(2013) Four Widows (16 page)

Gee missed her flight, which meant she missed the funeral. No surprise there. To be honest, though, I expected some excuse, such as a risk of deep-veined thrombosis from air travel. But the reality was, she couldn’t put the time in, although she did show up for the memorial service in Edinburgh. In her profession, she was used to broken people who couldn’t be put back together again. Well, Hell’s bells, I wasn’t.

Harrison’s mother and father, although insanely distraught, took care of business. Like a good doctor, Harrison had a meticulous plan. He was cremated and his parents shook him out on the wind and into the world, meaning he was everywhere and nowhere. There was no anchor for me. My mother meanwhile questioned whether it was a good idea to return to Edinburgh when I could stay with her until I recovered. I never did say,
like when? In 10 years’ time? Another lifetime?

I wanted to get back to work. I medicated pain with alcohol to help me bulldoze through this acute personal crisis while the weight fell off until I was a size zero of designer-dressed corners: heartbreak diet at its worse.

Once the initial emotional shrapnel settled, I ran for cover in the office in Edinburgh despite being weighed down with an exhaustion I never knew could exist. Jim didn’t talk to anyone or let on that he accompanied me to the hospital. We had a silent, unspoken pack never to relive the many horrors of that day.

What would I do without Jim? He helped me at work, rescued me in chaos. While some people take 10 to 15 years to truly form the bond of friendship, we were there in six seconds: the time it took to make one short phone call:
there has been an accident
.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone after the funeral, which was just as well because, after the initial flood of phone calls, no one wanted to talk to me. Friends whom I’d known for years did a disappearing act and left me to suffer in silence, although I can’t say I blame them. Who in their right mind would want to spend too long in someone else’s excruciatingly personal painful moments?

Even Harrison’s colleagues, men and women trained to switch off life support machines and diagnose diseases on cells past repair, couldn’t talk about his death.

It became clear within a matter of weeks I was on my own. No one fought hard enough to remain a friend. Not even a BlackBerry bulging with hundreds of contacts could save me. Wasn’t much for over 2,000 Facebook friends to Like either. But when I walked into the Art Bar and found Cece, Suzanne and Kate sitting at the table I sensed a sliver of hope. I might get through this.

Chapter Twenty Four

Are You Lonesome Tonight?

We don’t just talk about death. Or who murdered my husband. Food, Cece is
obsessed
with food. Port and orange reduction, she tinkered with this recipe for about a week–spooning the stuff into us until we were convinced it was running through our veins.

Questions and more tasting: did we think her homemade ravioli should be stuffed with rabbit or aubergine; should she hold macaroon-making classes to boost profits; coffee-infused ganache or salted caramel in chocolate cake? We also got much mileage out of the freak heat and whether Cece should stick to contact lenses over eye-corrective surgery. Kate steered us onto politics whenever possible, including the latest bicycle fundraising for the denizens of Rwanda, while Suzanne and I took it back to basics with our desert-island dilemmas: Clairns Flash Balm or Touche Eclat. Rodarte or The Row.

It took, oh, about two weeks when Kate surprised us by moving on from the graveside shooting incident lighter and brighter, incredible I know. We’d been left shaken, but she seemed transformed. “Seems somehow
sparklier
,” whispered Suzanne. Just when you think someone is set to go to pieces, the opposite happens.
Cathartic
, Kate called it. What’s more, we saw glimpses of a wicked sense of humour, teasing and keeping Cece in check.

Cece, said Kate, loved being in the spotlight because she had been jaundiced at birth and spent the first nine days of her life in a glass box under strong lights. She didn’t pursue a career on stage but in the kitchen, which was theatrical in itself if you believed some of the stories she told us. She had met her calling.

It’s true, Cece loved attention and needed an entourage to keep her buoyant. If she wasn’t at the restaurant with the staff, she was with us; never home alone. When it came to mastering the art of putting on a brave face and a big laugh, Cece wrote the handbook. She was also great at keeping us together. After the Graveside Shooting, she rounded us up regularly to meet and eat cake. No one was going off the rail again on her watch.

