(2013) Four Widows

The right of Helen MacArthur to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Copyright © Helen MacArthur 2013. All rights reserved

Four Widows

Helen MacArthur

Prologue

London, present day

I am sitting in a living room with a woman I’ve never met until this moment. My mother would describe her as someone who has
let herself go.

The skin’s scaffolding has collapsed, making the woman’s face droop at the mouth, adding years to her appearance. Her clothes look as fatigued as she is: limp mushroom-shade cardigan, cream shirt and tired brown skirt. Even the air in the room could be fresher.

“I
want
to know the truth,” she demands, voice chewing up the silence, lips sticking to teeth.

Sitting poker-straight on her overstuffed sofa, she waits for me to speak.

“You haven’t spoken to your husband?” I whisper.

She fixes a hard stare on me. “Why would I do that? He doesn’t know the meaning of the truth.”

“He was… I think he was protecting you. He loves–”

“He
can’t
fix this,” she interrupts, exasperated.

This well-rehearsed answer hammers home the point: she is done with him.

I blink. Before I can respond, she leans forward. “Hearts break,” she snaps, shark-attack bite.

I’m startled by the severity in her voice–the deadened acceptance weighing down the words.

That’s it
? I think.
Hearts break. Deal with it
?

I want to shout,
Holy shit, we’re not talking about plates falling off shelves. People can die of a broken heart. It’s a miracle I’m still here
.

This is true. I have it on good medical authority that stress hormones can temporarily weaken the heart muscle, which in turn can cause inevitable health chaos, even death. People are prescribed aspirin to help them recover.

Broken and bone-brittle, she looks directly at me and I see how much she’s suffered. My flash of irritation hasn’t gone unnoticed and she slumps back into her chair, flat and colourless again.

This is getting us nowhere and I desperately want to get her back on side. So much so, I almost rush over to her chair to reassure her, to whisper:
Internet search “broken hearts” and it throws back well over 20 million results
.
We are not alone
.

I hesitate, however, because she makes me ridiculously nervous. I know the venom she possesses.

Her eyes drift to photographs on the wall. “I have a son at Cambridge.”

“He went back?”

Composure thrown, her shoulders physically jerk with almost exorcist force. She glares at me, more mistrustful and suspicious than ever. Yes, I have shared secrets with her husband. The husband she has thrown out on the street, out of her life.

But, if anything, it reaffirms the reason I am here; to persuade her to give her husband a second chance. Because she can. Some of us don’t have this option.

The mood changes and she sits up straighter, more assertive.

“How did you get here, Mrs Warner?” she asks, clipped.

We both know she’s not talking about the cab ride to her front door in Wimbledon; and so, I start from the beginning.

There and then, I decide to tell her everything; not just about when I met her husband. First, though, I want to set her straight about me; the others, too. I run through the sentence in my head and think,
Christ, I’m starting to sound like Cecelia
. For sure, she would have handled this situation better than me but I continue nonetheless. “Despite what you might think, this isn’t about death;
we
are not about death,” I say. “What I’m about to tell you is about love–its greatness and its acute complications.”

Chapter One

One year earlier, Edinburgh

I met them in the Art Bar on Rose Street, a licensed coffee-shop-meets-gallery in the centre of town channelling the American-diner look with red leatherette booths and distinctive red pendant lighting made up of asymmetrical bands.

The place was already packed; its fashionable reputation drawing a crowd–some drinking lattes from designer glassware while others made an audacious early-morning move on the cocktails.

Photographs and befuddling bits of modern art fought for space on walls while A-list faces had been laminated onto placemats on tables. Treasured icons such as Marilyn Monroe and James Dean had to grin and bear food and drink spillages over their flawless faces. I was, however, more focused on the licensed bar than the people and stylish interior. Saying that, the nearest I could get to a no-frills spirit was geranium gin with cranberry juice: gin being my preferred choice over cappuccino for elevenses because I could throw it down faster than frothed coffee and leave.

I wasn’t here to find new friends. I was here to interview the successful, eccentric milliner, Elvis James, about his latest collection and how he’d finally overcome 15 years of crippling agoraphobia to make his first personal appearance at one of the main shows come September. We’d agreed to meet at 10.30am and when a text message vibrated at 10.28am I guessed correctly that it was Elvis telling me that, with great regret, he couldn’t meet me as planned. Not so cured, alas.

Fifteen snatched minutes on my own before returning to the office never happened, however, because no sooner had I wandered in the direction of the nearest vacant table, clinking ice, than a woman called out to me.

No, actually, she didn’t call, she hollered. I glided to a stop like ravelled ribbon come undone as she roared over tables and heads. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if flames followed, blowtorching out the words.

“SWEETIE! WHY DONCHA COME OVER HERE AN’ JOIN US?”

The transatlantic boom sent tremors through the fashionable crowd and heads snapped off necks to see whom the big blonde was shouting at.

Damn it, I knew the face but couldn’t place her. Stylist, make-up artist, photographer? I scrolled through the possibilities but hit a blank. She was definitely looking at me, though, and called out again, impatiently.

