‘I can’t … I don’t know how to talk about it.’
Beth is dressed down today. Minimal makeup; her lips are soft and unpainted. She’s wearing jeans, neat white trainers and a grey t-shirt with a simple left breast pocket. Large sunglasses sit on top of her caramel locks. She had no intention of attending the funeral. She’s one hundred per cent here for me.
‘You look weird in black,’ she says, scrunching up her cute little nose.
‘I feel weird in black. I never got the memo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was like I was just there to pay me respects.’
‘I’m confused. Isn’t that what funerals are for?’
‘Well, yeah, any funeral I’ve been to before. Like me Aunty Dot; or remember that nice dinner lady, Mrs O’Leary? But this one was different.’
‘How?’
‘I wasn’t a part of it. And I should’ve been.’
A cloud has shifted, and Beth puts her sunglasses on. I know she’s glaring at me though.
‘Don’t say it,’ I say, my mouth draped over the side of my glass. ‘Don’t say how I hardly knew him. I haven’t been living in cloud cuckoo land since January, Beth, I’ve been living. And so had Jack. We’d been actually living for each other, with each other, everything was about each other. I knew him better than anyone. But I feel like I’ve just paid me respects to a bloody stranger.’
‘So, come on. Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Jack. Pretend it’s the funeral again; pretend you’re getting a chance to speak about him. And I’ll listen.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘This isn’t role play, Beth. This isn’t one of me GCSE Drama classes.’
‘No, but it might make you feel better, babes.’
‘It won’t.’
Beth stands and holds one finger up, indicating she won’t be a minute. I down the wine in my glass and top it up, returning a wave to a couple of fellas cruising past on a rowing boat. Beth returns with three bags of posh crisps, mature cheddar flavour, and opens them out as if she’s demonstrating origami.
‘Eat,’ she orders.
To be fair, I already feel as though I might be swaying.
‘I’ve ordered some sweet potato fries and halloumi sticks, too. Now, listen babes. Remember when you were obsessed with Robbie Williams?’
I nod and dig into the delicious crisps: so cheesy they could be actual cheese.
‘And remember how you framed that A4 poster from Smash Hits,’ Beth continues, ‘and stuck it to your bedroom ceiling—’
‘Yeah, so he was the first face I saw in the morning and the last I saw at night.’
‘And yet you stuck the bloody frame to the ceiling with what exactly?’
‘Blu-tack.’
‘And what happened to you, babes?’
I stuff my mouth with more crisps, speaking with my mouth full.
‘The frame fell off and split me head open. Four stitches!’
Beth clinks my empty wine glass and sips, giggling at the story she’s heard and told endlessly since we were twelve years old.
‘Did you ever tell Jack about that, babes? Show him the scar on your scalp?’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘I’d feel ashamed!’
‘Did he know about the time you got sacked from that call centre job?’
‘I never got sacked,’ I remind her. ‘I was on a zero-hour contract.’
‘Yeah and they specifically said they wouldn’t give you a single hour again, ever.’
‘It was a blessing in disguise. I’d probably still be there today.’
‘Did you tell Jack about it?’
‘Dunno. Maybe?’
‘Or what about how we used to gatecrash those late-night parties above the video shop with those potheads? Does Jack know about how you’d sneak—’
‘Okay, stop. I know what you’re trying to do.’
Beth removes her sunglasses and reaches out for my hand. I snatch it away and sit on it.
‘Babes, we’ve got history. Jack has the right to have history, too.’
Our fries and sticks arrive but Beth shakes her head.
‘We need more wine,’ she says, and hands the ice bucket with the empty bottle to the waitress. ‘Please.’
‘I did,’ I say, burning the roof of my mouth on a fry. ‘I definitely told him about the call centre. He thought it was a brilliant story.’
‘That’s great.’
‘No, it’s not. ’Cause it’s not a brilliant story. It’s a self-deprecating anecdote. I mean, you’ve hit an all-time low when you get booted out of a job you hate that pays minimum wage, haven’t you? A job where you weren’t even worthy of being officially sacked. Yeah, I became a teacher. Whoop, whoop, good for me. But, Beth – I’m an absolutely shit teacher. I don’t change the lives of the kids. I do the bare minimum and tick the boxes and for God’s sake, I teach them fucking drama.’
‘Okay, you’re really spiralling into the dark place, babes.’
‘You came to meet me at a funeral. What did you expect?’
And for some reason, we laugh. Cackle. Like a pair of old witches.
The second bottle arrives and I do the honours.
‘Sometimes I think I’m going mad, though,’ I say. ‘Like, I feel like he’s still close to me. And no, I’m not into ghosts. I just … feel him. I mean, it’s impossible not to. I paid his gas bill last week. It’s like me relationship’s still happening.’
‘I know you’re trying to make sense, but—’
‘How can anyone make sense of death?’
‘So you’re still in a relationship? With a dead lad?’
I wince. She makes it sound so—
‘Sorry, babes. That was harsh.’
‘The fridge in the flat, Beth – it’s like a bloody to-do list. And I have to look at it every day, this massive reminder that me and Jack had started a real life together. And I need to finish off what we started.’
‘How can you possibly do that, Chlo?’
I shrug and allow my gaze to wander up the river.
‘That’s what I’ve got to figure out.’
We drink in a semi-comfortable silence for a while, nibbling snacks. A knot sits in my stomach and it’s nothing to do with the amount of salt I’ve consumed in the past hour. It’s Florrie. All-important Florrie. Helping Trish; checking on the caterers. God, if she’s so important, why didn’t Jack ever mention her?
Beth is on her phone, tapping away.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Fergus wanting to know when I’ll be home. It’s fine. Honest, babes.’
She doesn’t sound fine.
‘I’m still not pregnant,’ she says, and gulps her wine. ‘Clearly.’
‘Ah shit. And I guess I’m stopping you and him from—’
‘Nope. Got me period yesterday. Super early this month, for fuck’s sake.’
‘What a bitch.’
‘I know, right. Let’s get another bottle, babes. I’m halfway hammered, and you know how I hate doing things by halves.’