PART ONE
The only way
out
now
is to stay busy,
so I have borrowed
Anna Karenina
from my mother and will not
allow myself to cry
until I have read it.
Twice.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
My tea had cooled in the mug.
I wanted another biscuit.
I wanted to message you.
I was sorry for the argument.
Very.
Helen buzzed through.
‘I have a Mrs Taylor on the line.
She says we wrote up her husband’s will
and he’s passed. She seems fine.’
I scrolled through emails:
clients, questions,
an L. K. Bennett sale.
‘Put her through,’ I said.
I reclined in my chair,
ready to be soft, supportive.
‘Mrs Taylor, Ana Kelly speaking.
Firstly, let me say how terribly sorry I am for your loss.’
‘That’s very kind,’ she said.
On my second screen
I searched Taylor in the database.
Twenty-two clients.
‘May I ask your husband’s first name?’
‘Yes, of course, sorry. Umm … ’
She was unsure,
like a name might be out of reach,
already stashed away on some high shelf.
And then.
‘Connor Mooney.
I’m his wife, Rebecca Taylor.
We have different names.’
The wife.
His wife.
Your wife.
The wife.
She had discovered us.
This was her way of getting in touch,
of punishing me,
because you were not dead,
we had spoken only days before.
I was planning to message you after lunch.
To apologise. Make things good again.
Rebecca was calling because she knew
and I needed a story to explain it.
Quick. Quick.
Think. Think.
‘He passed away on Tuesday,’ she said.
‘My brother-in-law suggested I phone.’
You’re lying, you fucking cunt bitch,
I didn’t say.
You’re fucking lying, you bitch cunt,
I didn’t say.
I said, ‘Goodness, I’m so sorry.
That’s awful news.
I have his details here in front of me.
We drew up the will a few years ago.’
My hands hadn’t moved.
I was scanning the list of Taylors.
Keith, Leonard, Meaghan-Leah.
In my throat was an ache, hot and heavy.
My right hand twitched even as I clutched
the desk to steady it.
I didn’t believe her.
‘The funeral is a fortnight this Friday.’
‘Thank you for calling.
You must have a great deal on your plate.
And please don’t worry about the legal end of things
unless there’s a problem paying for the funeral.’
‘That won’t be an issue,’ she said defensively.
‘Well then, I’ll call you afterwards.
You could
come into the office, perhaps.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
She spoke like we were arranging a dental appointment,
with a calm I could not understand,
yet similar to every bereaved spouse I’d known,
setting aside grief for the brief moments of legal dealings.
I took shallow breaths.
‘Do you know how to register the death?’
‘My brother-in-law is dealing with that.’
She coughed hard into the phone.
I wondered whether she was wearing black.
‘As executors to his will
we can assist with administration, so do ask.’
Rebecca coughed again.
I considered asking if she was sure.
Wholly.
No doubt.
Maybe it was someone else.
‘Is there any more I can do for you, Ms Taylor?’
She paused.
Was she going to confess to the joke?
None of it was true. Was it?
You were going to call minutes later, frantic and found-out.
‘No. Thank you though,’ she said.
‘One last question. How did he die?’ I asked.
Rebecca told me, briefly, all about it.
And I told her, quietly, how upsetting it sounded
and how impossible it was to be without him.
‘Yes,’ she said.
I ended the call and bought a pair of shoes in the online sale.
Purple suede. Pointy toes.
Impractical.
Unaffordable.
Then I did something
very bad
and got back to work.
Tell me.
What would you have done?
It is contrarily cold.
I am wearing a cashmere cardigan
over a long grey dress,
a vest beneath.
It is a Marks and Spencer look:
high-street ordinary,
plain to the point of being a blur.
I caught myself in the mirror
on the way out today,
hated the woman
you would see if
you sat up and took a look around.
Wouldn’t that be just like you?
To spy
and later
perform a post-mortem of the service –
fidgeting children,
the state of your mother’s face,
thoughts on how I behaved,
the analysis exhaustive:
I liked your hair up.
You should always wear lipstick.
Could you see from the back?
I haven’t eaten in fifteen days.
I haven’t seen you in twenty.
I don’t know when I’ll next have an appetite.
I won’t ever see you again.
I am as thin as I was at the beginning,
when every duplicity
pitched my guts.
You would say I look fine.
But I do not.
It has been noticed.
The partners seem worried,
like I might not outlive my clients’ muddles.
Nora bought me a bottle of Floradix.
Tanya asked if I was pregnant.
The sun is straining through the clouds
and it should defeat them
because it is July after all.
I am holding on tight to a bunch of white carnations.
You never mentioned a fondness for flowers
but soon you shall be carpeted in
brightly petalled
dying colour
as a mark of love.
How do you smell now?
Are your nails long?
St Mary’s car park is crowded.
I cannot see your coffin.
But I see Rebecca,
your boys,
all staring into nowhere.
We plan for death,
make sensible decisions while gorging on life.
But no one intends to die.
When you wandered into my office
three years ago,
you never thought
I would have to confront your family’s grief,
or my own.
You thought you had forever to make mistakes
and make amends.
Your sons are dressed in suits,
standing in a row like a little black staircase.
I turn my back on them.
I am not responsible for their sadness
though that’s what I’ve wanted.
Wouldn’t it have been better than this?
Wouldn’t it have been better my way?
‘Will Mrs Mooney be writing up a will with us?’ I asked.