What to Do When Someone Dies (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Against my better judgement, I had promised to be at the latest Party Animals happening because Beth was away for the long weekend she’d been planning. A very long weekend that was actually one day short of a week. ‘Just to give you a better feel for what we do,’ Frances had said, the afternoon before. ‘You don’t need to do anything, really. Just be in the background and keep an eye on things.’ She had examined me dubiously. ‘It’s that women-in-commerce thing you costed,’ she said. ‘You know, dozens of high-powered women networking and complaining about men. So if you could…’ She faltered.

‘Wear a suit?’

‘Yes. Something like that. Thanks, Gwen.’

I didn’t own a suit, or even anything that could be put together to look like a version of one. I hauled myself out of bed and showered under tepid water because the boiler operated in a mysterious and sporadic way and I didn’t have the money to get it adjusted – I didn’t have the money, as it happened, even for food, but I couldn’t think about my bank balance now. It would have to wait, just as everything else would have to wait: friends, a job, real life.

Sure enough, there was nothing in the cupboard that Frances might possibly approve of. The only suit there was Greg’s green-grey one that he had worn when we married and that, even in my rage-filled binge, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to burn. I took it out and examined it. It was lovely, simple and lightweight. I’d helped him choose it and it was the most expensive item of clothing either of us had ever bought. I held it against myself: it was a bit long but I could roll up the legs and put a belt round the waist. When I tried it on, I was startled by how different I looked, how jauntily androgynous. I put on a white shirt and tied an old bootlace round my neck in imitation of a tie. A trilby would have completed the effect, but I didn’t own one, so I put on a corduroy newspaper-boy’s cap that we’d found in Brick Lane one spring morning, tucking my hair underneath it, and putting studs in my ears. Now I didn’t look like Ellie or Gwen, but someone entirely new.

I had time before I needed to leave for the City, so I made myself instant coffee and had the last fragments of the now-soft cornflakes that Greg used to eat sometimes. The light was flashing on my answering-machine but I decided not to listen to the messages. I already knew that half of them would be from Gwen and Mary and they would say, ‘Where are you?’ and ‘Ring me back as soon as you can,’ and ‘What’s going on?’ Then, like a crack addict, I went back to the computer and looked at the email I’d received last night. I didn’t need to, of course. There were still only those three words: ‘Who are you?’ I had no idea what to do next, and although common sense insisted that I leave well alone – leave Frances and Party Animals, leave my snooping and prying, leave my hapless pretence at being someone else, return to the life I’d left behind and try to build a sustainable future – I knew very well that I wasn’t going to. Not yet, anyway. But I couldn’t think of a way to find out the identity of ‘gonefishing’. Obviously, I couldn’t give him my number, home or mobile. I didn’t want to speak to him, to have him hear my voice. But I had to give him some number to ring me on.

Perhaps I could ask Gwen to talk to him, while pretending not to be Gwen, of course, because I was Gwen. But I dismissed the idea, because I didn’t want to be told – as I most definitely would be – that what I was doing was misguided and wrong, and I should stop at once. I already knew that.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. I stared at my new hotmail address:
[email protected]
. And it came to me: what I should do was simply repeat what I’d already done with my email and get myself a new mobile, whose number I wouldn’t give to anyone except ‘gonefishing’. When he rang, I wouldn’t answer, but I would have his number on my phone. That was a step forward, at least.

I had time to buy the pay-as-you-go phone and still be early at the women-in-commerce lunch, which took place in a vaulted basement in the heart of the City, a dimly lit, handsome space of ancient brick, cold stone and muted echoes. A fire blazed in the hearth at one end of the room, and vases holding velvety red roses stood at intervals on the long table. Slender wine glasses – which nobody used because they drank sparkling water – and silver cutlery glinted. It all felt very old-fashioned and masculine, which, as Frances had explained to me, was the point: this was to be like a stereotypical gentlemen’s club taken over by the ladies. It was typical of Frances to make something so establishment simultaneously ironic.

Sure enough, the women, when they arrived, had on the club uniform. They all wore beautiful skirts and jackets and dresses, in black and grey and dark brown, with white shirts, elegant shoes, sheer tights, discreet flashes of gold at their ears and on their fingers. They flowed down the stairs, handing cashmere coats, leather gloves, slender briefcases and furled umbrellas to the staff, and stood in their massed, discreetly ostentatious wealth. I felt shabby, angry, out of place – like a court jester. I wanted to go home, put on my oldest jeans and plane curls off pale, seasoned wood.

