Something to Hide (12 page)

Only a week to go.
I think I'm going down with flu,
he writes.
Just my luck
. Is he a hypochondriac? I have no idea. He doesn't look like one but you never can tell.

Next day he writes,
High temperature, pounding headache. B's wearing her nursing hat but her ministrations, needless to say, make it even more painful. Have told her nothing yet, of course. Just hope I'll be fit to fly on the 20th. Love you to bits.

Poor Jeremy. Just his luck – our luck. There's still six days to go, however, and the worst will no doubt be over by then. In the afternoon I go to the hairdresser's and get my highlights done.
You look like an Irishwoman lost on the Tube
. Ilona, my hairdresser, is Polish and wouldn't understand what he meant. I don't know if I do, really. I just ask her to give me streaks for a tousled, Irish effect.

I dream of giraffes walking across a plain, tall and beautiful and indeed oblivious. I'm standing there, naked except for a pair of silver knickers. Fishes have flown up to roost in the trees. They flap about for a while and then stop, either because they're asleep or dead.

The next night I'm eating supper in front of the TV. The news is on; a convoy of peacekeepers has been blown up in Afghanistan. Heartlessly I think: only three more TV dinners to go. As I'm watching the burnt-out vehicles the phone rings.

At first I don't recognize the voice, the line is so faint.

‘Petra!
Petra!
'

‘Who is it?'

‘It's Beverley!'

My heart stops. ‘Bev,' I say at last. ‘How are you?'

She's crying. For a moment I can't make out what she's saying.

‘Bev, what is it?'

‘It's … Jeremy.' She's sobbing so hard I can't hear what she says next. Or maybe it's the sound of my heart hammering.

‘Bev, I can't hear!'

‘Something terrible's happened.'

My throat's closed up; I can't speak. What has he told her? She's obviously horribly upset, but has he told her the whole story? Surely, if that was the case, she wouldn't be ringing me up like this. Because she'd be furious, not distraught.

She says: ‘He's dead.'

That's what it sounds like. Maybe I've misheard. She's meaning
he's dead to me.

‘What did you say?!' I shout down the phone.

‘Jeremy's dead. He died last night.'

MY HEAD'S SWIMMING.
I've drunk two vodka and tonics and there's a couple of bottles of red lined up on my tray. The stewardess gives me a complicit smile as she passes me my dinner,
chicken or fish?
She's nearly my age; she's circled the globe a thousand times and has seen everything, certainly inebriation. The child in the seat behind me has been pummelling my kidneys for the past hour but I'm beyond caring. So, it seems, are its parents.

It's four hours to Casablanca then a three-hour wait for the flight to Assenonga. I've taken some Valium but I'm not sure I'll be able to get through this. I'm jammed between two bulky passengers and I'm starting to panic. I want to tear off my seatbelt and howl with grief. I want to batter my way out of this airless capsule crammed with strangers, who are so obstinately and thoughtlessly alive. I want to be alone, falling through space … how peaceful and silent … Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to concentrate on this.

But flailing about in nothingness is just as terrifying as being stuck here. All I want is to be back home, with my familiar things around me. I want to burrow into my bed and pull the duvet over my head and never, ever come out.

Actually I want to die.

But I can't do that because I have to fly to Africa and comfort Beverley.

Please please PLEASE come, Pet! I can't get through this on my own, I'm cracking up. I haven't got any REAL friends here, not someone like you. I can't bear to be alone, I'm completely paralyzed, I can't stop shaking and crying, I guess I'm in shock, PLEASE jump on a plane, I'll pay you back the fare, just get over here ASAP! You loved him too, and he loved you, that's so important to me right now. I need you, sweetheart. I don't know what I'll do, otherwise. I just want to DIE!

I've stepped out of my life and arrived on another planet. Exhausted and hungover, I trundle my luggage through the baggage hall. It's noisy and airless; men stand around clutching rifles. I'm surrounded by black faces. I feel like a refugee; this time, however, it's me who's in the minority. Vast women heave vast suitcases off the carousel; kids sit on piles of belongings. Where are they going, what are they doing? What language are they speaking? I haven't a clue. I've never felt so lonely in my life.

Just for a moment, Jeremy has dwindled to a name. I've got to keep him battened down, locked away, I can't even think about him because I need all my energy to cope with this reality, now, but my brain's scrambled and my throat's burning and my body feels that it's been torn apart and reassembled all wrong, my guts dissolving, and I can't recognize anything familiar.

But at last there's Beverley. She's standing in the arrivals hall, dwarfed by two huge taxi-drivers holding up name cards. She waves at me and pushes through the crowd.

And now we're hugging. She's so tiny. So
tiny
. She grips me in a vice, her face jammed against my collarbone. Her body shakes with sobs and now I'm crying too, shuddering in the crowd of people jostling to greet their nearest and dearest. I'm crying for my loss and she's crying for her loss while the tannoy announces flight departures, the booming voice echoing around us.