Cece liked to say, “There’s nothing like a widow to make a woman hang onto her husband in a room.” She repeated it more than once whenever she felt
sharked by the sisterhood
. Her words, not mine. She had first-hand experience, apparently, whenever she worked the room in Ribbons to check diners were satisfied with food and service. Ladies didn’t like her circling their tables like an orbiting sun.

Cece sighed. “You can see painted nails scratch across the white linen with spider-like speed to claim the arm of their man. Then I get the look; the back-off-bitch look.”

Suzanne looked alarmed. “You think?”

“I
know
.”

Kate snorted and shook her head. “And the Oscar goes to…”

Cece was quick to chastise her. We were sitting in Ribbons on a Saturday morning having iced coffees and cake while Kate’s kids were on play dates. I had put Harrison on hold and welcomed the distraction.

“Kate, women think we are
dangerous
, while men think we need to be rescued. Widows are considered vulnerable and in need of too much attention, which doesn’t go down well with our sisters or singletons who are still lookin’ for love
first
time round.” She stirred her coffee vigorously. “We had our chance and blew it.”

“You’ve given this too much thought.”

“It is a
fact
.”

“I’m not looking for love,” said Suzanne, smoothing down a fold on her dress very definitely. “Count me out.”

I felt my stomach muscles spasm as I thought about my brief encounter with McCarthy, sincerely glad now that I hadn’t confessed to the girls.

Kate helped herself to more cake, cutting it into precise squares. “Actually, I’ve met someone. We should all get together so I can introduce him.”

There it was. Capital-M Major news dropped into conversation.

Our heads swivelled in her direction. “Someone?” Cece said.

She placed enormous emphasis on
someone
as though Kate had said something nonsensical, such as “unicorn ate my pony.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered. “His name is Fraser Davies.”

She avoided eye contact.

We were instantly on high alert.

Cece look confused. “Fraser who? Do we know him?”

“No. That’s why I want you to meet him,” Kate explained with exaggerated patience between small mouthfuls of cake.

It was an understatement to say we were thrown. It seemed so recent, so raw since she fired bullets into her dead husband at a Morningside cemetery.

“Gosh,” was all that came out of Suzanne’s mouth.

“Broadbent is bringing
another
partner?” Cece said this quite deliberately as though this could be the only possible explanation.

“No, he’s not work related.”

I was intrigued. We all were. “Tell us more,” I encouraged.

“I’ve known him for a couple of months.” She kept her tone carelessly casual while our mouths fell open, unpretty.

She rolled out another surprise too. Not only had Kate met someone, she had met him online, through a dating agency called
Are You Lonesome Tonight
?

Cece squawked, sounding not dissimilar to a plane’s radio sending out a transponder code denoting a highjacking. “Are you… you…
what
tonight?”

“
Are You Lonesome Tonight
? It is a website for widows and widowers.”

“You
met
someone on a website for widows and widowers?” Cece put down her plate of cake and looked round the table at all of us. “Tell me this is a joke?”

Kate’s face was the picture of innocence. “No joke.”

Suzanne and I were fascinated while Cece was struggling for oxygen and quick to point out why. “Love isn’t about ticking boxes, Kate. Love is
spontaneous
. It blindsides you when you least expect it.”

“Not when you’re a thirtysomething widow with children and school drop-offs and pick-ups. Not to mention breakfast clubs, dance classes, play dates, football and never-ending supermarket trips. Dating needs a schedule.” She delivered this without drawing breath.

Cece pounced. “
Schedules
lower standards.”

“I
have
standards. Someone with a pulse.”

Cece tutted, unimpressed. “You never told me you were dating again. I have a bad feeling about this one. This is… this is a
reaction
.”

Kate laughed. “To what?”

“You know what. He Who Must Not Be Talked About.”

“I’m sure Fraser Davies is
delightful
,” said Suzanne, ever diplomatic.

“He is,” said Kate with enthusiasm. “I’m surprised I like him so much.”

Cece was like a dog with a bone. “Back home, we have an expression for this. It’s called
dating down
.”

