Wine and cocktail glasses scatter surfaces of the living area through to our galley kitchen. It looks like the aftermath of a party, not just four of us. I switch on the tap and down a pint of water. I diluted my cocktails, so I don’t feel too bad, but I want to flush out as many toxins as I can. It can’t do any harm to try.
This is a good opportunity to work as I’ve been so busy lately that I have a backlog. I clear a space at the dining table and open my laptop.
I love editing. There’s something so indulgently omnipotent about the process because I get to choose what people retain as a memento of their special events. I try not to abuse their trust. I take my time, studying faces, expressions, colours, shadows, scanning for the unexpected to focus on. People think they can hide their feelings, but it’s impossible, in my opinion, to succeed at it one hundred per cent of the time. It takes practice. The way I do it is that I imagine that I’m being constantly filmed, which isn’t difficult nowadays. It’s hard enough to avoid surveillance, let alone everyone with their phones at the ready.
It’s hard to concentrate. Distracted, I look back on old events. I can’t help but zoom in on one person: Stuart. His pain is evident to me even when he’s smiling because I’m privy to his vulnerabilities given that I am the closest friend of his deceased wife. He is much better looking on film than in reality. The urge to reminisce overwhelmingly takes hold as I browse through more of my collection. I have hundreds of photos of his and Nina’s children because I find those harder to delete.
Friends sometimes email me random shots or post them on social media. As a rule, I don’t keep many of those because mine more than suffice; however, one has slipped in. It’s of me and Stuart, dancing at someone’s thirtieth three years ago. Clearly, I couldn’t have taken it, and although we look natural and relaxed, it’s not a great shot. I can’t think why I didn’t discard it. I never mix my files up; it’s disconcerting. I guess the stress of the past few years is bound to manifest in varying ways.
It’s gone two by the time I return to bed. I know when I next open my eyes that it’s morning because I never wake up late. I reach for Ben. My hand slides along the cool flatness of the sheet until I reach the edge of the bed. I sit up.
He was seemingly out cold a few hours ago, plus he doesn’t have a shift today. He’s not in the bathroom or downstairs, and his bike is missing from the hall. Dread, the anxious kind when truth is forcing its horrible reality into your consciousness, forms. He knows from all the advice that it’s best if we try again this morning to maximize our chances.
I compose a message, then delete it. I can’t think of the right words until I decide to keep it simple and unpressurized.
I love you xxx.
I press send.
My phone rings, hope reignites; Ben isn’t avoiding me, perhaps he’s merely nipped out for croissants or milk.
It’s not him.
‘Hi, Stuart,’ I say.
‘I hate to ask you but . . .’
He phrases it in the same way that Nina used to. Buried indignation rises, but I manage to suppress it because I already know that I’ll do whatever favour he’s going to ask me.
‘Yes?’
‘Someone tried to break in to the garage last night. There’s a locksmith available at nine thirty.’ I note that his Australian accent sounds slightly more pronounced on the phone. ‘Any chance you could wait in after taking the kids to school? I’m unprepared for a meeting I can’t cancel. I don’t want to leave the garage door broken because it makes the interconnecting entrance to the house less secure.’
‘Didn’t the security alarm go off?’
Nina insisted on having one installed earlier this year.
‘I haven’t got into the habit of setting it. It was something Nina usually did before we went to bed.’
Fresh sadness hits me, as does guilt at my initial irritation.
‘I’ll be around ASAP.’
I’m reminded of how much I enjoy being needed, although not taken for granted. There is a difference. Stuart and I have a clean slate. I must tread carefully, though, because by making myself so available to Nina and her family, it fuelled my discontent in the first place.
Chapter Two
There are moments when I genuinely forget until silence hits. Even then, it’s not hard to imagine that Nina’s nipped out for a sprig of rosemary, gone to chat to the holiday-cottage guests, or – later on – is upstairs resting. The locksmith was efficient and quick, he didn’t even accept the coffee I offered him. He said that whoever had tried to break in couldn’t have been that determined. The damage was minimal.
I never enter any rooms in her house (it’s still her home to me) unless I have to, but today, it feels like there’s something I need to get over with.
I go for it. I rush upstairs. My heart quickens, cringing at the thought of being caught out, despite having a plausible story at the ready. I push open the door to her room. Their bedroom. Now just Stuart’s. Evidence is everywhere that he still sleeps here. I had wondered. Their place is so large, too large really, he could easily have moved. Yet, he hasn’t.
There’s something heart-wrenching about the way he’s spread his belongings out, as if by doing so he’ll disguise Nina’s absence. The last time I was in here, Nina made me make promises. It gave me goose bumps: the intensity in her expression as she refused to break eye contact, the urgency of the way she grabbed my wrist as I stood up to leave.
‘Please, Marie. No matter what, make sure everyone remembers the kind of person I truly was.’
It was the first time she’d used the past tense. I think that’s when it actually hit me, that’s when I knew she was going to die, because if she believed it, then I must, too. There was no one else she could turn to, not really, because I was the only person who understood the intricacies of her life. Our friendship was forged when we were at primary school. Still, I wish I’d listened better even though it took all of my self-control to remain strong while I agreed to all she asked without pushing for a proper explanation.
I sit down on a white wicker chair in the corner, folding one of Stuart’s ties over the armrest. It slithers to the floor. I used to pull this seat up, close to Nina’s side of the bed. I read to her on the days she was too tired to talk properly. I thought Nina would prefer uplifting stories; however, she said it gave her strange comfort to experience fear in an alternative way to her reality, so we stuck to crime and horror.
I’m grateful for those peaceful memories. I tried not to overwhelm her because there were so many genuine offers of help intermingled with shared helplessness. Nina absorbed all the love and care; meanwhile I tried not to betray my utter devastation and frustration at the unfairness of the situation.
‘I think this time I’m pregnant,’ I say out loud. ‘It just feels . . . right.’
If Nina really were here, I’d say more. Obviously. She was pleased when I met Ben; she’d offer good advice when it came to dealing with his aloofness. Her absence is stark. I lean down and pick up Stuart’s tie from the floor. It’s too . . . red. He has loads. Nina and Stuart had this thing where she’d buy him one every anniversary because she thought he looked handsome in a suit. I roll it up and push it into my jacket pocket. The past can hold people back; I’m here to help him heal. Christmas isn’t far off and I feel a twinge of pleasure at now having a decent gift idea for Stuart.