against it.
‘Sometimes I think Rebecca chose me as a husband
before she chose me as a boyfriend.
Does that make sense?
I mean. I had the hallmarks of husband.
Good education. Decent family. Tall.
I hate to boast but I’m over six foot,
which women love, apparently.
And then there are my guns.’
I grabbed the Carver and threw it at you.
‘Once we were a couple,
Rebecca moulded me into a person she could love.
She had me listen to her music and read certain books.
She taught me to cook.
I was a lump of stupid clay when we met.
She turned me into something.’
This portrait was meant to tell me
everything I needed to know about Rebecca –
how cold and controlling she was,
how caged you’d been from the beginning.
But you curated this Rebecca especially for me.
I walked the line myself:
Paul was homely, a planner, compassionate.
I’d had other offers but he beat off the competition.
Now, the connection was missing,
he’d stopped listening.
I am prized – steal me.
I am desolate – save me.
What we told and what we hid.
In the end I believed myself.
But I never believed you.
‘Do you like Raymond Carver?’ you asked,
picking him up from the floor.
I shrugged. ‘I’ve never been much of a short story fan.’
I stuck to Tanya at university,
chose courses she approved of,
hung out with her hockey friends,
shared bottles of Smirnoff Ice with her until we puked.
And I still stick to her,
joined the company when she said I should,
and now
creep out for lunch at eleven thirty
to help her hangover.
At the sandwich counter
my phone vibrates. It is Mark. Hope you’re OK.
Tanya pays for soups and salad.
She has been watching.
‘You’re smiling and texting.
Please don’t have an affair.
It would be so much hassle.
And I wouldn’t represent you for free in a divorce.
Time is money, bitch.
Plus, Paul’s a babe.’
‘He’s sensible and disapproving.’
‘Which is why you’re so well suited.’
Tanya wears fishnets with stilettos.
She sleeps with men on the first date.
Her mother is a lesbian activist.
Her father is a reclusive potter.
But when it comes to me she is conservative.
‘You’re the good one,’ she told me at Bristol.
‘Let me be bad for both of us.’
I had a boyfriend from Puerto Buenos
with zits and a Rolex
who called Tanya the ‘fiery one’.
He sizzled when he talked about her,
dry-humping me in his room.
Whenever Tanya showed up
he unhooked me,
stood taller,
spoke louder,
seemed to become someone.
I couldn’t do that to him, to anyone –
light them up,
expose their strengths.
Engineering.
That was what he was studying.
Engineering. His father owned a company.
Tanya was dressed as Boy George
when she kissed my Spanish boyfriend.
His name? Mateo maybe.
He wore a lot of merino wool –
jumpers tied around his neck.
It was a Halloween party.
He was dressed as a pirate,
I was his parrot –
squawk squawk, all night long.
It was a funny joke,
except it wasn’t funny
when I caught him and Tanya
laughing and squawk-squawking in a corner,
the point of his sword against her leg.
Tanya never apologised.
She was 1980s Boy George, a cross-dressing superstar,
I was a parrot with orange feet:
squawk squawk.
Mateo melted away, disappearing altogether
along with the other Erasmus students over Christmas.
Tanya said, ‘Remember that Italian bloke?
He had such bad skin.
Fuck, Ana. I don’t know how you could have kissed him.’
I’ve met Rebecca before.
Yes, but that was before.
And here she is again,
your no-longer wife,
a widow in sensible shoes,
a briefcase balanced on her knee.
‘Ms Taylor, hello.’ I hold out my hand.
Her grip is weak.
I am firm. ‘Do come in.’
I have ordered not just tea and coffee for the meeting,
but pastries too,
and grapes,
beads of water clinging to them.
‘I’m not sure you’ll recall, but we’ve met,’ I say.
‘A few years ago now at the Bald Faced Stag.
Your husband was there.’
Rebecca’s gaze has no destination.
Her eyes trip around the room,
books, pictures, grapes.
‘Connor dealt with the financials so … ’
She waves away the notion of knowing
how to behave.
On her left hand, a wedding band.
We begin. First, your funeral.
‘It was beautiful,’ she says.
It was not, I don’t say.
‘I’m sure. Well, that’s the first claim against the estate.’
Rebecca accepts a tea and a Danish pastry,
making notes in a Moleskin of everything
she has to do:
inform the bank, the doctor, the tax man,
the pension scheme, the council;
find out everything she can about your savings,
shares, insurance, trusts.
‘Can’t you do any of that?’
Her tone is changed, like I am now the hired help.
A darkness within me flexes.
I sit back, willing her to continue,
reveal the woman she is.
Your body repulsed him, I want to tell her.
He couldn’t stand your smell.
The colour of your flesh.
‘My understanding was that the executor does it.
Isn’t that what the fee is for?’
The pastry has left a jammy stain on her cardigan cuff.
She uses a fingernail to scratch at it.
I offer a napkin.
‘We can do as little or as much as you like.
I’m here to make the probate process easier
and for this to get settled quickly.
Six months to a year is usual.
Shall we divide some of the tasks?’
I do not see grief in Rebecca’s reluctant agreement:
she is impatient,
like dealing with her husband’s wishes,
his life,
his death,
were nothing more than a chore
instead of a fucking privilege.
Rebecca reaches for a biro from the stack
at the centre of the conference table.
Her hands are lined,
nine years more living than mine.
I never understood why you chose
a woman older than you.
‘I’m so disorganised,’ she says.
She bites her knuckles,
fearing being sent home alone with
responsibilities and paperwork.
You did everything:
paid her parking tickets,
called the dentist when her crown fell out.
‘I’ll send minutes of what we discuss in an email.