The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 21

  Mark and Mum both check on me in the night, before ‘the time of death’ when I’m going but not quite gone. When Mark comes in he pulls the duvet up a little higher under my chin and kisses my forehead. My God, how is he going to cope when he realises? He’ll blame himself; spend a lifetime thinking he did the wrong thing and that in the precious few moments when his actions might have made a difference, he advises the weakest over-the-counter painkiller and an early night. I pray in my final moments on this earth that Sarah gets to him soon and takes that weight away from him.

  Then Glo arrives on her way to bed and stands staring at me for ages. I lie there, seeing her perfectly clearly. I would give anything to know what she is thinking. I can’t ask her – no words will come, I am already too far under, death’s grip already too tight on me and my vocal chords. She’s smiling and then I remember. She’s spent the day planning what sort of granny she will be. If my heart hadn’t yet stopped, it was surely breaking now. I try to lift my arms to hold her but they’re useless to me, like the moment the anaesthetist’s needle takes effect. So I watch instead as she comes closer, her face almost touching mine. More than anything in the world I want to feel her warmth one last time. My life to end as it started, connected to her. And then it happens. One final loved-filled kiss goodnight, so powerful that I hope for a moment it might even bring me back. And unlike the duvet, I can feel it. Not the touch of her lips but the full effect of that kiss – a mother’s kiss.

  I can feel all the years of nurturing and caring, the unconditional love and devoted support flow from her right in to me, travelling back through my body at high speed, filling my lungs and making my heart swell. Her love inflates me with so much happiness, like a giant helium balloon, I think I might just lift off the bed and float up to heaven right there and then. I wonder for a moment if on some other plane – some intuitive, subconscious dimension in her own brain – she knows what’s happening and that’s why she’s here, to perform the last act of love that will make me feel better. My beautiful mum. I see for the first time how strong she really is. Which is a relief. Her world is about to be smashed into a million shattered pieces that may never be put back together. I’ll miss you Mum, I’ll miss you Mum… I can’t make myself heard.

  As she stands to leave the room something catches her eye in the darkness and she picks it up. I can just make out the wording on the front. Tying The Knot. Yes, Mum! Yes! Open the book, read it, know how much I love you, how much I desperately wanted to protect you from this! I’m screaming the words at the top of my voice as if in one of those nightmarish dreams when something awful is about to happen but the warning sound just won’t escape out of you. She holds it in her hand for a moment longer, running her finger along the spine of its closed pages, then places it back on the shelf without opening it. She’s gone and I am left to my fading thoughts.

  * * *

  It’s 6.30 a.m. now so I’ve got a bit of a handle on how this works. I can see my body, I just can’t move it. The duvet is on me but it feels like it’s floating above me. All my senses are dulling and I can’t physically feel anything but my emotions feel heightened and intense like I can sense the settled, unknowing breath as it floats in and out of my sleeping father just down the hallway. It’s resonating deep within me on a much more profound level than merely hearing or feeling it. My only agony comes from knowing his calm contentedness can’t possibly last.

  Lying here now I must admit it, Sarah Blake was right all along. If I’d listened to her the day she begged me to come clean, everyone would have known I wasn’t being that bride, getting all overwhelmed by the dress and fainting. Maybe I might have known it too. But it was so fleeting. Seconds, that’s all it was, before I was back in the room and everything was back to normal. Trouble was, Helen was so convincingly dismissive. ‘Oh, I never had you down as a fainter, Emily! Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it happens, it happens a lot.’ In between the cup of sweet tea she forced on me, the fuss about calling Mark to pick me up and the general feeling of being a colossal idiot, the moment passed. I felt fine – not even the hint of a headache.

  I always imaged if the rupture came it would be big, explosive, without doubt. That I would be snuffed out in a split second. But that’s not how it happens. You can faint, regain yourself, seem fine, but all the while the damage is being done, inside your head where no one can see it or know it, not even you. Or at least that’s how it happened to me.

