This is Me

by Shari Low

  They’d arrived in Nashville three days before, giving them time to get organised for Jordy moving into the dorms. They were staying in a city hotel, handy for a huge mall where they’d managed to pick up duvets, pillows, towels, crockery, a TV, USA electrical adaptors, and even a mini fridge for his room.

  The trip had been on the calendar for months, since the day he’d signed the commitment letter and accepted the college scholarship that he’d been working for since he was twelve. However, she’d been surprised when Sam had called her the week before and suggested joining them.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’ she’d asked, then realised that might have sounded offhand. ‘I mean, you’re very welcome! It would be lovely to have you there. You can hold the Kleenex and prise my hands off his ankles when he tries to leave.’

  His laughter had made her smile. ‘That was exactly my plan. Text me the details and I’ll get a flight and book a room in the same hotel.’

  ‘No worries.’ A thought. ‘If you and Nicola want to use your air miles to go in business class, we won’t be offended,’ she’d said, knowing that he flew so often with work he always tried to use the points he’d accumulated to upgrade his holiday flights.

  ‘Nicola can’t make it – it’s just me.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ That had surprised her. ‘I’ll send you the text over now then.’

  She’d done so and he’d met them at the airport, delighting Jordy. After they’d separated, Sam had made a conscious effort to sort out his work-life balance. He’d stopped working late every single night and had started pitching in again to help with the boys’ schedules. In the years since then, Claire couldn’t remember him missing a single football or rugby game. He’d stand with her on the touchline, chat away, and it was all very amicable and civilised. They’d even managed to rebuild a really good friendship. She was proud of that. All they both wanted was what was best for the kids and they’d managed to pull it off.

  Once the surprise had passed, she’d been pleased he’d managed to join them. It was great to have help with all the lugging around of suitcases and boxes.

  Now they were about to lug them for the last time.

  The radio in the hired car played rock anthems the whole way to the campus, and she and Sam sang along, rising to the top of their voices when ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ came on.

  ‘It’s a wonder I turned out anywhere near normal with you two as parents,’ Jordy informed them.

  ‘It’s either this or I cry the whole way and beg you not to go,’ Claire told him.

  ‘Turn that radio up, Dad,’ Jordy quipped.

  Claire could see the bright eyes and flushed face of excitement on her boy and once again she was determined to hold it together. She was going to stay positive, be happy for him, and smile as she waved him off on the most wonderful adventure of his life.

  The hours on campus flew by with a flurry of form filling, unpacking, bed making and introductions to his room-mate – Kurt from Pennsylvania, also on the soccer team.

  It was getting on for 4 p.m. when Claire realised that their work was done here. Kurt from Pennsylvania was suggesting to Jordy that they hit the sports hall, and by the look on her son’s face, she knew he wanted to go.

  ‘I guess we’ll get off and leave you then,’ she said, trying desperately not to sound like the words were choking her. They were.

  Do not cry. Do not cry. She forced the mantra to repeat itself in her head and block the tear ducts.

  ‘Ok, Mum. I’ll walk you to the car. Kurt, I’ll see you over at the sports block in ten?’

  Kurt, earphones in and focus on the screen of his iPhone, nodded in agreement.

  The whole way back to the car, Claire repeated the pre-leaving-home warnings that she’d been drilling into her youngest son for the last fortnight – the same ones she’d given Max the year before. Don’t leave drinks unattended. Make sure your phone is always charged (Max clearly missed that one). Don’t try drugs of any kind. Just say no. Respect other people’s boundaries. Treat girls with respect. Never, ever snog a girl who is drunk, even if you fancy her – see her home safely and then call to check on her the next morning. If she’s nice, only then can you ask her out. Text your mother every night and FaceTime at least once every two days. Never go along with something if you don’t think it’s a good idea. Trust your instincts. Don’t go in a car with anyone who has been drinking or taking drugs. Always wear a seat belt. And a condom. Always, ALWAYS wear a condom. And if you can find a pair of bubble-wrap pants, pull them on too. You can never be too careful…

  ‘Mum, here’s your car,’ Jordy pointed out and she realised they were standing next to the rental. ‘And don’t worry. I’ve got this. I promise.’

  Another chink fell off Claire’s heart. Of course he did. He was a smart, sensible, big hearted kid. Sure, he would make mistakes, but he would always be a good guy. He took after his father.

  Sam hugged his boy for way longer than their usual man code allowed. Jordy didn’t complain.

  ‘Love you, son. I’m so proud of you,’ he said, and Claire was shocked to hear that his voice was choked with emotion too. Sam was always the strong, stoic type.

  ‘Love you too, Dad,’ Jordy replied, when Sam finally released him. He then turned and wrapped his mother in his big strong arms. ‘Love you, Mum.’

  That almost ended her. Almost. He was her baby, yet she barely passed his chest now, and he still smelled exactly the same as when he was a little guy who would climb into her bed every morning and tell her how much he loved her. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she fought them back. She would wave him off smiling if it killed her.

  ‘I love you, son. With all my heart,’ she replied. ‘And I’ll always be on the other end of a phone, day or night, for anything. You’re never alone, you hear me?’