But when Frances saw me she raised her eyebrows. ‘You look very fetching,’ she said, smiling. ‘You certainly have your own style, Gwen.’ I didn’t know if that was a compliment or a veiled insult.

It hardly felt like work: I drifted from kitchen to cloakroom and back to the dining room, keeping an eye on things, making sure the lunch ran smoothly and courses were delivered at the right time. Yet by the end I felt weary and stale, in need of fresh air, natural light. When I stepped out on to the street, I gasped and shrank back into the doorway. Joe was walking along the pavement towards me, his coat billowing round his solid figure. He was carrying his bag and seemed deep in thought; there was an angry frown on his face. I felt as though someone had struck me. My mouth was dry and my heart pressed against my ribs. He mustn’t see me, not when I was dressed in Greg’s wedding suit and being Gwen, not when, in a few moments, Frances would come up the stairs behind me and witness him greeting me as Ellie. I bent double, pretending to tie up the laces of my shoes, which didn’t possess laces, and when I glanced up, he had passed by on the other side of the road, although I could still see his familiar figure striding away, towards some banking client perhaps. I stood upright and tried to collect myself, although I felt slightly sick with shock. How easy it would be for my two worlds to collide and shatter.

When I got home, a piece of paper was lying on the doormat. ‘Where are you, what are you doing and why aren’t you answering my calls? RING ME NOW! Gwenxxxx.’

I pushed the message out of my way, took the new phone out of its box and plugged it in to charge. Then I opened my hotmail account and copied out the new email address. ‘This is my phone number,’ I wrote, and keyed it in. I took a deep breath and pressed send. There, it was gone. Now all I had to do was wait.

I couldn’t put off listening to my phone messages any longer: Gwen, Joe, Gwen, Gwen, my bank manager, Joe, Mary, my mother twice, Mary again, Gwen and Gwen and Gwen, my sister, Fergus twice, a woman calling about a chest of drawers that needed stripping, my bank manager again, a wrong number, Gwen, who sounded frantic with anxiety now. I felt a pinch of guilt. I would call her soon. Tomorrow. After I’d sorted this latest thing out. I couldn’t talk to anybody until then. It wasn’t possible.

But even as I was thinking this there was an insistent knocking at the door. I got up to answer it, then sat down again. No: it would be Gwen or Mary or Joe or Fergus and I wasn’t in the mood. If I didn’t open the door, they’d go away. The knocking continued. Did they know somehow I was in there? Then it stopped.

I breathed out with relief and stood up. What now? I opened the fridge door and stared dispiritedly into the white space. A lonely knob of hard cheese, a past-its-sell-by-date packet of butter and a shrink-wrapped stub of chorizo sat on the otherwise empty shelves. As I stood there, I had a creepy feeling that I wasn’t alone. I heard a rustle behind me, coming from the garden and, very slowly, I turned. Someone was staring in at me through the window. Gwen. Her sweet-natured face was transformed by a huge scowl. Another face appeared beside her and the two glared in at me. Then Mary raised her fist and rapped sharply on the glass. ‘Let us in!’ she yelled.

I opened the back door and stood aside so that they could enter.

‘What are you playing at?’ hissed Gwen, dumping a large shopping bag on the table.

‘What are you wearing?’ said Mary.

‘Didn’t you get my messages? My note? Do you know how worried we’ve all been?’

‘I – I was busy,’ I mumbled.

‘Busy? Well, I was busy too, as it happens. You can’t just hide away, you know. Fuck. I pictured you lying in a ditch – or in a bath with your wrists cut or something. If you don’t want to see us, fine, but at least tell us you’re all right. We were going to ring the police if you hadn’t been here this evening.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘Well, you should have done! That’s no excuse. You should have a bit of consideration.’

Gwen started pulling items out of the bag. Ground coffee, milk, shortbread biscuits, wholemeal bread, salad, carrots, a bottle of wine, eggs. She thumped them down on the table angrily.

‘Was that suit Greg’s?’ asked Mary.

‘Yes,’ I said shortly.