This time the Pavarotti pair of lungs didn’t halt just me in my tracks; it stopped short all conversation and coffee cups remained upheld while more heads turned–now the entire room was wondering what the hell was going on. The booth nearest to me with its immaculate set of twentysomethings eyeballed my black Victoria Beckham stretch wool-crepe sheath dress, vaguely interested.

Hesitantly, I stepped in her direction, hoping a name would come to me so we could breeze through the inevitable small talk or talk shop and I could leave.

“That’s right. This way… yes…
yes
!”

The woman stood, hand on hip, designer teapot; professional vanilla blonde, not a root untouched on her immaculate head. I clocked the bullet bra and tremendous curves underneath an orange silk blazer and matching trousers while a streak of sunshine streaming through the far window highlighted gold accessories swinging off her ears, fingers and wrists.

I crossed the room. Being shorter in stature, I gazed up into lively eyes and guessed her to be over six foot high in heels. It wasn’t just her height that was arresting but a great smile lit up her face with LED-bright dazzle. There she stood, immaculate, arms open and welcoming, enveloping me in a powerful perfume plume of Elizabeth Taylor
White Diamonds
. Blast from the past.

Whoa
, I thought, transfixed–tourist moment at the foot of the Statue of Liberty.

Gucci woman shooed me towards the table, whirring me in the direction of the nearest seat. “This is Suzanne Holmes… Kate Moritz… and…” she pressed her hand to her chest to introduce herself last, sounding even more Nashville now, “…Cecilia Lee. Cece–you
know
, as in Winans? Peniston? You remember me–”

I nodded, none the wiser.

Meanwhile, the dark-haired one slid across the leatherette seat to make room. She was wearing a feather-trimmed fedora pulled down over her eyes. “And you are?” she asked me without making eye contact.

“Lorien.
Mrs
Lorien Warner,” Cecelia Lee answered for me, firmly.

Well, almost. I liked to be called Lori and hadn’t changed my maiden name from Walker to Warner when I married but I didn’t have the energy or inclination to correct her. Blondie was on a roll.

I nodded politely, trying to remember who and where the hell we’d met before.

“Scooch along,” insisted Cecelia. “Scooch, errbody–”

“Actually–” I looked at my watch.

“SCOOCH!”

Christ, I silently cursed, truly cornered. I skidded across the shiny seat, determined not to spill my expensive drink while everyone rearranged legs and bags until we were tucked around an old-fashioned red Formica table.

Meanwhile, this Cecelia picked up conversation from where she had left off, jazz hands while she talked, flashing a dramatic black onyx-stone ring–King Henry embellishment. “Trust me, Kate, I’m not a complete…gawd, moonflake. I
know
about trends and I am… or
was…
a successful restaurateur and now… now no one wants to eat in my restaurant; the restaurant, may I add, that has taken
considerable
time and effort to establish its great gastronomic reputation.”

“Yeah, we know,” snapped Kate, the woman in the hat.

“I serve cod sustainably sourced off the west coast of Scotland. Not… NOT…” she choked on the word, “PUFFERFISH.”

Finger food! At last, I placed her. I never forget a face but lately I was drawing blanks; full-on lobotomised moments that seemed to be forever lost to the dark side unless I had unexpected flashbacks like this.

There would be no polite chitchat to ease me into the group, which suited me down to the ground. I could drink my drink and leave. No questions asked.

Kate leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. “You’re telling us
no one
wants to eat with you?”

“People are talkin’.”

“Ignore them,” Suzanne said quietly, drilling a finger through big corkscrew-curl hair. “Since when did you care what people think?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what they
think
but I care what they
eat
. As does my accountant.” Cece looked at Kate. “He does, doesn’t he? I
bet
Broadbent has noticed.”

Kate brought me up to speed. “Cece is having a business…” she searched for the right word, “blip.”

Cecelia reddened in the face and her voice hitched up a level. “Blip? BLIP? People think I’m a Goddamn
murderer
. I’m convinced people have this notion that perhaps I’ll POISON them if they eat in my restaurant.”

Suzanne coughed politely but Cece steamed on regardless. “Hell,
maybe
they simply don’t want to be seen enjoyin’ themselves in the company of someone who has had so much misfortune. Who in God’s name knows?”

She raised a finger to emphasise one final point. “What I
do
know is this:
this
is so much more than a blip. No, wait, it’s a
curse
. Loose lips sink restaurants.”

Kate rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “So people are talking about your business. At least they’re talking about your business.” She reached for the menu. “It’s a universal downturn. Keep your head together and work hard. Isn’t that all you can do?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Kate, I
do
work hard. I don’t have a life because I work so hard. This is me: workaholic, widowed,
alone
.”

Suzanne raised a warning eyebrow and Cece looked at me. So did Kate.

Looking down at my chewed nails, I knew what had happened to me was common knowledge. I might not have the lowdown on them but these strangers were up to speed on me. And, at this moment, I felt as though I was ballasted to remain upright, negatively buoyant; sinking to the bottom even though I was full of air.

There was an awkward silence until Cece leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, “Suzanne and Kate will tell you otherwise but I’m so in the know. People think I killed my
husbands
–”

There it was: whoosh, the sibilance released its pent-up hiss and circulated snake-like over our heads. The others looked at Cece then back at me. I listened, horribly fascinated. There was no doubt whatsoever she meant more than one husband.