(2013) Four Widows (20 page)

“This is a request from Mrs Ribbons herself,” Jim announced. When he started singing
Coming Around Again
, the crowd turned to Cece with an enormous applause and she curtsied, blowing a kiss to Jim.

Jim sat crouched over his guitar and sang beautifully, soprano, sensitive and heartfelt, so different from his loud folk-rock image. For some inexplicable reason another lump bobbed in my throat and I had to wash it down with wine.
What is going on with me
? No more tears.

Food flowed, drinks disappeared and refilled fast and the crowd revelled, high spirits united. Kate and Fraser Davies were inseparable all night and Suzanne and I hung out with them. The vibe was good and we all agreed that business had to pick up after this publicity. Towards the end of the night, Jim was in rocking form and Suzanne, Cece, Kate and I took to the floor. We danced or, to be more exact, we jumped. We grouped together, arms round each other, in a knotted circle and bounced up and down in time to the music. Not dancing, bouncing.

The noise level was consistently high and I was hoarse from talking at full volume. Jim eventually finished his set around midnight but the partygoers were in no mood to leave. He took 40 minutes to work his way across the room towards us, people stopping him to talk and offer drinks. He was grinning and taking his time, relaxed and handsomely ruffled. Young looking.

“I think Mrs Ribbons is pleased with you,” said Kate. Fraser Davies shook his hand.

“I
loved
the band,” raved Suzanne, snatching Champagne off a passing tray. “Here, Jim.”

I gave him a quick hug and steered him towards a table near one of the open windows.

“Take a moment to soak up the applause,” I said, as we pushed through bodies throwing off electromagnetic emissions; burning heat into the atmosphere.

That’s when he turned without a word and kissed me.

Jim kissed me. I kissed him–a passionate lifesaving kiss beyond the call of duty. I pulled back forcibly, stunned.

Words blistered on my tongue as I attempted to speak. Jim, meanwhile, held his hands up, surrender status, an unspoken apology and rightfully embarrassed. I glared at him, fists frozen and furious. We were stuck on pause while revellers continued drinking, oblivious to the heated scene. A quick glance confirmed that even Suzanne and Kate standing nearby hadn’t noticed.

“Lori…” He stepped towards me.

“Don’t,” I hissed. “Just don’t…”

“Listen, please…”

Now I understand how a red-mist reaction works: it’s a hot-ash surge from within and I could almost feel the blood spilling into the inside of my eyes. Suddenly, insanely furious, hyped-up anger took over me and short-circuited every rational thought in my head. I shoved him with incredible violent strength, watching him pitch backwards, pulling a laden tablecloth with him; a useless parachute as he sank towards the floor, astonished expression on his face. I wanted to drag him back on his feet and shake him senseless but couldn’t bring myself to look at him for a moment longer.

Pushing through the crowd, I was out the door in seconds.
What is it with me and smashing glass
? My signature sound when it comes to chaos.

Too much wine, I couldn’t take off and drive into the night. I had to make do with Ralph’s white sofa, looking out over the city. I waited for the tears to come but nothing happened. I stared into space.

Jim was a flirtatious force. He liked the ladies. There was no doubt we were close–an intense professional bond and we loved our work. We had so much in common and not just sleeping patterns. We knew how to nail the magazine business; what worked and what didn’t. He was intuitive to how I worked; designs, ideas, even favoured fonts. We complemented each other. But a kiss, believe you me, was not part of the contract.

I poured myself a large whisky and stared at the stars that had managed to outshine the moon amidst the light pollution. The sky was a deeper indigo, darker than I had seen in a while and there was a breeze not artificial but real. A cooler air front had blown through.

I was to blame. I had been wanting. Wanton once more. Another curse.

Thinking through the night, I concluded that this business with McCarthy had its consequences. I had become undone, transferring emotions onto Jim without realising and he reacted with a kiss.
It’s just a kiss
.

I expected too much from him: he was the one who picked up the pieces. Yes, Cece dropped enough hints, even Suzanne seemed sure she had decoded the chemistry but it wasn’t right. Jim and I were just good friends.

Thinking positive, we would erase the kiss. Delete it from the memory hard drive: it existed and then vanished. If we didn’t speak of it, it never happened and we could continue as we did before.