‘You look great.’ There was a hint of accusation in her voice. It would have been better if I’d been haggard and red-eyed with grief. ‘Doesn’t she look great, Gwen?’

‘Hmm. Where have you been?’

‘Trying to sort things out.’

Gwen snorted. ‘That’s a feeble answer.’

‘It’s true,’ I insisted, and after all, it was in its own way.

‘Have you been getting back to your work?’

‘Not exactly. A bit.’

‘A bit. Have you dealt with your financial stuff, been to the bank and your solicitor, visited his parents, like you said you would?’

‘I will soon.’

‘So what have you been sorting out?’

‘I – There’s a lot of bits and pieces.’ It sounded so lame that I blushed to the roots of my hair.

‘What are you up to, Ellie?’ Gwen asked.

‘I’m not up to anything.’ But I couldn’t meet her gaze.

‘This is us, remember,’ said Mary. She had sat down at the table and was now chewing absent-mindedly at one of the carrots Gwen had brought.

The phone rang suddenly and I stiffened. But it was only my landline and we waited in silence as the answering-machine picked up and Joe’s voice came on: ‘Ellie. Ellie, honey? It’s me. Come on.’ There was a pause, and then he said again, ‘Ellie?’ before hanging up.

‘See? Another anxious friend.’

For a moment I considered telling them everything I had done. But to do that wouldn’t I also have to give up my subterfuge, my lies, deceits and unhealthy obsessions? ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ I said. ‘Honestly I am. I know I’m behaving oddly, wrongly. I can’t explain it properly. I’ve been all over the place.’ I twisted my hands together, my naked, ringless fingers. ‘I keep thinking things will get better.’

‘We’re here to help you,’ said Gwen. ‘You know that. Don’t shut us out.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Now we’re here, shall I make us tea?’ asked Mary. ‘Tea and biscuits and then we can go out. Eric’s looking after Robin this evening so I’m free. What d’you say? Film and meal, just the three of us, like it used to be?’

What I wanted to say was that I felt tired and agitated and my heart was bouncing in my chest like a rubber ball and all I wanted to do was wait by the phone, but their two kind, familiar faces showed such concern that I said, ‘That would be very nice.’

I got home just after midnight and ran to check the new phone. There were no messages but there was one missed call. I picked up the mobile. Resting in my hand, it felt like a bomb that might go off at any time. In bed, the phone on the table beside me, I could feel myself fizzing with excitement and dread, and when I finally slept, it was fitfully, to taunting dreams.

Frances kissed me on both cheeks. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve got to dash out in an hour or so and I won’t be back until mid-afternoon. It would be great if you could go through the new brochure for me. I’ve got to get it to the printers this afternoon and it’s littered with errors.’

‘It’s not that I mind, but what about Beth?’

‘Oh, you can show it to her, but she’s no use. She studied events management at university, which means she can barely read or write.’

‘Fine. I’ll do my best.’

‘Let’s have coffee first, though.’

‘Shall I get it?’

‘No, no. Let me.’

There was a hectic air about her: she couldn’t seem to sit still; she kept taking her glasses off and putting them on again, running her hand through her hair.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Me? Fine. Why do you ask?’

‘You seem a bit restless.’

‘Maybe I am. Strange times.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’m really glad you’re around, though, Gwen. I don’t have many women friends I can talk to.’

That she counted me a friend filled me with fresh shame. I buried my face in my coffee cup to hide my expression.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘Sometimes I think women are much more rivalrous and catty with each other than they ever are with men. Don’t you agree?’

She was probably remembering Milena, but I thought of Gwen and Mary as they had been last night, their grumpy, unflagging loyalty and love, and shook my head. ‘Not always,’ I said.

‘Do you have close friends?’

‘A few.’

‘Good.’ She sounded wistful. ‘I’m glad. We all need friends. Listen, there’s something I need to talk about. Otherwise this feeling I have, of guilt and disgust with myself, will rot away inside me and poison me. I need to confess.’

What could I say? I gave a small nod for her to continue.

‘In your relationships,’ she asked, ‘have you always been faithful?’

‘Yes,’ I said, because it was the truth.

‘That must be a nice feeling.’ Her voice was so soft I could hardly catch her words. She stared into my eyes for a few seconds, then looked away. While she spoke, she gazed at a spot a few inches to one side of me.