by Shari Low
Now, he needed his body to unravel itself with no alcoholic assistance and he wasn’t sure it was possible. He put his hand on his brown leather bag, closed his eyes and spoke to her in his mind.
I’m so sorry, Juliet. I’m so, so sorry. He repeated it over and over again, until his pulse slowed and he could feel his ribs expand enough for him to breathe without physical pain. The emotional pain, he already knew, had no cure.
Around him, he could see that more people were arriving, beginning to fill the pews on both sides of the church. Some kind of service must be starting soon. For a second, he considered staying, but that would be a hypocritical act too far. If there was some higher power, he wanted no part of a God who would take his Juliet from him.
Slowly, he rose and, with apologies, climbed past the elderly couple who were now seated at the end of the row, nearest the aisle. Music began just as he made his way out of the wooden doors.
Outside, the sky was black and the rain had stopped now, letting the golden early moon illuminate the sky. He scanned the streets on either side of him, two stunning Victorian terraces, many of the windows bordered with coloured lights or lit by twinkling Christmas trees.
Another emotion, jealousy this time, and yes, bitterness too. All those families, all those people planning to spend the holidays with the ones they loved most. He was alone. And he deserved to be.
Enough. He couldn’t do this any more.
He couldn’t stand to watch the world turn without her.
It was pointless, and painful and there was no end to it.
He stumbled down the steps, not sure where he was headed. Actually, that wasn’t true. He knew. He was going to go back to the hotel and check in, then tonight or tomorrow he would scatter Juliet’s ashes, fulfilling his promise to her, then he would take the first plane back to Spain. There, he’d put his affairs in order and then… he couldn’t think any further on than that. Not right now. One day at a time.
He began to walk back to the hotel, all thoughts of searching for Pearl’s niece gone. He wasn’t going to go to the wedding. He had no place there. What was the point? Even if she was his daughter, why would she want him? He had done the unimaginable, the unforgivable. He wasn’t someone that a young woman would want as a father. He’d already destroyed one life and he didn’t have it in him to cause any more pain or disruption. The truth was that he’d only been doing this for himself. Juliet was gone. His parents too. There was absolutely no one left in this world that he could call family. Maybe he was trying to fill that hole, find somewhere to tether his loneliness to.
He turned left and began to walk, ending up at a T-junction that he recognised. He turned right on to Great Western Road, knowing that it would take him back to his hotel.
The majestic terrace of the West End Grand was coming up on his right-hand side, when his eyes were drawn to the park across the road on his left. The Botanic Gardens. The legendary landmark was bordered by trees, all of them glistening with white fairy lights. As always, his first thought was that Juliet would adore this view.
He’d changed his mind about going there tonight, but now, seeing this, he couldn’t help but cross the road, oblivious to the beeps of the car horns, the drivers irate that he wasn’t using the pedestrian crossing a hundred metres further up the road.
Step after step, he walked, hearing a faint sound that got louder as he got closer to the side gate of the gardens. Music. A choir. It sounded like it was coming from inside the gardens. He checked his watch: 5 p.m.. The wedding wasn’t starting until seven o’clock, so he had time to go in, to wander, to see the places he and Juliet had visited so many times, then he would leave before the nuptials began.
An invisible force drew him in through the gate and along the concrete path, the moonlight reflecting off the glistening trees to light the way. He could see the glass and iron magnificence of the Kibble Palace ahead of him. The door at the main entrance was open, so Seb slipped inside, the familiarity of the building somehow comforting. He and Juliet would stand at the pond under the smaller dome for ages, watching the fish, taking in the tranquillity of the space. Now, a few people bustled around: a couple of bartenders – one male, one female – setting up a table with champagne glasses, presumably for the guests that would be arriving in an hour or so. They were laughing with two young men in waiter’s uniforms, paying no attention to Seb at all.