Beverley wipes her eyes and grabs my suitcase. I haven't seen her for years and she's changed. She's wearing a T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops; her face is bare of make-up. Grief has washed away the artifice and left her naked; in a weird way it suits her. I know it's in poor taste to think this, but that's the least of my treachery. I'm feeling sick with nerves. How am I going to get through the next few days?

She doesn't know about me and Jeremy, of course. I realized this the moment she phoned me; I wouldn't be here if she did. I'm simply here as her oldest friend, who's come to support her through this terrible time. How I'm going to cope with comforting her, I have no idea.

When I so need her to comfort me.

I mustn't think about this. My own grief rears up like a black wave, ready to crash down and shatter me to pieces. I'm holding it back by sheer will power, and I'll have to hold this for as long as I'm here.

We step out of the building and the heat hits me. Though it's already dusk, the air's as stifling as cotton wool. Bev hails a cab. We're going to stay the night in a hotel here in Assenonga as there are no local flights until the morning. I haven't truly grasped the fact that Jeremy has died; since the phone call it's been a fluster of packing and arrangements. At least I'll have eight hours to myself, to collect my thoughts.

‘We're sharing a room,' says Bev. ‘That OK with you?' She slips her hand into mine. ‘I can't bear to be alone, not just now.'

‘Of course.' I give her hand a squeeze.

The taxi drives over a flyover and along a slip road. Arc lights illuminate a parking lot which glimmers with rental cars. Beyond lies the runway, and waiting planes, and a red-streaked sky. We could be in any capital city in the world; I've only once been to Africa and I'm too disorientated to connect this place to anywhere.

‘We thought it was the flu,' says Bev. ‘The same symptoms.'

In fact, nobody knows exactly what caused his death. Bev, from her nursing experience, presumes it's some tropical virus or parasite.

‘His body's in the hospital here in Assenonga,' she says.

His body.

‘They're doing various tests,' she says. ‘I had to arrange it all myself, with the British Consul. Zonac have been totally unsupportive. I suppose it's not surprising in the circumstances, but you'd think they'd have a wee drop of humanity. After all, he did work for them for fifteen years.' Her fingers knead mine as she looks out of the window. ‘I hate to leave him here, it doesn't feel right. I keep thinking he'll be lonely in this big city all by himself. But we'll have to go home tomorrow.'

Their home is in the small town of Oreya, an hour's flight from Assenonga. Bev's right; leaving Jeremy here fights against every instinct in one's body. He'll be so cold. I picture his large feet, a label around the ankle, as the trolley sits in the morgue; I picture the humped sheet, its laughter silenced for ever.

‘Stop the taxi!'

The cab slews to a halt and I half-fall out, vomiting as I go. I sit slumped against a concrete barrier as the traffic swerves around us. Horns blare. Now Bev is squatting beside me. She holds back my hair as I retch, and gives me a glug of water from a plastic bottle.

‘Maybe it's something you ate on the plane,' she says when we're back in the taxi. ‘Gawd, I hope you don't get ill.' No doubt she's thinking,
that's all I need
. But she tenderly wipes my mouth with a Kleenex. ‘You poor sausage.'

For a while we don't speak. I sit there, rigid. If I move an inch I'll disintegrate. The taxi smells of Toilet Duck; dangling mascots bounce around the driver's head. I don't look out of the window; this alien country terrifies me.

But I must comfort Beverley. That's why I'm here. And she must suspect nothing.

She's taking deep breaths beside me. ‘We do this on my mindfulness course,' she says. ‘It helps process the trauma. You're bringing up the emotion through the airwaves, it's really helpful.'

I start breathing heavily too. We hiss and groan in unison; in his rear-view mirror, the driver's eyes flicker to mine. We sound as if we're having sex.

You've got one of the six most beautiful backs in Britain.

The taxi stops at the hotel but I can't get out. The lobby lights are glaringly bright. I feel too frail to face the receptionist.

‘You OK, sweetie?' Bev asks.

I nod. ‘Are
you
OK?'

At least it's twin beds. Beverley flings herself onto one of them.

‘I still can't believe it's happened,' she says. ‘I keep thinking he'll come through the door and say
just kidding
.' She laughs mirthlessly. ‘Some joke.'

‘He was always good at jokes.'

‘He wasn't himself recently, you know. He was kind of hyper. It must've been whatever-it-was, in his bloodstream.' She turns over and buries her face in the pillow. ‘I wish I'd taken him to the doctor. He kept saying it was nothing, only flu.'

‘It's not your fault, darling.'

‘He was very sweet, though. Extra loving with me, as if he knew that time was running out.'