  Jordy cleared his throat. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Right, well go on before Kurt sends out a search party.’

  They watched as their baby, all six foot three of him, walked back to his new life.

  Beside her, she felt Sam taking her hand. ‘You’re going to crumble into a sobbing mess any minute, aren’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, chin wobbling, the lump in her throat well and truly back in position. ‘You?’

  ‘Already there,’ he answered.

  She glanced up to see his tear filled eyes. The state of the two of them made her dissolve into something between a sob and a giggle.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ she managed to say. ‘We’re going to get into that car, we’re going to put the music on full blast and we’re going to sing all the way back to the airport. And when we get there, we’re going to go into the first bar we find and get hammered. How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Like the best idea I’ve ever heard.’

  They might not have made it work as a married couple, but parents, travel companions and drinking buddies? She was 100 per cent sure they had that covered.

  They both climbed into the car, he started the engine and the music blared as he pulled out of the parking slot. As soon as they started to drive, his hand fell on hers. She knew it was a token of friendship. Comfort in an emotional situation. But for the first time since they’d said goodbye all those years ago, her stomach flipped at his touch.

  Thirty-Four

  Denise – 2019

  Denise stared at the phone, waiting for a reply. It had been an hour now since she’d sent the text to that cow and she’d still heard nothing back. Nothing.

  In that time, she’d read every single text they’d sent each other and they’d made her retch many times over. It was disgusting. Absolute filth.

  But more than that, she just didn’t understand, so many whys. Why was he texting that whore? If he had needs or he was into that kind of thing, why couldn’t he have sent texts like that to Denise? She’d have answered them, even the really crude ones, and sure, it might have been a bit embarrassing at first, but if that was what he liked, she’d have gone with it. O
f course she would – she’d have done anything for him.

  Another why – why did he feel the need to have another woman on the side? Wasn’t she enough for him? Did that bitch have something, say something, or do something that she couldn’t?

  And why – oh fucking why – had she not suspected that this was still going on? And for all this time?

  There had been absolutely no red flags, no warning signs. Sometimes he still came home late, but that had always been an occupational hazard in the building trade. Other than that, and the fact that he was away a lot because he’d had more and more jobs in different cities, there was nothing out of the ordinary between them. He still brought her flowers almost every week, still made love to her every couple of nights, still seemed as into her as he’d always been. Right up until the end, they’d still been making plans for the future, for their next holiday, next adventure, for their retirement. Were those the actions of a man who was saying such disgusting things to another woman?

  None of this made sense. None of it. Not the texts, not the financial accounts, not the fact that he was lying in a bloody mortuary, his body cold, while she lay in their bedroom alone.

  The anxiety, the fury, the rage all gripped her and she snatched the phone up again, her fingers flying across the keypad as she typed out another message.

  I know everything.

  Send.

  Before she threw the phone back on the bed, she spotted the time on the home screen. It was almost five o’clock, so even if that boot worked somewhere that gave her no access to her phone in office hours, she’d see the messages soon. Good.

  That thought led to another one. She still had another call to make.

  She poured more red wine into her glass, took a long drink, then searched through Ray’s main phone – not the secret one he used to call his lover – and searched up the number for his lawyer. Dial.

  A receptionist answered.

  Denise cleared her throat and tried to sound as normal as possible. ‘Can I speak to Mr Dawson please?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’ she replied in a singsong voice.

  Denise wanted to tell her it was none of her fucking business.

  ‘This is Denise Harrow. My husband is… was Ray Harrow. He is… was one of Mr Dawson’s clients. I need to notify him of my husband’s death.’

  A few minutes passed before a male voice came on the phone. Hugh Dawson was an old teammate of Ray’s from back in the junior football days. A group of them still played occasionally, Dawson included, and they still enjoyed the odd night out. Denise had only ever met him in an official capacity though, several times over the years, when they were incorporating the business, drawing up contracts, writing their wills, buying her dad’s house and, later, selling it. In fact, it was Hugh Dawson who had certified Fred’s power of attorney, saying that he’d witnessed the old man signing it. She still had no idea how Ray had persuaded him to do that, but she knew it involved a large bill from the Gleneagles Hotel.

  ‘Mrs Harrow,’ he said, his voice deep and thick with the kind of confidence that was essential in someone like that’s job.

  ‘Mr Dawson. I’m not sure if you remember me…’

  ‘I do, Mrs Harrow.’

  Of course he did, she thought. Ray always told her that she was so gorgeous that no one could ever forget her face. Shame that he apparently did when he was texting his whore.

  Back to the call. She needed to concentrate. Focus.

  ‘Right then,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid, my husband passed away this week.’

  There was a gasp at the end of the sentence as she reeled from the pain of saying that out loud. It took her a moment to recover, and for him to come up with an appropriate response.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. Please pass on my deepest sympathies to the whole family.’

  The whole family? It was only her. They’d all left her. Deserted her. Turned their backs, after she’d brought them up and given them everything.

  Somehow, she managed to find her voice again.

  ‘Thank you. Can you advise me on the process going forward? I’m afraid it’s all been very sudden and not something we’d prepared for. I’ve also discovered some… irregularities in our finances today that I really don’t understand. It seems my husband was in considerable debt in some of his bank accounts. I’m absolutely sure he must have transferred the funds to another account, but I can’t quite locate it.’