A strange feeling of calm came over him. It was ironic. He’d sought solace in a church, only to have his insides eviscerated by guilt and regret, yet here, in the familiar surroundings of a place that Juliet loved, he felt a closeness to her that he’d been searching for all day. He could see her here, leaning over the railings, laughing as they gave ridiculous names to the more distinguishable fish. The vision of her was so alive, he felt like he could reach out and touch her.
A sob escaped his throat, making the young catering staff glance up at him. With as much nonchalance as he could muster, he coughed, hoping that covered up the outburst. He spotted a sign that said ‘The Jones/Anderson Wedding’ but he knew he didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not any time. He’d caused enough suffering without laying his sins on a woman who was in the happiest time of her life. If she was his daughter, he told himself again, then the best thing he could do for her was to leave well alone.
Ignoring the wedding sign, he strolled through into the farthest section of the circular hall at the back of the building, away from the hustle and bustle of the catering staff. It was deserted and he guessed it wouldn’t normally be open at this time on a Friday night. The area was dense with plants and vegetation, seats dotted along the edges of the glass walls. It was dim, the lighting switched off, but in the semi-darkness the faint glow from a huge statue of a nude male, crouched, every muscle of his body meticulously carved to perfection, his head resting in the crook of his arm, gave a glimmer of illumination. Sculpted by Edwin Roscoe Mullins, Seb knew it was called, ‘Cain: My punishment is more than I can bear’. The arts had never evoked much emotion in him, but he had never related more to the pain he saw in front of him.
‘Aye, they don’t make them like that any more.’ The raspy voice cut through the silence. A woman, standing against the wall to his left, her wry comment seamlessly transforming into a tortuous coughing fit.
Seb’s eyes now adjusted to the darkness of the room, so he could see that she was older than him, maybe in her sixties, dressed all in black with a wild mop of white spiky hair. ‘Are you okay? Can I get you some water?’
‘No, I’m fine, son.’
Her words made him smile, so steeped in the West of Scotland culture he grew up in. That generation of women would say they were fine even if they were being swept down a hill by burning lava. And ‘son’. Nothing to do with family. Just the catch-all term used either in affection or when reprimanding anyone younger than themselves.
‘Aye, you sound fine,’ he quipped back, and was rewarded with a loud cackle that immediately warmed him to this woman. On the scale of first impressions, she was up there at the top.
Another cough, then a long intake of breath before she spoke again, her tone almost wistful. ‘Maybe not fine, right enough,’ she conceded. ‘In fact, today could quite safely be described as absolutely bollocks.’
‘I thought I was having the monopoly on crap days,’ he said, feeling a genuine desire to engage with this lady. Sometimes the people who were easiest to talk to were complete strangers.
‘Oh no, son, I’m fairly sure that whatever you’ve got going on, mine will trump it.’
There was a silence as he pondered that for a moment before speaking, the semi-darkness almost feeling like a confessional. ‘I was driving carelessly and crashed. My fault. My wife died. I’ve come back to Scotland to scatter her ashes.’
Seb felt a slap of shock, then the strangest thing. Relief. He’d said it. For the first time. To a woman he didn’t know and would never see again. It was like picking a scab and feeling the pressure ease as the blood flowed out
.
The woman spluttered as she spoke. ‘Christ, could you not have gone with a loss on the stock market or some kind of suspicious rash?’ After a pause, her tone changed, softer this time, compassion layering every word. ‘Sorry! Sorry! I do that. I say inappropriate things at all the wrong times. I’m Josie. And I apologise, that was insensitive of me. I’m very sorry about your wife. That guilt must be a tough burden to bear.’
Seb felt tears spring to his eyes as her last comment showed that she’d read the situation with such insight. ‘Thank you. I don’t know why I just blurted that out. You’re the first person I’ve ever said that to. I’m Seb, by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Seb. And I have some kind of superpower that makes people bare their soul to me. A woman in the post office queue yesterday told me she was shagging her next-door neighbour. He was called Cecil. Seriously, who has a wild affair with someone called Cecil? Nobody wants to shout that name out at the tickly bit.’
