(2013) Four Widows (13 page)

Kate laughed her sharp laugh. “The anniversary of his death. Like I’m supposed to
mark
the occasion?”

“Are you okay?” I asked, feeling horribly inadequate even though I’d made a living out of questioning people.

She bit into her sandwich, watercress falling, and nodded, eyes fixed on the fountain not far from us. “I’m okay. Neil and I were such a good team; you know, while some people never seem to catch a break, we cruised it. Good jobs, beautiful house, the babies …” She paused but wasn’t finished. “We didn’t have much… I guess, misfortune. In some ways, like, I think we set ourselves up–it had been
too
perfect until…”

She stopped abruptly and concentrated on finishing her sandwich.

I remember feeling astonished when I found out that Kate had children: six-year-old girl and eight-year-old boy. I couldn’t imagine her bouncing babies on her knee or pushing swings. There was a rigidity to her–steel backbone to stop her falling down. Linear and cool, I reckon she could land a jet plane on one engine.

“Jack and Ella saved me,” she said, breaking the silence. “Children are such amazing creatures; so resilient and truthful–and trusting.”

Sandwich finished, she lay back on the grass and looked up at the sky, eyes masked behind oversized aviator sunglasses, I couldn’t see what was going on behind. Classic tinted-window cover up.

I chose my words carefully. “Do you want to talk about it? Not to me or Cece or Suzanne–a professional?”

She smiled, still staring at clouds. “Thanks but no thanks. Been on the shrink circuit; expensive waste of time. I’ll leave the talking to Cece. Therapy’s her bag.”

“How do the children handle the date?”

“Too young to remember; he was there in the morning when we left the house with a wave and then he was gone. Now you see him, now you don’t.”

“Ah–”

“They still ask when he’s coming home even though I tell them he’s gone for good. I’m not into marking the occasion; not like he was killed fighting for his country or saving people from a burning bus. He isn’t a hero.”

I floundered. “What are your plans for the weekend?”

“Jack and Ella are going to see my sister and her two children in Stirling–horse riding. Thank heavens for horses and sisters. Jill is my rock.”

I thought about Gee.

Kate sensed this. “Did you manage to persuade your sister to come to Edinburgh?”

“Nope.” I chewed the arm of my sunglasses, still fidgeting. “I really did think we would meet up more when I moved to Edinburgh. To be honest, she’s not comfortable dealing with me falling apart–not her thing. Fabulously stoic.”

“Give her time. She’ll come back on board.”

“Hopefully. Although, it’s not like we hung out together in London. I’m used to her not being around; you know, lengthy intensive training to be a doctor.”

“Remind me again?”

“The Royal Free and University College Medical School. Then residency. Consummate high achiever.”

“Even consummate high achievers need mint juleps now and then. Can’t you lure her to Edinburgh?”

I sighed. “I will attempt to lure.”

“I know that people are pretty good at hiding stuff. And mother’s instincts are usually pretty spot on,” said Kate.

“God, enough about me. Are you
sure
you’re okay?” I asked.

Kate nodded but refused to discuss He Who Shall Not Be Talked About. That conversation had died a death.

She flicked the subject with effortless determination, telling me that for the first time in four years, she felt the need to shop. For shoes.

She had spotted a purple pair of Brian Atwood’s in Harvey Nichols and did I think she should buy them?

Hell, yes.

Cece and Suzanne were gobsmacked that Kate had even mentioned Neil to me. I dropped into Ribbons later that afternoon and found them drinking strong breakfast tea at the bar. Fortified with something, I suspect.

“Holy mackerel! He Who Shall Not Be Talked About came up in conversation?” Cece fixed beady eyes on me.

“Yes, and then we bought shoes.” I hoped to skip to a lighter subject matter but it backfired spectacularly.

“Kate bought shoes?” Cece cranked up the volume. “SHE BOUGHT SHOES?”

I nodded meekly, realising I had added fuel to the fire. “Very lovely shoes.”

“Well, good for her,” said Suzanne. “She doesn’t talk about Neil. Ever. She doesn’t go shopping.
Ever
.”

