The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 7
She locks herself in one of the two small cubicles, leans her head back against the cold wall tiles and lets the tears flood down her face, cursing herself for thinking she could do this. She tries to stifle the sound of her sobs as they echo around the room, drowned out anyway by the loud celebrations that are still going on back in the hall. The sadness is suddenly so overwhelming – the realisation that she and Phillip will never celebrate fifty years together, will never have a surprise cake presented to them in front of a room full of well-wishing friends. They’ll never do anything else together. He’s dead and he’s never coming back. She’s alone and always will be now.
When she gets home tonight there will be no one to kiss goodnight, no warm lips softly pressed against hers, no hand to reach out to in bed, no one to share a hot cup of tea with and reflect on the day. It is all so unfair. Why her? Why him? She had played totally by the rules. She married a man she loved, who loved her. They had a happy honest marriage with no agenda other than to care for and support each other and raise their children in a bubble of protective love.
There’s no way she can walk back through the hall now, her face must be a mess, and as far as she is aware, there is no back exit out of here. How ridiculous, she thinks, a grown woman, nearly four years on, and still not able to do something as simple as share a glass of wine with new neighbours and potential friends – friends she knows she needs to make.
She hears the creak of the outer door to the ladies’ push open and instinctively lifts her hand to her mouth to muffle the sobs. Her body is shaking internally from the effort of trying to get herself under control.
‘Helen, it’s Susan, are you OK in there? Helen?’
‘I’m fine, Susan. Please go on out, I’ll be there in a minute.’ The only thing possibly worse than crying in the loos like this is having a total stranger witness the horrible big messiness of it all.
‘I’m not going to do that, Helen. Please come out.’
‘I just need a minute Susan, please.’
‘I’ll wait.’
That’s it, no choice now but to open the door and face the embarrassment and probably better to do it before anyone else joins them in the loos. Helen unlocks the stiff bolt and slowly pulls the door towards her. Susan is standing right there; there is absolutely no avoiding her.
‘I’m sorry Helen, are you OK?’ Not waiting for an answer, she wraps an arm around Helen’s shoulder and pulls her out of the cubicle, guiding her towards the sink so she can start sorting out the mess that was her make-up. Helen wets a handful of tissue under the cold water tap and starts to blot her mascara away, enjoying the cool feeling under eyes that are sore and puffy now.
‘I lost my husband, Phillip, four years ago to lung cancer. This is really the first time I have come to anything on my own. I wish I hadn’t now obviously.’
‘I’m so sorry, had you been married long?’
‘Thirty-five years, although I met him long before, when I was just a child really.’
‘Come on,’ says Susan, ‘let’s go back outside and get you a glass of wine and some nice cheese and you can tell me all about him.’
Susan takes Helen’s arm and gently steers her out of the ladies’ to a small trestle table at the back of the hall, the only one no one else is sitting at.
‘How did you meet?’ starts Susan once they are sat down together.
‘Our families lived in the same street so we’d spend hours playing with all the other local children,’ begins Helen, ‘doing everything we could to stay out as late as possible. Then I did what most women did in those days I suppose, I married my first serious boyfriend – that was Phillip.’ Now that she’s talking about him, Helen can feel the tension that was so tightly balled up inside her at the beginning of the evening start to slowly ebb away.
‘Everything was simpler then. I compare my life then to my daughter Betsy’s today and hers is much harder in many ways. She lives miles away from me in Birmingham with her boyfriend Jacob. She works so hard, all the time, and I worry who is looking after her? Where is her support? Who can she lean on when she needs it? It’s much harder for young working women now I think.’
‘Yes, baby in one arm, laptop in the other, flying between the office and the nursery they’re paying a small fortune for. Both partners earning, but spending it just as quickly. I know, Helen, I have a career-mad daughter too. The things she expects of that poor husband of hers, well, I’d never say this to her obviously but I’m amazed she gets away with it.’ Susan is definitely warming to her theme, sending a fountain of blue cheese crumbs across the table as she talks.
‘Funny, Phillip and I never discussed how the work was divided, it just happened naturally in the same way it did for my parents. I ran the house, he provided for us, we got on with having a family. Phillip never changed a nappy, or got up in the night to a screaming toddler and he was a total stranger at the school gates but it worked and we were both so happy. I never resented my role, I loved it.’
Why is talking aloud about Phillip so much easier than the solitude of her private memories, the ones she relives night after night? wonders Helen. She might not agree with everything Susan is saying tonight but the female company is very welcome. And the worst has happened now so she may as well try to enjoy herself.
‘I used to have my daily routine down pat. I cooked all our meals from scratch – Phillip loved my cottage pie – did all the laundry and cleaned that house from top to bottom at least twice a week. And we never had any credit cards or bank loans. If we couldn’t afford it, we didn’t have it.’
‘Try saying that to someone in their thirties today, they’d think you’re mad. If they haven’t got the latest iPhone and three foreign holidays booked, then their lives aren’t worth living.’