Seb’s emotional pendulum immediately swung away from tears and towards affection. He liked this lady. This felt like the first real - yet bizarre – conversation he’d had in a long time.
‘I see your point. So go on then…’ he prompted. ‘What made you think you’d win the “shit day” award?’
Josie’s answer was delayed by another heaving cough, before she regained her voice. ‘Lung cancer,’ she said, absolutely matter-of-fact. ‘Doctor told me this morning that even with treatment I won’t have much longer. Och, it’s a bastard, this life sometimes.’
Seb genuinely didn’t know how to reply to that. This poor soul. Yet here she was, still standing. There was no right thing to say here, but he had the feeling that no matter what came out of his mouth, this wasn’t the kind of woman who took offence. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Me neither, son.’
‘Yeah, I sussed that out after the suspicious rash comment.’
That made her cackle, a gorgeous, raucous laugh that was so contagious he couldn’t help but join her. He was laughing. Actually laughing. If someone had told him an hour ago how this detour would play out, he’d never have believed them.
‘I think you win,’ he conceded. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Aye, shit happens and then you die,’ she said wistfully.
‘Do you want to talk about it? My wife always said I was a pretty good listener. As long as there wasn’t any golf on the TV.’
‘Thanks, but there’s no point. Talking about it will only waste time and that’s something I’m running short on.’
He nodded, but he wasn’t sure if she could see that in the semi-darkness. His curiosity carried on the conversation. ‘Okay then – so am I allowed to ask why you’re standing in the middle of a greenhouse in front of a naked statue?’
‘My friends are getting married here tonight. Well, supposed to be. It’s a long story. Anyway, the bride had taken cold feet and bolted, so I came here to look for her, but no luck. So instead of going back to face the world, I’m hiding in here until I’m ready to get back out and deal with the shitstorm that’s waiting for me.’
Seb immediately put two and two together. Bloody hell. This was the last thing he expected. ‘Caro is missing?’
Josie’s head whipped around and her eyes narrowed with what looked like suspicion. ‘You know Caro?’
‘Er, no. Not, er, really. Not at all, actually. But, er, I know her aunt, Pearl. And… it’s a long story too.’
‘Well, I’ve got time to listen. Just don’t make it too long in case I pop my clogs in the middle.’
Twenty-One
Josie
Josie’s interest was piqued. She didn’t get to the age she was at now without being able to detect underlying currents in what someone was saying and this bloke definitely had something else going on. There was something in the way he said Caro’s name, then began to stutter as he lost his words. Poor bugger. It sounded like he’d had a rough time and Josie’s innate desire to help people was kicking in. That, and a natural protectiveness over Caro. Right now, she wanted to kill her for running out on Cammy, but that aside, she wasn’t going to let some stranger get near her friend if he was going to cause problems.
The man sighed and she knew that he was weighing up whether or not to confide in her any further. She also knew that best thing to do was to keep her mouth shut until he decided that he would. The CIA would be proud of her interrogation insight.
‘You’re, erm… You’re… The thing is… you’re going to think it’s ridiculous…’ he began.
Josie lost her powers of restraint and jumped right in. ‘Oh, I hope so. I could do with a bit of ridiculous to cheer me up. Hang on, can we sit on that bench because these boots are the work of Satan and my feet are killing me?’
The light-hearted prompt seemed to be enough to make him talk. ‘Sure,’ he replied, following her a few feet to a wooden bench that was placed against one of the glass walls.
Once they were seated, he began speaking. ‘I knew Caro’s mum, Yvonne.’
Josie was even more interested now. Caro’s mum had passed away right before Josie met her. Caro didn’t talk about her too much and Josie respected that, choosing instead to mother her and keep an eye on her.
Josie was waiting for more, but Seb didn’t seem to know where to go next. She decided to nudge him along. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but I’ve only got about six months,’ she said, with a gentle elbow poke in the side.
A street lamp outside the glass wall meant the light wasn’t quite so dim here at the bench, and she could see that her jibe made him smile.