“This is good, honey plums,” said Cece briskly. “This is
progress
.”

“We didn’t talk about him at length,” I explained hastily, detecting that Cece was set to launch a thorough investigation. I didn’t want Kate to think I had been talking about her behind her back.

I pulled a puzzled face. “In fact, we talked more about me than Kate. I’m not sure how that happened.”

Cece sighed. “Kate is a closed book. She will only reveal what she wants you to see.”

We did agree that Kate shouldn’t be alone this weekend, and Suzanne suggested we meet up for drinks.

“Lori should call her,” said Cece. “She’s confided in you.”

I suddenly had the fear. “I’m not sure.”

“Two or three cocktails. It will do
you
good, too. This McCarthy business–”

I took a leaf out of Kate’s book and changed the subject. “How’s business?”

“Boomin’.”

We looked around the empty restaurant.

“I’ve eaten my body weight in shortcake. Sponge cake can’t even raise my serotonin levels. Ain’t no shakin’ the curse over this place. This ain’t just
my
place to lose. Michael and Hugh are part of it–invested in it; believed that I could
do
it.”

She exhaled dramatically before continuing, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I invested their life insurance in the business, y’know. I wanted to have somethin’ concrete, somethin’ that would represent them permanently. It’s a celebration of
them
.”

I left Cece looking defeated and thought perhaps going out for drinks would benefit more than just Kate.

Suzanne was calling for more cake.

I phoned Kate while walking back to the office. She sounded bright but brittle about the edges. Not as open as she was at the park earlier.

I plunged straight in. “Do you want to go out for drinks while Ella and Jack are away?”

“I had planned to take work home this weekend.” It was a careful answer.

“Absolutely, of course.” I saw an escape route and seized it. “Another time.”

Then, damn, she seemed to have a change of heart before I rattled her off the phone. “Maybe it
is
a good idea.”

“You think?” I sounded sceptical.

“Let’s do it. Lori, I appreciate you making the effort.”

I hung up feeling unsettled, as though I’d suggested we hold a séance; me as the medium drumming up conversation with the dead but, as I soon discovered, there are no rules when you’re widowed because death reverberates long after the dead are buried. It can hunt you down, come back to haunt you, spring a surprise as we would all soon find out.

Before I finished work on Friday, I sent a text to the others suggesting a time and place tomorrow: rooftop garden at the Glasshouse Hotel for drinks.

From there we would go on to The Liquid Room because Jim promised to be there with musician friends and I wouldn’t feel guilty about abandoning the others when I slipped off home. The crowd would be boisterous and you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself think. Perfect.

Jim was chuffed when I asked him to meet up with us later but I was nervous and unsettled about going out.

He picked on up this. “You can leave whenever you like. The others will understand.”

“It’s just that…”

“You’d rather clock up more miles in your car?”

He knew about my late-night driving habit, even advised routes around and beyond the city. He suggested a loop: Gilmerton, Fairmilehead, Currie, Balerno, Ratho, Kirkliston, a whizz round the airport, Dalmeny, Leith, Portobello, Liberton and back to the start. Driving through districts, residential suburbs and a quick sprint on the M8.

I trusted the car more than I did myself. It had the essential components to keep me alive: steering wheel, acceleration and brakes.

What were the options, though? I couldn’t lie in my bed and blink into the darkness. There was something reassuring about the night lights: the castle glowing, the clock tower, city spires, Arthur’s Seat. Man-made buzz but also nighttime solitude.

“What’s this really about?” pressed Jim.

“I’m not sure it is right to go out.”

“Because?”

“Because I have a dead husband.”

“You might get arrested by the grief police for not doing enough time?”

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Will I ever do enough time? My husband has been dead for almost six months and I find it so hard to make myself go out for a drink. Dinner was a breakthrough.”

“You do what you have to do.”

“I know.”

“Everyone is different. I once knew a promiscuous widow.”

I looked at him. “Why doesn’t this surprise me?”

He held his hands up. “Not like that. I interviewed her.”

“And?”