Suzanne was quick to scold her. “Cece, you haven’t met the man.”

“She downloaded him off the internet.”

“No money exchanged hands,” reassured Kate.

“Then let’s meet him. Bring him to Ribbons.”

Kate sighed. “Like I said, I’d like to introduce you.”

“Uh huh–can’t wait.”

“Be kind,” warned Kate. “I ticked 47 boxes to nail him. And he knows my dirty secret–”

We waited for disclosure.

“–size 10 feet.”

Cece refused to see the funny side and couldn’t resist making one final point. “I think you need to get over Neil before you move on.”

“I am over him.”

“Holy cow, you
shot
him with a proper handgun. You
never
talk about it.”

“I
am
over him.”

Cece opened her mouth and shut it again. We had to laugh. She had an old-fashioned streak that was hard to shake and would rather
die
than do internet dating. Not to be thwarted in love, Cecelia Lee was waiting for another handsome knight to canter up Princes Street on his 18-hands white horse. Sweep her off her feet.

“Online dating. Do people actually
do
that?” she muttered, speech restored.

“One in every four clicks is porn-related,” said Suzanne. “This is absolutely true.”

We turned to her, astonished. She was grinning like a cheerleader.

“Suzi, I’m
liking
this new side to you,” said Kate approvingly. “Naughty but nice.”

We all laughed again except Cece.

“Ribbons it is,” said Kate, smiling. I think it was a weight off her mind telling us about Fraser, although for some reason, from that moment on, we would continue to refer to him as Fraser Davies, which made him sound like a solid noun. A Fraser Davies; cure for a broken heart.

We are all so different. Cece took personal blows like a professional boxer: back on her feet when she should have taken time out. Suzanne threw herself into fashion, churning out more designs than Valentino in his prime. Kate, meanwhile, built an impenetrable bunker around herself, always fearful of attack, whereas I lingered without making progress, thought too much, drank too much and followed my heart not my head.

We did have one thing in common: we got on with it, always mindful, though, that there is a fine line between here and the abyss. The others had moved up to higher ground whereas I still circled close to chaos, much aware how near I was to the edge.

Cece was always quick to pick up on to this, whenever I faltered. “It does get better.”

“I know.”

“It took until a chocolate martini to believe this.”

“Uh oh. Here she blows…” cried Kate, seizing the moment to swap talk from Fraser Davies.

Suzanne winked at me.

Cece shushed them. “Nothing tasted right: too salty, too bland, too
wrong
. Think about it, this is the worst thing that can happen to a chef. This went on for months and
months
.”

Kate piped up. “Cece cries. Food turns to tears.” Her voice dropped to a whisper: “Like water for chocolate–”

“Think what you like but I
know
.”

I nodded.

“Then,” continued Cece, warming to her theme. “I’m making chocolate martinis–Stoli vanilla vodka, Godiva chocolate liqueur, splash of brandy and chocolate syrup to drizzle-–and, whoosh.” She clicked her fingers with a flourish. “It tasted
wonderful
. I’m brought back to life with a chocolately burst. Suzanne, you were there.”

Suzanne nodded enthusiastically.

Kate took it from here. “From then on she knew she was going to be okay.”

Suzanne’s hand covered mine. “Cece’s right. It takes time to move on. You can’t force it or rush it. You just need to wait for the moment.”

Ah, and what a moment that turned out to be.

Chapter Twenty Five

Eye for an Eye

Time continued or crawled to be more accurate. I received more anonymous envelopes with photographs scratched and defaced. Words soaked into the matt-finish photos, blurring colours with hate:
abide by the truth;
it is your time to die
;
the law will seek and prosecute
;
you are guilty because of the blood you have shed…

Reams of the stuff. I couldn’t read these words and not have a reaction, albeit a delayed reaction. It usually hit me lying awake in the dark: this person will find me and kill me.

There was no missing the frustration at this one-way attack; shooting into the dark and not knowing how much damage had been done. No missing the hopelessness of this situation either–the letter writer oblivious to Harrison’s fate. Harrison dead: an eye for an eye.