‘Every summer we’d pack up the car and head to a caravan park in Cornwall. It was the cheapest holiday ever, but the kids loved it. They spent every day building sandcastles on the beach, whatever the weather, eating sandy sandwiches and begging for ice creams. Then in the evening it would be fish and chips and card games, all huddled around the tiny fold-out dining table that turned into a bed, in the same caravan we always booked – perhaps a trip to the clubhouse if we were feeling flush. I wish I could turn the clock back and do it all again, I really do.’ Helen can feel the weight of every one of those memories made real for her, a cruel, contorted mix of the happiness she once felt and the desperate sadness at knowing such treasured moments are long gone now.
‘Look at it this way, Helen, you’re still young enough to meet someone else.’ Susan on the other hand is all cheerful optimism.
‘That would be great if I wanted to meet someone else, I suppose, but I don’t. That was never the plan, Susan. I wanted to grow old with Phillip, no one else.’ The lump is back in Helen’s throat.
‘I know what it’s like to lose someone,’ ploughs on Susan. ‘I’ve been divorced so I know exactly how you feel. Actually, I must introduce you to Roger. He lost his wife several years ago.’
‘Please don’t do that,’ says Helen reaching a restraining arm towards Susan. The thought of having another man’s eyes on her, assessing her potential for something she doesn’t desire, is making Helen want to bolt for the door. Even the most innocent friendship with a man is beyond her right now. She wouldn’t know what to say to him, how to act or manage his expectations and the mere suggestion of it is scrambling her thoughts, reigniting all her panic.
‘Oh! There you are, Roger.’ Susan is glancing over her shoulder at the table right next to them at a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late fifties who is sat close enough to have overheard their entire conversation.
Before the evening can get any more embarrassing Helen gets to her feet and starts to excuse herself, to escape.
‘I’m going to head off, I think, Susan, if you don’t mind?’ Never more has she wanted to be back in the cosseted safety of her own home, drawing the curtains and shutting out all unwanted intrusions.
‘Not before you’ve met Roger, Helen. Roger, say hello to Helen, she owns The White Gallery in the village.’ Already Helen can feel her palms pricking and while she knows it’s rude she busies them collecting her things, avoiding Roger’s friendly outstretched hand.
‘Lovely to meet you, Helen,’ Roger is forced to talk to the back of her head. ‘If you’re heading that way, I’ll walk you back, I’m just a little further on from you.’
‘That really isn’t necessary, thank you, Roger. I’m only two minutes away.’ It’s hardly the outgoing approach Helen was planning tonight but she needs to cut this off.
‘Really, I insist.’ Roger is grabbing his coat and attempting to help Helen on with hers. She knows they’ve reached the point where only real rudeness will deflect him now and she doesn’t trust herself to attempt a further decline without the tears bubbling up again. She has no choice but to capitulate, much to Susan’s obvious delight.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Helen,’ Susan adds through an enormous smile. ‘I’m just around the corner at Roseberry Cottage if ever you want to, you know, talk.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure I will. Goodnight.’ Helen is moving towards the door at speed, forcing Roger to jump ahead of her to open it.
The two of them make the short walk back through the village towards The White Gallery, Helen’s mind clambering for things to say beyond the obvious trite reflections on the evening, her body rigid under her coat at the thought of him touching her in even the most polite way.
As they approach her front door Roger turns to Helen and smiles. ‘It’s not easy, is it? People can say some incredibly crass things at times. Well-meaning, of course, but until you’ve been in our position you just don’t know how hard it is.’ If he’s inviting her intimacy, he’s not going to get it. Helen is as clenched and unyielding as the balled fists at her sides.
Roger pauses for a moment, presumably sensing her deep discomfort before adding; ‘I think your husband, wherever he is Helen, is probably very proud of you tonight.’
It’s a lovely thing to say and exactly what she needs to hear but Helen doesn’t want to dwell on the subject with a near total stranger.
‘Thank you Roger, that means an awful lot, as I suspect you know.’ She allows herself a fragile smile before reaching for her keys and heading straight through her front door.
Helen climbs the stairs to her apartment above the boutique feeling just a little impressed with herself now. She heads straight for the bedroom, exhausted from the sheer effort tonight has required of her. She carefully removes all her make-up, brushes her teeth and drops her clothes into the laundry bin. As she climbs in to bed she gently kisses the framed photograph of Phillip that sits on her bedside table, just as she does every night. But there are no more tears this evening and she is asleep moments later.
7
Dolly
Sweat is sliding down the sides of Dolly’s puce face as she fights for air, barely able to remain upright through the force of her own breath escaping her lungs. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably, every drop of lactic acid gone from her body after another painful forty-five minute training session.
She arrived home from work at 8 p.m. tonight to the tiny two-bed flat she shares with Josh, shattered from another brain-numbing day trying to make crap products sound exciting. But with no sign of him, she’s decided to get her workout done without his usual running commentary on how pathetic her press-ups are. After chucking her pile of work guff onto the floor – the cupcake strategy will just have to wait – she got ready for a double hit of her usual high intensity interval training – the first of five sessions she’s scheduled for this week.
The yoga mat is in its usual position in the small space between their breakfast bar and dining table. She’s changed into an old pair of trainers, shorts and a sports bra and her laptop is open and logged on to The Body Coach YouTube channel. Despite every inch of her tired body begging to collapse on the sofa, she hits play on another gruelling session, getting her one step closer to her eight and half stone wedding target weight – nice and skinny for her five foot eight inch frame.