  Turns out I was in death’s shadow all day. I called Mark, but only because Helen insisted and stood there watching me do it. He pulled the seat belt around me in the back of the taxi before putting his own on and then we set off home, him asking lots of questions: Had I eaten lunch? No. Are there bugs going around nursery again? Yes, always. Am I sleeping properly? Obviously not. I batted back answers easily enough, no big deal. Then I buried myself into the wonderfully warm place between his chest and his shoulder while his hand cradled my face. As blood started to swamp my brain, I pushed my ear closer to him and listened to his heartbeat one last time. The comforting, rhythmic beat sounding so strong while all the time mine was fading. I know now, it was the last time I would feel his strong arms holding me, protecting me. He had no idea I was already gone – well, as good as. Already in that ethereal place between life and death where the chances of being saved are seriously slim. You just don’t imagine it will start to happen on the back seat of a cab do you? Surrounded by that stale smell and sitting on the crumbs of the last passenger’s cheap supermarket sandwich.

  I still felt fine when Mark got me home. I walked from the car – noticing Dad had already made a start on de-mossing the path, bless him. Mercifully he and Glo were both out – imagine the fuss otherwise – that’s when Mark gave me the paracetamol, tucked me up in bed and told me to stop stressing about whatever I was stressing about. If only I’d been braver and checked in with Sarah Blake I might have been carted off to hospital. There might have been emergency surgery. The pressure the blood was causing in my skull might have been relieved. I might have stood a chance. I might never have had that stroke. Now I have to ask myself, during my last hours of brain function, did my one great attempted act of kindness cause my death? If I’m being kind to myself the answer is, probably. If I’m being honest, almost certainly.

  Now the fact I am lingering is the scariest bit. Do other people linger? Is my beloved and long-departed Aunt Marigold going to appear on the end of the bed in a minute to talk me through the protocol of being dead? Is this normal? No way of knowing. The only logical reason I can think of is so I can witness the goodbyes, but how cruel is that? I’m not particularly religious but I’m also sure whoever is making the decision to keep me here wouldn’t willingly inflict that torture on me. But being here feels right, intended, like something else is coming that I need to confront. Otherwise there would just be truly nothing, surely? I don’t want to think about what that thing might be. It’s too big and requires more brain power than I can possibly muster right now.

  Then my thoughts are blown apart and sent smashing into my bedroom walls. Glo is awake and she’s coming to check on me.

  21

  Jessie

  ‘If we’re going in, we’re doing it my way, OK? And the only time I want to hear from you is when it’s time to pay.’ Claire is eyeballing Jessie at very close range, ready to pounce at the slightest hint that she might renege on their deal. The two of them are sitting in Jessie’s Landover outside The White Gallery with five minutes to spare before their appointment time. And Claire is keen to recap on the terms of the tightly negotiated agreement. ‘I am choosing whatever I want to wear and you won’t be interfering or arguing about it. Are we clear?’

  ‘I said you could choose the dress and I mean it, but all I ask is that you listen to Helen. She knows what she’s talking about and she can make you look… better.’ Jessie is choosing her words very carefully indeed. The fallout after the hen do was monumental. Claire has only agreed to resume her bridesmaid duties aft
er Jessie delivered an unreserved and grovelling apology in person and in front of the whole family, performing her biggest climb-down since she was overheard lying to a school friend about what her dad did for a living.

  ‘It’s just, I think Mum and Dad are pretty unimpressed with you right now and they have asked me to let them know how today goes.’ Claire’s got her and her proud smirk says she knows it. ‘I mean, you can’t have missed the fact that Dad made himself scarce after your little speech? It’s doesn’t normally take him two hours to go and buy the newspaper, does it? And is it me or did he pretty much ignore you for the afternoon when he eventually did come back? I’m not sure what was worse actually, that or Mum just sitting there in total silence, not knowing what to say or think of you and how you treated us that night.’

