Postscript(51)

‘What the fuck?!’ she spits and wine flies from her lip and into my eye. ‘Sorry,’ she says as I wipe it away. She stares at me, aghast. ‘Is he trying to break up with you?’

‘He says he’s not, but, I sense the future is bleak.’ I take a slug of wine.

‘But he’s the one that wanted you to move in.’

‘I know.’

‘He asked you for months.’

‘I know.’

‘This doesn’t make sense!’

‘I know.’

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at me. ‘Has it anything to do with the PS, I Love You Club?’

I sigh. ‘Yes, no. Maybe. It probably hasn’t helped, all this stuff coming together at the same time.’ I rub my face tiredly.

‘Maybe you should take a break from the club, maybe it’s not healthy for you.’

‘I can’t, Denise. They’re relying on me. You just met Ginika, what would she do?’

‘But things were going so well for you before you got involved in the club.’

‘Maybe it’s helped put everything in perspective for me.’

‘I don’t know, Holly …’

‘I suppose I could go ahead with the sale of the house anyway.’ I look around. ‘I think I’m done with this place. I feel like Gerry checked out of here a long time ago. He’s gone,’ I admit sadly. Then, as quickly as the sadness arrived, it leaves, and a jolt of adrenaline surges through me. I could do this. Gabriel is making his own plans, taking care of his own life, why should I wait for him?

‘Fancy moving in with me?’ Denise asks.

‘No, thank you.’

She laughs. ‘Fair enough.’

‘You’re going back to Tom and you’re going to tell him what you told me. Discuss it like grown-ups. This is only a hiccup.’

‘I think I’ll need to do more than hold my breath and wait for it to pass.’

True, bad advice. I’m through with holding my breath. Change needs action. I drain my glass.

‘OK,’ she sighs wearily. ‘I’m going to bed. Can I please sleep in your spare room?’

‘You can, but don’t keep me awake with your incessant crying.’

She smiles sadly.

‘I think you’re making a huge mistake,’ I say gently. ‘Please change your mind in the morning.’

‘If we’re swapping advice, I know I’m in no position to be handing it out, but you love Gabriel. This club has done something to you, whether you admit it or not. It’s brought Gerry back to you, which should be a nice thing, but I’m not sure if it is. Gerry is gone, Gabriel is here, he’s real. Please don’t let the ghost of Gerry push Gabriel away.’





24


‘Paul, if your wife arrives home …’

‘She won’t.’

‘But if she does …’

‘She won’t. They’re gone for the afternoon.’

‘Paul,’ I say firmly. ‘If for whatever reason, she returns, we cannot lie. I will not take part in deceit, this isn’t what I’m here to do. I don’t want her to think I’m some nasty other woman. I’m already Bert’s reflexologist, and that is disturbing enough.’

He laughs and it breaks the tension. ‘I won’t ask you to lie for me. I know this is difficult for you, and I, all of us, appreciate what you’re doing for us, the sacrifices that you’re making after everything you’ve been through.’

Which then makes me feel awful. My sacrifices are nothing compared to his.

‘So what’s the plan for today? What do you want me to do?’

‘We have a lot to do,’ he says, energised. He’s a bundle of energy and ideas, he reminds me of Gerry. They don’t look alike. He’s ten years older. Still so young and yet had ten more years than my husband; the greedy bitter time-comparison monster again.

‘I’m only going to write one letter, the letter to them all that explains what I’m doing; the rest, if you don’t mind, is visual.’

‘Letters are visual,’ I say, rather defensively.

‘I want to give the kids a sense of who I am, my humour, the sound of my voice—’

‘If you write the letters well …’ I begin.

‘Yes, defender of all letters written ever,’ he teases, ‘but my kids can’t read yet. I want to do something a little more modern, more in tune with what the kids are drawn to, and they love TV.’

I’m surprisingly disappointed, but I drop it. Not everybody cherishes letters as I do and I suppose Paul is right, his young children, born in this generation, would probably prefer to see and hear their dad. It’s another lesson that this process needs to be shaped exactly as the person wishes, for the people they love; bespoke messages from the once living to the still living.

‘First things first.’ He leads me through the kitchen to a conservatory. ‘A piano lesson.’

The conservatory overlooks the back garden. A children’s playhouse, swing set, lopsided goalposts, bikes, scattered toys. A doll abandoned in the soil, the head of a Lego man stuck between the cracks of the patio. The barbecue is covered up, unused since the winter, garden furniture needs to be sanded and painted. Colourful birdhouses nailed to the fence. A fairy door by the foot of a tree. The setting paints the picture of their daily life. I can imagine the activity, the mayhem, the laughter and screams. The conservatory feels like it belongs in another home. There aren’t any toys, nothing that would link it to the surroundings of the rest of the house. It’s an oasis. A light grey marble tiled floor. Light grey walls, a sheepskin rug. A chandelier hangs from the centre of the ceiling, low and hovering just above the piano. And that’s it, no other furniture.