‘I worked with Yvonne and her sister Pearl back in the eighties, but then we lost touch. I went off to travel the world and I never saw Yvonne again.’
Josie hoped the disappointment didn’t show in her face. She’d been wanting something a little more interesting than that. Anyway, probably just as well. It was time to go, find Caro and get this bloody wedding back on track. Everything else could be dealt with tomorrow. Priorities. That’s what she needed right now. Sitting here with this bloke wasn’t one of them. She was about to interrupt him and make her excuses to leave when he went on…
‘And then, last week, completely out of the blue, I met Pearl. We got talking and she mentioned that Yvonne had a daughter, Caro.’
Okay, interrupt him now. Time to go, she told herself.
‘Oh, it’s a small world. Anyway—’
‘And that Caro was thirty-four,’ he added.
Josie immediately detected that this was relevant, all thoughts of leaving instantly cancelled out by renewed curiosity.
‘The thing is…’ he paused, struggling with the words, and Josie had a feeling she was about to hear something else this guy had never said out loud. ‘Yvonne and I, well we had a… relationship… just under thirty-five years ago.’
‘Well, fuck me,’ Josie gasped. ‘So you could be her dad? Hang on, let me look at you.’ She sparked up her lighter and held it perilously close to his face. ‘Damn, hard to tell,’ she groaned. ‘Our Caro is a blonde, and she always said she looked like her mother.’
Thoughts ricocheted through Josie’s mind, and for the first time all day, she could honestly say the biggest thing in her head wasn’t this morning’s meeting with the doctor. This was incredible. After all that lass’s father had put her through and now there was another contender for the position? She’d only ever seen this kind of stuff on those programmes on telly, where they did DNA tests and there was a smug host who acted with fake sincerity while delivering the news.
Josie was thinking out loud. ‘I don’t know how she would feel about this. It would be an absolute bombshell in her life.’
‘I promise that’s not my intention. Actually, I don’t even know what my intention was, but I promise I would never cause her any upset, especially on her wedding day. This will be a special day for her and her dad and I wouldn’t spoil that.’
The snort was out before she could stop it, followed by, ‘You
know nothing about her, do you?’
‘Nothing,’ he admitted. ‘One conversation with Pearl, that is it. And, to be honest, I’d actually decided to leave tomorrow without saying anything to her. I bottled out. Probably for the best, so please don’t add me to your list of problems today.’
Josie let that sit as she considered her options. Caro’s loathing of her father was no secret, and no wonder, given the terrible things that man did to her and her mum. However, that story was Caro’s and Josie had no right to tell it, especially to a stranger. Even more so when that stranger may or may not have a cataclysmic effect on Caro’s life. Therefore, for once in her many decades on this earth, Josie decided she was going to have to keep her gob shut. The very thought of that made her lips purse in outrage. It took her a minute to unclench them.
‘Look, it’s not my place to tell you all the things that poor girl has been through in her life…’ Even in this light she saw his brow furrow in concern. ‘But I want you to promise me you won’t leave tomorrow. I’m staying over at the West End Grand across the road tonight—’
‘I’m staying there too,’ Seb interjected.
‘Good. That makes everything easier. As I said, I’m not sure where Caro is right now. I’m hoping to find her and sort this out before the groom-to-be finds out that she’s missing. Jesus wept, if the fucked lungs don’t kill me, the bloody stress will.’
‘Can I help?’ he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
‘No, son. I’ll track her down. But I know that one way or another, she’ll want to meet you. What’s your surname?’
‘Lloyd,’ he answered.
‘Okay. Seb Lloyd. I’ll find you at the hotel tomorrow morning and we’ll hatch a plan.’ A coughing bout interrupted her orders, immediately followed by the ringing of her phone. ‘Shit, it’s the groom,’ she sighed, before her hopes rose. Maybe Caro had turned up, maybe she was there right now, and all was fine.
Come on, universe, throw me a fecking bone.