  ‘OK, I get it, let’s not relive the whole thing please. I have apologised. And trust me, their reaction was not lost on me.’ The apology was supposed to be the easy way out – blame the stress of wedding planning then move the hell on. Now looking at the smile on Claire’s face, Jessie is wondering if this will be easy at all. Did she miss a golden opportunity to come clean, lay bare a few insecurities and appeal to her family for some help and understanding? Instead of pitting herself against her own mother and sister in the battle for her father’s support and sympathy – one throw-down she knows she is never going to win.

  But there is a faint flicker of pleasure too at what she held back. How could she stand there in front of them all and pretend she was wrong about Claire in the orange dress? There are climb-downs and then there’s entering the land of total make-believe. Besides, Claire’s not that stupid and has had a frustratingly hot radar for Jessie’s bullshit since they were kids. Probably best not to appear completely insincere. But she can’t deny it hurts a great deal that her own parents don’t want to be around her or talk to her right now. The two people on this earth biologically programmed to forgive practically anything she could throw at them, and yet they are ever so slightly rejecting her. Too proud and too lovely to just come out and say it, they’re making their point by not returning her phone calls and easing themselves even further into the background of this wedding. Jessie should be pleased, but despite all her bluster and big mouthing, she’s not. She’s ashamed. Why do her family always bring out the absolute worst in her, she wonders, as she sits here now, knowing one more clash with Claire will be the end of her.

  Her sister is still prattling on about the way it’s going to be when we get in there, so puffed up and full of herself, revelling in having the upper hand. There is nothing as effective as a nice bit of family fall-out to flatten all the excitement of a forthcoming wedding. Jessie can still feel the heaviness in her chest, the regret weighing her down. The questions resurfacing to make her wince over and over. Why did I do it? Why couldn’t I have just let it go? What was the worst that could have happened? A few unkind sniggers? A whispered put-down or two? If Claire was game enough to turn up in that dress, I should have let her deal with it herself. Jessie is well aware of how stupid she’s been. That if she had just kept her mouth shut that night then any unkindness would have been attributed to Adam’s friends, not her. And now she’s torn between wondering how she could have treated her mum and Claire so badly, so publically, and the uncomfortable thought that Adam must never know what happened. As far as he’s aware, it was the roaring success he planned it to be. Lovely Tilly is on side to maintain that particular lie. She just needs to pray that no one else squeals to him about what went down. Add to that angst the sense of dread at the impending shopping trip she and Claire are about to share and Jessie’s nerves are not in a good place.

  So, there may be a deal between them but that doesn’t mean Jessie is about to relinquish all control. She has taken the liberty of furnishing Helen with a few of the facts about Claire ahead of time. Namely, her lack of any sense of style and her almost impressive ability to make anything look cheap, regardless of its actual cost. She has also explained to Helen that she would like to see her in something understated and elegant for the rehearsal dinner, wedding day and wedding party. Whatever it takes to pull this off, Jessie is happy to pay.

  And Helen is not about to disappoint. As the two women step into the immaculate boutique – Jessie working hard not to focus on her sister’s dirty opened-toed sandals – Jessie can see she has already prepared a rail of bang-on-brief dresses. Nothing sheer, nothing spray-on, no revealing cutaway fabrics, no garish colours, just a beautiful rail of chic floor-length gowns in a subtle palette of soft metallics and chalky pastels. She has also included a few discreet cover-ups in cosy fake fur, embellished lace and layered tulle. This is going to be OK. Jessie might even relax. Helen is on the case and if anyone can handle Claire, it’s her.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies. You must be Claire?’ Helen motions to the two of them to take a seat while she moves the rail into the fitting room.

  ‘Yes, nice to meet you Helen. I can’t wait to start trying on!’

  ‘Well, let’s get cracking then, shall we? I already know a lot about the wedding obviously, so I have chosen things that are very much in keeping with what Jessie will be wearing and the colour palette of the day. Why don’t you take a look, see what you like and I’ll help you into anything you’d like to try on.’

  ‘Got it!’ Claire stomps over to the rail and begins to rummage through the dresses just like you might on a competitive Saturday afternoon bargain hunting in TK Maxx.