The vision of the fat kid she once was is all the motivation she needs tonight, that and a looming wedding day of course. Age twelve and sporting a triple chin that melted into her neck, arms that bulged body-builder-like out of every top she owned, a barrel of a belly that engulfed her waist and wobbled its way through her all-girls school with a life of its own and an arse that was always five seconds behind the rest of her, such was its size. Then came the bullying, the whispered jokes behind her back, the look of disgust on the skinny girls’ faces, the friends she never made just because she was bigger; the memory of it all is as fresh in her mind now as it ever was. She can never go back to that, no matter what.
Now for the sodding cupcakes. Having binned the entire box on the way out of the office so there was absolutely no chance of letting a morsel pass her lips, Dolly has the tricky task of naming twenty-six varieties she no longer has in front of her, as well as writing a press strategy to sell the bloody things. Should she text Tilly? Her whipsmart friend would have this nailed in no time. Nope. No point. It’s cocktail hour in Tilly’s world and she’ll be out schmoozing clients. In hindsight, perhaps taking a quick pic of those cupcakes might have been clever. Whatever, Josh is due home any minute and she wants to wrap this up quickly, there are more important things to do, including another email to Brides magazine. They need to feature this wedding, her future happiness depends on it. Land this coverage, demonstrate her then undeniable styling credentials and boom! A route out of the misery of her own dead-end job would be hers.
She scans through her saved documents on the laptop, thinking there must be something vaguely relevant in there. She runs the cursor down a long list of failed pitch presentations – one for a Greek wine company (undrinkable), a new range of savoury donuts with flavours like chicken liver and blue cheese that no one was ever going to eat, some deluded client who thought reversible tights were the next great thing and then finally, a cupcake brand. Yes!
Dolly remembers this one from about a year ago, they had a decent product but nowhere near enough money to launch the brand effectively, at least that was The Dick’s excuse when they failed to win the business. She opens the document and starts to scan its contents. Joy of joys! It’s all here. Dolly has seen enough cupcakes in her time to know every company essentially sells the same product, they just give them different names. This is too easy. She starts to copy and paste huge swathes of the old document, lifting the list of names and flavours straight into her new one. The Tuxedo, a rich blend of white and dark chocolate ganache, The Cakey Perry, a light vanilla sponge smothered in pink buttercream and scattered with multi-coloured mini jellies and sweeties, The Florabunda, decorated with an elaborate buttercream piped flower and The Bananarama with its chunks of fresh banana swirled into rich salted caramel, the list goes on. Everything she needs is here, including a long list of press contacts on all the relevant foodie blogs, websites and weekly print titles plus an outline of a half-decent social media campaign that will get these cupcakes all over Instagram. Twenty minutes later and it’s job done! There is no point agonising over this because let’s face it, this is an American client, they’ll want to rewrite the whole lot anyway once six vice presidents of everything have read it.
She fires off an email containing the new strategy to The Dick – that will keep him busy while she’s at The White Gallery in the morning – then checks her inbox, hopeful there might be something from Brides magazine. For God knows how many weeks she has been relentlessly campaigning to the editor’s PA, trying to get her wedding featured on the prestigious magazine’s glossy pages, convinced it might somehow kick-start a new career in styling, enabling her to give the long-desired two-fingered salute to The Dick. But despite a running total of fifty-six emails, twelve phone calls, one embarrassing and highly ill-judged attempt to actually get in to the Brides office and a small fortune spent
on tickets to Brides reader events in the hopes of actually chatting to Annabel, the ice-cold PA, Dolly has got precisely nowhere. If she made this much effort at work, the agency might finally be profitable.
She makes a mental note to send the PA a box of the cupcakes tomorrow, there are loads knocking around the office, then begins another shamefully sycophantic email to her.
* * *
Dear Annabel,
* * *
Can I just start by saying I absolutely love your piece in this issue on how powder blue is the new blush – I couldn’t agree more! You’re such a wonderful writer.
* * *
I wanted to update you on my wedding plans in the hope you might suggest it to the Editor for possible inclusion in the magazine – which of course you know I adore. All of my ideas have been taken from Brides and I simply couldn’t have planned this wedding without your expert help so thank you so much.
* * *
We’ve decided to turn the running order of the day on its head. Josh, my fiancé – who shoots some of your fashion stories – and I will be hosting a large dinner party reception first in the grounds of Willow Manor in the Cotswolds. Starting early evening, the dinner will be served in a glamorous Sperry tent, just like the one in your Real Weddings Special. Guests will enter along a festooned walkway, dotted with globe lanterns before they are seated on large banqueting tables for sharing platters, all organic of course. As bespoke is such a hot trend right now, there will be personalised menus for each guest with their names hand painted on the top. Then we’re having a party area with a dance floor and giant mirror balls suspended above it. I’ve hired the same band you had at your Designer Ball at Goodwood last year! We’re having a chic white champagne bar that leads into a chill out snug with giant day beds and reindeer skins to cosy up under.