he still hasn’t actually got the certificate to prove it, eh?’

  I sighed. ‘No. But he has his own place and there is definitely no Mrs Green living there.’

  Dad contemplated the carpet for a moment. ‘Are you serious about him?’

  I didn’t initially reply. How could I explain that my feelings were deadly serious, but that on Nick’s part it could possibly be nothing more than a light-hearted diversion? After all, who wanted to come out of a marriage which – as my father had pointed out – had yet to officially end, only to immediately shack up with someone else? And not just any old someone else, but the secretary, no less. It was such a cliché. Nick’s previous wives had both been highflyers. They’d been the ones with personal assistants and secretaries, the ones to scrawl with a flourish their signatures on company letterhead notepaper, not the one who merely typed it up and presented it for signing. At this moment in time I had no idea how Nick felt about me. It was all too new. I’d only spent one weekend with him, after all.

  ‘I like him a lot,’ I said, somewhat lamely. I was reluctant to elaborate. It would have been different if it had been my mother sitting on my bed. Indeed, we’d had many a girly gossip about the mysteries of men. But currently Mum was incommunicado.

  Later in the afternoon, Joy telephoned, asking to speak to me. Passing me the handset, Dad hovered anxiously, his parental role coming to the fore, anxious to protect his little chick if the wolf in sheep’s clothing so much as bared her teeth.

  ‘Joy,’ I said, gripping the phone. ‘How are you?’ Stupid question, in hindsight.

  ‘Hello, Hattie,’ she said, her tone brisk. ‘I won’t deign to give your ridiculous question an answer, but since you ask,’ she added, immediately contradicting herself, ‘I’m bone-tired. Understandably, I’ve not slept since the police knocked on my door.’ The processing of her own devastation and loss was still in its infancy, but she’d managed to switch to auto-pilot. ‘Rather than being at work and having the luxury of deciding whether to have a chocolate biscuit or shortbread on my morning tea break, instead I’m on compassionate leave’ – her voice momentarily caught, but she immediately coughed and righted herself – ‘planning my son’s funeral.’ The waves of grief coming from the handset were almost palpable.

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through,’ I whispered.

  ‘Clearly,’ she said, ‘because I don’t even detect tears in your voice, Hattie. How incredible is it that you went out with my boy for the best part of four years, but don’t even cry when you hear the shocking news of his sudden passing?’

  ‘Joy, it’s not like that, you don’t understand—’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, cutting across me, ‘I don’t understand. And I don’t think I want to either. All I know, Hattie, is that you are one cold-hearted woman. Indeed, I suspect your veins are full of ice, not blood.’

  I gasped, stung by the hatred in her tone. ‘Just because I didn
’t want to marry your son, Joy, didn’t mean I wished him dead.’

  ‘Spare me the excuses,’ she snapped. ‘Right now, the only microscopic bit of comfort I’m getting is deep gratitude that a wedding will never happen. Thank God I haven’t ended up with you as my daughter-in-law, because you are a wicked woman.’

  Wicked? Bloody hell, that was a bit strong. For the first time since I’d heard the news of Martin’s dreadful demise, tears stung the back of my eyelids. My voice, when I found it, came out as little more than a croak.

  ‘Please let me know the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m ringing, Hattie,’ she said, her voice taking on a strangely triumphant note. ‘Your parents are invited, but you are most definitely not. Stay away from my son and his send-off. If you couldn’t love him in life, I will not have you squeezing out crocodile tears by his graveside in death.’ From the other end of the line came the sound of a receiver crashing down.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ asked Dad, putting an arm around me and hugging me tight.

  ‘N-no,’ I shook my head, ‘I don’t think I am.’

  And with that I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

  Thirty-Four

  From somewhere far away, I heard Josh’s voice speaking to me.

  Tears are good, Hattie. Crying waters the soul. Refreshes and renews.

  Having started to cry, I found I couldn’t stop. I was aware of Dad slipping out of my bedroom, the giveaway being the creak on the landing as his slippered feet took him away, down the stairs to Mum. Moments later he was back, but this time the protesting floorboards bore testament to two lots of footsteps.

  ‘Darling?’

  Mum. The mattress shifted as she perched.

  ‘Sorry I was such a bitch,’ she said.

  Hearing her apology made me cry even harder.

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she said, starting to sob herself. ‘I was shocked at the news, and lashed out, as did Joy on the phone earlier. She doesn’t know what she’s saying at the moment, and I guess I didn’t either.’