I look at her bare feet, as tiny as a child's. She's kicked off her flip-flops. They're decorated with plastic sunflowers. Abandoned on the floor, they look pitifully festive.

I sit down on the other bed. ‘Oh Bev, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through.'

‘So loving.' Her voice is muffled in the pillow. ‘I mean, the sex had become very intense. Like in the old days but sort of more urgent. And he did things to me he'd never done …' She rolls over and looks at me. ‘Clarence came in once when we were on the living-room floor, fucking each other's brains out.' She starts giggling and claps her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this but you're my oldest friend …'

‘That's all right.' I crack a smile. ‘We've all been there.'

Later we go down to the restaurant. Neither of us is hungry but we need a drink. We seem to be in a place called the Excelsior Airport Hotel. I haven't really taken in our surroundings but now I look around. We could be in any hotel, anywhere in the world. Outside the window a pool shimmers, surrounded by a high wall. It's brightly lit but there's nobody there. The recliners are stacked in a row, surrounded by pot plants. In the restaurant itself, a flat-screen TV shows a couple sitting on leather settees shouting at each other in a foreign language.

‘That's a Nigerian soap,' says Beverley. ‘Everybody watches them here.' Their voices rise to a crescendo; the woman gets up and throws a lamp at the man.

There's nobody in the restaurant except a bartender who's watching the TV. An air of somnolence hangs over the place. I keep thinking of Jeremy, lying alone, just a few miles away. It's hard to catch up with myself. Only two days ago I was buying new bed-sheets at John Lewis.

I wish I could see him, to say goodbye.

I wish Beverley hadn't said that, about the sex.

I wish I could turn back the clock two days. I'd just bought a Sky TV package, so Jeremy and I could watch movies. It's still in its box; he was going to assemble it for me.

I realize that Bev is looking at me, her eyebrows raised. I feel myself blushing.

‘Vodka and tonic?' she asks. ‘You used to drink that, didn't you?'

We lie side by side in the cream and purple bedroom, gazing at the ceiling. Traffic hums on the road outside; light filters through the curtains. We're like stone effigies in a church – faithful Elizabethan wives, our hands folded in prayer. Somewhere in this unknown city Jeremy lies in the same position, stone-cold.

‘I rang his mother but I don't think she took it in,' says Beverley. ‘She's pretty demented by now.'

‘Is she?'

‘He said that the last time he went, she kept making inappropriate sexual remarks. It's common amongst dementia patients.'

So he didn't tell her that I went with him. I have no idea what he edited out, and will have to watch my words.

‘She never liked me,' says Bev; ‘she was such a fucking snob. So a nurse wasn't good enough for her darling son? Well, guess who's wiping her bottom now?'

What's weird is that I like Bev more than I expected. It's a terrible thought, but grief seems to have improved her; the girliness is gone, she's more honest and raw and grown-up.

It might not just be sorrow. It might be the result of getting older, or living in Africa. I have no idea; I've seen so little of her over the years. All I know is that I've changed my mind: I'm actually glad that she's sharing this room; I think I would go mad, otherwise, on my own.

The room is oppressively humid. Neither of us can work out the air conditioning; apparently Jeremy always took care of that. Bev kicks back the sheet and lies there, curled up in her nightie. It's a long polka-dotted T-shirt. Jeremy must have been intimate with it; I have a horrible vision of him pushing it up. Or maybe, when they were together, they slept naked. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this image to vanish.

‘Night-night, sweet pea,' she says. ‘I'm so glad you're here.'

‘Night-night.'

‘Hope you don't snore. Jeremy did, like a warthog.'

‘I know.'

The bed creaks as she turns to look at me. ‘How do you know?'

‘What?'

‘That he snores?'

‘Oh, I read it on your blog,' I say, airily. ‘Ages ago. You wrote about how noisy the African nights are, what with the dogs, and the cicadas, and Jeremy's snores.'

‘Did I?' she says vaguely. ‘I can't remember.'

She says night-night again and turns away, hunched into the foetal position, her nightie pulled over her knees. She's so tiny that I have an absurd desire to protect her.

He comes to me in my dreams, as I knew he would. He's in the garden where I grew up, hiding behind a bush. My mother's calling me into the house but I'm too busy looking for Jeremy, who's whispering,
Just kidding
. When I find him he's wearing the Hawaiian shirt, the one he wore that first day, but it's smeared with mud.
I'm building a castle
, he says,
but it keeps collapsing. Get your dad to sort this place out, will you?
He's not kidding now, he looks testy and exhausted.

I wake, drenched with sweat. For a moment I have no idea where I am. Somebody's snoring.

It's Bev. Sunlight glows through the curtains; it's already hot. Her face is turned away from me and she's pulled the sheet up to her chin. Her snores are deep and hoarse, like a man's.