  There was another pause, a much longer one, and this time it was Denise who broke it.

  ‘Mr Dawson?’

  ‘Yes, er, my apologies, Mrs Harrow,’ There was a hint of edge in his voice now, like he was flustered? Uncomfortable? Of course he was. It must be so difficult to discuss the lives of people who were so recently deceased. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss Mr Harrow’s finances, or any other aspect of his affairs.’

  The word ‘affairs’ jolted her, until she realised he was referring to his financial situation, not his sex on the side. It wasn’t a huge surprise that he couldn’t discuss this on the phone. There was all that data protection stuff now. She was probably going to have to go into the office to sort it out.

  ‘If you could send me a copy of Mr Harrow’s death certificate, I can begin the process of disposing of his estate.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if I just brought it in when I come along to see you?’

  ‘To see me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t understand the way this conversation was going. Surely he had to see her to get things stamped and signed and all Ray’s possessions turned over to her? ‘I assume there are formalities to attend to with regards to signing over our house, our joint accounts and any assets that were in Ray’s name?’ She was trying desperately to be switched on and focused here, but it was like she was speaking in a language that even she didn’t understand. ‘When we made our wills, I believe we discussed our wishes, and our plan was that everything would go to each other.’

  ‘Mrs Harrow, are you referring to the wills you made in 2009?’

  She tried to remember, but her brain wouldn’t co-operate. ‘Erm, yes, that sounds about right.’

  ‘I see.’

  She could hear tapping in the background, as if he was typing on a keyboard.

  ‘Mrs Harrow, we do still have your original will on file. However, at his request, we then worked with Mr Harrow again in 2016, on a revised version of his will. For obvious reasons, I can’t discuss that with you. But what I can tell you is that I was, in that later document, named as the executor of his estate and, as such, will be actioning his wishes. Due to the fact that I will therefore be representing Mr Harrow, I would advise that you enlist the services of another lawyer, because we now clearly have a conflict of interest situation.’

  A conflict of interest? What did that even mean? That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. There was no conflict here. Ray was her husband. She was his wife. His world was hers and vice versa. She took another slug of the red liquid in her glass.

  ‘Mr Dawson, I don’t understand. Why would there be a conflict of interest?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Mrs Harrow. ‘As I said, with immediate effect I would recommend that you enlist your own legal representation. If you would be as good as to let me know who that is, I will be in touch in due course.’

  A terrible, chilling thought filled her mind.

  ‘Mr Dawson, has my husband left me nothing?’

  ‘I’m afraid I—’

  ‘Stop bloody saying that!’ she blurted, sick to the back teeth of all this formal talk and legal bullshit. ‘Just tell me where I stand and—’

  ‘I’m afraid I—’

  Aaaargh! She couldn’t listen to him saying that even one more frigging time.

  ‘Really? You know what, Mr Dawson? You’re a—’

  Click.

  He hung up. The bastard disconnected her call and left her with nothing but more stress and more worries. What the hell was going on here? It
was like she’d entered some kind of nightmare where her whole world had fallen apart and she was left with nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Another slug of wine.

  Actually, not completely nothing. She still had that whore’s phone number.

  She snatched up the secret handset again.

  Don’t think I’m letting this go. I’m not letting you get away with this. I thought you’d have learned the lesson last time.

  Send.

  She hoped with every fibre of her being that Yvonne McTay got the shock and fright of her life when she read these texts. The bitch was soon going to find out that she’d picked the wrong woman to mess with. She should have learned back then that Denise wasn’t someone to give up without a fight.

  Thirty-Five

  Denise – 1993

  He was snoring next to her. In days gone by, she’d have just fallen asleep to the rhythm of the sound, but not now. Now, more than six months later, she stared at the ceiling, night after night, unable to get rid of the image of him standing on that doorstep, kissing her, touching her hand, walking away with a regretful smile, like he couldn’t bear to leave her.

  It was driving Denise insane.

  But of course, she couldn’t tell him that. There was no way on this earth that she was going to confront him, because then she’d force his hand. It would lead to an ultimatum and, much as it eviscerated her gut to admit it, she wasn’t sure he would pick her.

  Instead, she’d gone with a different strategy. She’d turned up her attention to him even higher. Every evening now when he came home from work, she was wearing something she knew he loved. And something she knew he would love even more underneath. Every lingerie shop within ten miles must be wondering why their profits had shot up.

  One of his favourite meals would be ready for him, or a table booked at a restaurant that she knew he liked, and she’d be sweet, and funny and flirtatious, and massage his cock with her foot under the table.

  Afterwards, there would be sex and not just the basic service. There would be slow, intoxicating seductions, ferocious quickies, even sex toys and the kind of filthy talk that she knew turned him on, but she was usually too embarrassed to go along with. They didn’t have to worry about making noise any more, because Claire and Doug had packed their bags after that last fight and shifted off to live with Fred. In truth, she was relieved, and so was Ray. He said it gave them the freedom to do whatever they pleased and he loved every minute of it.