  Jessie watches, determined not to say a word. There are at least eight dresses on this rail that she would be very happy to see Claire wear and a few that, while they wouldn’t be her first choice, are still a vast improvement on anything Claire might choose herself. But Claire is already at the end of the rail, having failed to pause over a single gown.

  ‘Mmm, they’re all very nice, Helen, but I had something else in mind.’

  Claire is grinning from ear to ear, knowing she is about to send Jessie over the edge.

  ‘Share your thoughts, Claire, please?’ prompts Helen. ‘There are lots more bridesmaids’ gowns here that you can try. Is there a particular style or cut you wanted to try? A shape you feel more comfortable in that I haven’t included?’

  ‘I want to wear white.’

  ‘What!’ Jessie is immediately on her feet. ‘Are you actually kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I don’t like pinks and lemons and all these girly colours. White looks good on me, especially with a spray tan, so that’s what I want.’

  A stunned silence falls between the three women, Helen’s eyes flitting backwards and forwards between the two sisters while Jessie stands rigid, furious tears beginning to irritate the back of her eyelids. Does the actual moron not even know she shouldn’t be wearing white, or is this another one of her giant wind-ups? The fury pumping through Jessie is making it impossible to work out. It’s going to have to be Helen who speaks up. If Jessie opens her mouth now the torrent of abuse that will pour out of her will be brutal. Mercifully, Helen sees that.

  ‘I’m sure you know, Claire, that traditionally white is a colour worn only by the bride – a way of marking her out as special on her wedding day. You don’t want to spend the entire day being mistaken for the bride, do you?’ Helen’s voice is light and breezy, like she is offering the sort of kindly advice that is sure to be taken.

  It’s not.

  ‘Oh don’t worry, Jessie is happy for me to wear whatever I like, aren’t you Jessie?’

  ‘I didn’t say wear a bloody wedding dress, Claire!’ Jessie’s forced composure is rapidly unravelling.

  Claire takes a slow, controlled inhalation of breath, looks Jessie directly in the eye and with all the composure of a serial killer, delivers the fatal blow. ‘I forgot to ask by the way, what did Adam say about the hen-do?’

  In the wonderful fictional world inside Jessie’s mind, her hard, bony fist is connecting with Claire’s jaw, catching her completely by surprise as she punches the pleasure right off her face.

/>   ‘Helen, please let Claire try on whatever she likes, anything she feels comfortable in.’ You know what, sod her. If she wants to look like an idiot, who am I to stand in her way, crack on luv, enjoy. And when everyone laughs at you, you can deal with it.

  Jessie sits back, unbelts her cashmere YSL jacket, drops her quilted Chanel bag to the floor and unleashes a breathy sigh that could blow out a candle. Then she spends the following hour watching Claire try on every conceivable shape and style of dress in the place – each one looking more ludicrous than the last. Helen is trying her absolute best to steer her towards the less obviously bridal styles – plainer gowns, without trains – but of course, Claire is having none of it. What she is having is way more fun than Jessie ever did choosing her own gowns. It’s her princess moment. She’s twirling from one side of the room to the other, gathering up great armfuls of tulle then dropping them dramatically as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. She’s pretending to hold a bouquet of flowers in front of her, walking slowly up an imaginary aisle and at one point even asks Helen to stick a veil on her head just for fun.

  Why is she doing this, wonders Jessie. Is this wedding day by proxy? It’s tragic, truly tragic but the longer this bizarre scene is played out in front of Jessie, the less angry she feels. It’s almost quite liberating watching Claire spin around that fitting room without a care in the world. A girl, as far as Jessie can tell, with so little going for her and yet… far happier than Jessie feels right now. She truly believes she looks beautiful. There is no self-doubt. So whatever warped sense of adult make-believe is going on in that head of hers, Jessie’s letting her indulge her frothy fantasies, whatever it takes not to be the bad guy for once. And extraordinary as it seems, her sister is coming to her wedding wearing a wedding dress. A new all-time low has been reached.