I could hear my father’s amused take on this:
“Good luck with that one, Lori, love.
”

And he would be right, of course. It’s never just a kiss.

I would have probably spent considerably more time agonising over this kiss and its consequences had life not thrown up yet another major distraction. The curse made a move in Suzanne’s direction without warning. Blindsiding us. Pow–

Chapter Thirty One

Good Luck & Bad

Suzanne invited us over. Post-party analysis. She sent a text to Kate, Cece and me the following morning suggesting we meet at her apartment. She also insisted that she would make lunch since Cece was always cooking for us. It was an optimistic gesture, which didn’t upset me as much as it did Kate and Cece, who loved their food. Suzanne’s culinary reputation preceded her.

I was inclined to cancel because I didn’t want to talk about Jim but then realised no one had witnessed the kiss. The glass-shattering tablecloth incident had been dismissed as high spirits and alcohol at the end of an entertaining night. I didn’t want to overload the situation in my head. Wisely, he hadn’t tried to contact me.

Cece breezed into Suzanne’s apartment looking designer-dressed in a favourite Gucci getup, refreshed and desperate to talk about Ribbons relaunch success. If she was tired, she didn’t show it.

“How much fun was last night?” she chirped, looking around the place with a heartfelt sigh. “Three hours each week and Moira would make this world a better place.” She glanced at the mannequins and tailor’s dummies and violently shuddered.

“Still won’t drop the cleaner,” shouted Kate to Suzanne who was in the kitchen. “Don’t come out.”

Suzanne grinned, walking into the room with wine and a punch bowl of Cheetos. “This is our own private toast to such a successful night. Cece, you won’t be loaning out beer barrels
ever
again.”

“Sure hope not. Gotta keep up momentum.” First flicker of anxiousness.

“You will,” I said confidently. “You’re back on the map, sister.”

“People needed to see that you are back in business. The relaunch was a good idea.” Praise from Kate was praise indeed.

“I guess the mourning period is over.”

“Officially,” cautioned Kate in her strictly sensible voice. “Don’t set unrealistic goals.”

Cece nodded. Her voice wobbled. “I wish Hugh and Michael could’ve been there last night. I wanted
both
of them to be there. Weird as that would have been.”

“It would have been seriously weird, yeah.” Kate handed her a glass of wine.

Cece turned to me. “Jim was the star of the show.”

I mustered a reheated smile and turned to Kate, which set off a domino effect of heads turning. “I like Fraser Davies. He is head over heels about you.”

Kate beamed. “He is a good man. The best cure for loneliness, believe me, especially when my kids are busier than ever with clubs and schedules. There is just me.”

Cece feigned indignation. “And us.”

Kate blew her a kiss. “You know what I mean.”

We sat as close to Suzanne’s large upright fan as possible while Cece attempted to waft air in through the window. “The thing is, Kate,” she said, “there are hundreds of lonely wives out there and their husbands come home every night.”

“And your point is, caller?”

“There has to be a connection; cupid chemical reaction. Not just about ticking boxes–settling for someone otherwise you end up home alone. Back where you started.”

“Don’t you like Fraser Davies?” I asked.

“I do. I do.” She turned to Kate. “Do you have a
connection
with Fraser Davies?”

“I think so. What’s more, I reckon you would love
Are You Lonesome Tonight
?”

Cece looked truly horrified. “Do I
look
like a mail-order bride?”

Kate snorted. “Out with it.”

Cece didn’t need to be asked twice. “This internet thing is one big
faux
mance. Profile photos are never in real time–hair today, gone tomorrow. Online lies. It’s all
lies
.”

“Fraser didn’t post an old photograph. I didn’t. We’re clearly not that imaginative.”

“I’m just
saying
,” said Cece. “I love it when love smashes into you–blindsides you. The Burton-Taylor wallop.”

Suzanne piped up. “People fall in love on average six times in a lifetime. But we only ever have one true love.”

“Two true loves,” countered Cece.

Kate did a magnificent eye roll. “We have good luck and we have bad luck.
That
is what we have.”

Cece briskly turned her attention to me. “Jim is quite a catch. Do the girls in the office
adore
him?”

“He’s a ladies’ man,” I answered dryly.

