Just Last Night(44)

I lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and ask myself why I set a bomb off by reading that letter. I have shattered everything.

Ten years ago, Ed and Susie, two people I thought had never so much as shared an intimate glance, slept together. My best friend and the man who I thought was my secret soulmate, destroying my image of, and trust in, both of them, in one fell swoop.

And the worst part of it is, the very worst part: Susie knew I was in love with Ed, and she did it anyway.

No. That’s not true. The worst part is, I never get to ask her why.





18


“Where to, love?”

“Wilford Crematorium.”

“Ah, shame. Not a nice day for you, then?” the cabbie says, looking at me over his shoulder, trying to pitch this as sympathetic, as opposed to quite nakedly prurient.

No, of course it isn’t you dick, what kind of question is that?

“No.”

“Anyone close to you?”

“Yes.”

Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. That’s how bad I feel. That’s how humiliated and betrayed I feel. I can’t even say goodbye to Susie today, the way I thought I would, as I don’t know who exactly I’m saying goodbye to.

“Oh. Sorry to hear.”

The taxi reeks of a large and turnipy burp he did right before he picked me up, but I’m too British to roll the window down and thus communicate: “You smell.”

“. . . D’ya want the radio on?” he says, after deciding perhaps on balance he won’t inquire into my loss further, and I mumble: “Sure, OK.”

“Do you listen to Radio Two, ever?” he says, once it’s blaring out. I gather he’s in a chatty mood. Despite picking up a woman with gray-pale skin, wearing a black coat over a black dress, eyes red-rimmed and puffy from much crying and scant sleep, who has asked to be driven to a place where they incinerate dead people, and answering him in clipped monosyllables, he’s still going to press on with the banter he fancies having, in the guise of trying to cheer me up.

“Not much,” I say.

“See how many of these you can get for me in the pop quiz, I’m rubbish at this,” he says, twiddling the volume knob upward.

I rest my head on the car seat, close my eyes, and think: this could be annoying but, actually, the burble of T’Pau is better than thinking about the destination.

“‘China in Your Hand’!” the driver says.

“That’s ‘Heart and Soul,’” I say.

“The answer is ‘Heart and Soul’!” says the presenter.

“Very good!” the taxi driver says, visibly impressed.

“They only had two hits,” I say. “Process of elimination.”

I’ve successfully dodged any conversations with Ed since I read the letter. I’ve accidentally missed his calls by being “in the shower,” answered WhatsApps in a way that didn’t invite lots of back-and-forth. He no doubt concluded I’m in a state of agitation before the funeral and decided to let me lie low.

“Elastica,” I tell the driver.

“Sorry, Dave, that’s not right, it’s not Sleeper. It’s Elastica. Elastica,” says the presenter.

“You’re brilliant at this!” says my driver. “Can I pick you up every day? We could win a yacht.”

I can’t manage a yacht, but I tip him well when we reach the top of the hill, whereupon my stomach lurches as I see people milling outside the crematorium chapel.

I wonder who they are, what their connection to Susie is—like some dismal photographic negative image of a wedding. They’re from different areas of her life, and there will be plenty I don’t know on sight. The one tour guide I need isn’t here.

And plenty I do. I spy Justin.

I feel the grief bubbling up uncontrollably at the sight of him looking handsome and adult and slightly uncomfortable in a narrow-cut, dark suit. It’s as if we’re playing characters in a drama.

He sees me and comes straight over. We hug, Justin muttering into my hair: “You’re OK, gal. Hang on to me.”

At this moment, I can tell he and Ed have had various conversations about how I’m coping, and I should feel good about their support. I don’t. I feel good about Justin’s, assuming he wasn’t in on the “torrid” (torrid, torrid) banging.

Right behind Justin are Ed and Hester.

“Eve, my darling, how are you! I’ve not seen you,” Hester says, throwing her arms around me.

She’s had a blow-dry that is ruffled by the slight breeze, golden-corn waves against the navy of her coat, and black leather gloves. She smells of roses.

“Alright, you,” Ed says, tenderly, and I submit to an embrace, blank-faced, thinking: don’t bother with your faux-adoring chummy bullshit. It’s been a long, long con, but it’s over.

Hester starts fussing with Ed’s tie under his overcoat and I think, a strange aspect of my new knowledge is that I may revile her, but she’s the one who’s been wronged here, more than me. Ed and Susie only broke unspoken promises to me. He fully cheated on her.

But what a hypocrite I am—I never minded the idea of Ed being unfaithful to Hester, but it had to be with me. It had to be about love, and it had to promise a future together. Was the other unfaithfulness about love?