“She told me she had this big chunk of her missing and wanted to fill it–make a physical connection, affection. Be with someone, anyone rather than be alone. Her husband had been dead just six months and she slept with 39 men.”

“This isn’t reassuring me–”

“I’m just saying that there are no rules. No official mourning period.”

“I know.”

“You could always come over to my place?” he replied, shameless flirt.

I put him in his place. “You’ve moved back in with your mother,
Jimmy
. Don’t think so.”

Chapter Twenty

Stoneleigh Cemetery, Morningside

It was the weekend. I considered going into the office but we’d put the magazine to bed last night–the place would be crawling with weekend editorial. I decided to give it a miss, reluctantly. Work was still the best cure for upheaval. This is what my sister should have done: work more not less.

The coffee machine in Ralph’s apartment was a Revlon-lipstick red. Polished and smarter than Einstein, I just had to wave a hand in its general direction and an espresso appeared. The kind an insomniac should run a mile from but I couldn’t give up the coffee or put down the wine.

Hugging a cup of this brute-strength stuff, I watched the sun rise over the houses—morning light unsullied and inspiring hope. Head full of Harrison.
What happened? What did he do?
When will I know?
Desperate for distraction, I decided it was time to interact with the world instead of sitting at a desk in Arctic air-conditioned conditions. It was time to put a stop to circling the suburbs burning fuel.

It had been 3,600 hours since Harrison died. During this time, spring had come from nowhere and blazed blossom through the streets but I converted colour to monochrome. Still, Edinburgh was planning its summer of fun–soon to be a place of camera-phone flashes and memories with theatre and entertainment at large.

I would go for a walk. This was another grand-dame charming side to Edinburgh: gateway to wide open spaces. Harrison and I had, on occasion, escaped to Aviemore and Cairngorm, where the sheer openness took my breath away. Living in London had compressed me, whereas on the hillside I returned to size.

I planned to head to the summit of Arthur’s seat, take the quietest walking route I could find and head to the top and look down on the castle–out over the rooftops while keeping the world at a safe distance.

I had never done this walk; never been out walking on my own other than the linear route from the apartment to the office and back home again, detouring via Ribbons three times a week. The time had come to break with routine.

To soften the blow, I decided to drive to the car park at Holyrood. I saw Kate’s car nip past as I sat at a junction, and I wondered what she was doing on this side of town.

On impulse, I followed, hoping to persuade her to walk with me: to the top of Arthur’s Seat and down, grab a coffee. This spontaneous suggestion had to go down better than drinks on the anniversary of her husband’s death. The soon-to-be soiree was a terrible idea.

The Saturday traffic was building, though, and I lost sight of her several times as the lights changed. She was changing lanes, too, in a rush. I flashed car lights but no reaction. She didn’t answer her phone either. I kept up the chase, hoping there would be an opportunity to pass her.

Before long, I realised she’d doubled back on herself and seemed to be heading in the direction of home as if some powerful magnetic force was pulling her back to where she started.

The upside of driving incessantly during the night means I have a computerised car park in my head; my own satellite navigation system going on with street names and directions burned onto my brain. Wherever Kate was headed, she was taking the erratic route; changing lanes and driving like she was possessed.

Yet, I don’t think I was surprised when we headed in the direction of Stoneleigh Cemetery in Morningside. I sensed something was not quite right. I slowed down, hanging back to give Kate some privacy but remain close enough to offer support when she had paid her respects to her husband. That’s what I thought.

I spotted her striding towards the cemetery grounds the minute I pulled into the car park. Stretch-corduroy riding pants hugged her long legs,

The iron gate clattered back into its catch behind her while the crunch of her shoes on the gravel, purposeful and quick, seemed too loud for the scene.

I got out of the car, noting there was no shortage of shade, thanks to the presence of dizzying high Douglas Firs. Kate was still in my line of vision and seemed to absorb the brightness of the morning sun, which gave her an ethereal presence; a diaphanous effect. She could be a ghost or an angel. It suggested fragility, and I could tell the anniversary of Neil’s death wasn’t as effortless to handle as she might lead us to believe. She dropped to her knees on the grass at her husband’s headstone, head bowed, chin on her chest.