“Au contraire, I think he is very much a one-woman man.” She raised a finely threaded brow and feigned an innocent look. Game over, I thought. She had seen the kiss.

I sighed. “Jim kissed me last night.”

“Then she threw him over a table,” added Cece with sly mischief. “Sucker punch. Oh! Jackie Chan.”

“Ouch,” said Kate, while Suzanne’s mouth formed O-shaped shock.

“She exaggerates.” I blushed.

“What did he say when you shoved him?” asked Kate, intrigued.

“I have absolutely no idea. I went home.
Alone
.”

Seconds passed like years. Then Suzanne spoke. “I thought you disappeared super quick. Daisy saw you leave.”

“It was awkward, okay? I’m his boss. He crossed the line.”

“There are rules?”

“He’s head over heels,” declared Cece.

“He has no business kissing her while she is trying to find out who
murdered
her husband,” added Kate.

“Sorry, Lori,” whispered Cece, chastened.

“Ribbons is reborn,” said Suzanne, tactfully turning our attention back to Cece.

She beamed. “I’ve had a
rush
of bookings for this weekend.” She was bubbling with excitement; no, more than that, she was glowing.

Kate paused from punching messages into her BlackBerry and looked up suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothin’,” Cece replied too quickly and we turned to her, Jim momentarily forgotten.

Kate persisted. “You’re hiding something.”

Cece remained seated, looking prim with ankles crossed, attempting to deflect Kate’s questioning. “I can’t wait to see the photographs from last night. We’re going to blow up black and white prints for the wall, aren’t we?” She looked at Suzanne.

Then the doorbell dinged and I exhaled, relieved. So did Cece for that matter.

“Saved by the bell,” said Kate. “This conversation continues over lunch.”

“That better not be pizza,” grumbled Cece. “Stuffed crusts.” She pretended to wretch.

“No. I thought we’d pop out for KFC,” replied Suzanne with her signature cherubic smile, as she went to answer the door. “Zinger burger meal.”

Cece hollered after her. “Foxes eat from boxes, Suzanne Holmes–my mother used to tell us. You wanna remember this when making important nutritional food choices. YOU ARE NOT A FOX!”

“Pizza. Now that’s not a bad idea,” said Kate.

“The hell I am eating pizza. I’m also
not
cooking lunch.” She grabbed the collar of her shirt. “
This
is silk Escada.”

Suddenly, we heard a small choking moan outside the room. It somehow sounded worse than a scream. Animal-caught-in-a-trap pain. Our conversation stopped dead.

Kate was first on her feet, phone ditched, taking off at a run. Cece and I followed, careening round mannequins in hot pursuit. I knew something terrible had happened because the atmosphere had changed and, despite the oppressive heat in the apartment, there was an ominous chill in the corridor exacerbated instantly when Suzanne released the compression in her lungs: lumbar-puncture long scream.

I remember racing down the corridor and the image that remains ingrained on my brain to this day is Suzanne standing with her back to us next to Grace Kelly and Prince Albert of Monaco, posing for formal photographs on their wedding day.

“Suzanne,” gasped Kate. “What is it?”

We bundled up behind her none the wiser until Suzanne took a step back and Cece wrenched the door wide, bodybuilding strength. The full truth revealed, Suzanne reached out to hold the door frame as if she and the apartment were in danger of imminent collapse.

“No shit,” said Cece.

Kate stared, speechless.

At this point, shockwaves threatened foundations and reverberated for a 12-mile radius–Edinburgh, I thought, would surely pick it up this one on the Richter scale; such is the magnitude of seismic energy released when one comes face to face with a dead husband.

This is not a lie. Suzanne’s husband, Ted Holmes, stood there; back from the dead looking remarkably unscathed from his time on the other side. Not skeletal or vitamin-D deprived. Much like the black and white photograph framed on the wall, except here he was in high-definition colour: breathing, nervous smile, wearing a faded Fred Perry blue sweatshirt and jeans.

Kate recovered first and steered Suzanne, who had turned rigor-mortis stiff, back to the living room where she took up position, immovable, alongside the fashion mannequins. She hadn’t uttered a word and I was seriously concerned that she might have suffered a stroke from the shock; some kind of disturbance in the blood.