“He was at Laura’s,” he said, “just watching the telly. No warning, nothing.”
“Was she there at the time?” I asked. Please God, let her have been spared that. Trying to live on afterward, trying to manage the guilt and the pain and the horror of it all . . . I would not wish that on another human being. I would happily assume her burden if I could. I’d barely notice it, I’m sure, on top of my own.
“She was upstairs, getting ready to go out,” he said. “Got a hell of a shock when she came down and found him on the sofa like that.”
So it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t have saved him, even if she’d tried. It was fine—well, as fine as death could be. I considered the facts further.
“He was alone at the time death occurred, then,” I said, intrigued. “Do the police suspect foul play?”
He choked on his halloumi burger and I had to pass him a glass of water.
“For fuck’s sake, Eleanor!” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “it was just something that popped into my mind.”
“Aye, well, sometimes best not to say the first thing that pops into your mind out loud, eh?” he said quietly, not looking at me.
I felt terrible. I felt terrible for Sammy and for his family, I felt terrible for upsetting Raymond without meaning to, I felt terrible for the waiter and his girlfriend and their poor little baby. All this death, all this suffering, happening to nice people, good people who’d done nothing to deserve it, and no one able to stop it . . . Tears came, and the more I tried to fight them, the more they came. The lump in my throat was burning, burning like fire, no please, not fire . . .
Raymond had slid around to the seat beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. He spoke in a soft, low voice.
“Ah please, Eleanor, don’t cry. I’m really sorry . . . I didn’t mean to snap at you, I really didn’t . . . please, Eleanor . . .”
The strange thing—something I’d never expected—was that it actually made you feel better when someone put their arm around you, held you close. Why? Was it some mammalian thing, this need for human contact? He was warm and solid. I could smell his deodorant, and the detergent he used to wash his clothes—over both scents there lay a faint patina of cigarettes. A Raymond smell. I leaned in closer.
Eventually, I managed to regain control of my emotions, and the embarrassing tears abated. I sniffed, and he returned to his own side of the table, rummaged in his jacket pocket and passed me a packet of tissues. I smiled at him, took one and blew my nose. I was aware that I was making a most unladylike honking sound, but what else could I do?
“Sorry,” I said.
He gave me a feeble smile.
“I know,” he said. “It’s really hard, isn’t it?”
I took a moment to process everything that he’d told me.
“How’s Laura? What about Keith and Gary?”
“They’re in bits, as you’d expect.”
“I’m going to attend the funeral,” I said, decisively.
“Me too,” he said. He slurped on his cola. “He was a funny old bloke, wasn’t he?”
I smiled, swallowed down the lump in my throat. “He was nice,” I said. “You could tell that straightaway, even when he was unconscious on the pavement.”
Raymond nodded. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “At least he had a few weeks with his family after the accident, eh? Good weeks—his wee party, Keith’s fortieth. He got a chance to spend time with all the people he loved.”
I nodded. “Can I ask you something, Raymond?” I said.
He looked at me.
“What’s the etiquette for funerals? Are mourners still required to wear black, and are hats de rigueur?”
He shrugged. “No idea . . . just wear whatever you want, I guess. Sammy’s not the kind of guy who’d be bothered about that sort of thing, is he?”
I pondered this. “I’ll wear black,” I said, “to be on the safe side. No hat, though.”
“No, I’m not wearing a hat either,” said Raymond, and we actually laughed. We laughed far longer than his feeble witticism merited, just because it felt good.
We didn’t speak on the walk back to the office. The weak sun was in our faces, and I held mine up to it for a moment, like a cat. Raymond was scuffing through the light carpet of fallen leaves, his red training shoes flashing through all the bronze. A gray squirrel bounded in fluid semicircles across our path, and there was that almost autumnal smell in the air, apples and wool. We didn’t even speak when we got inside. Raymond took both my hands in his and squeezed them, just for a second, and then released them at my sides. He went upstairs and I walked around the corner to my office.
I felt like a newly laid egg, all swishy and gloopy inside, and so fragile that the slightest pressure could break me. There was already an e-mail waiting for me by the time I sat down at my desk.
C U Friday Rx
Was a response required? I suspected it was, so I just sent this:
X
23
I was getting the hang of this shopping business. I had returned to the same department store and, after seeking advice from a different shop assistant, had purchased a black dress, black tights and black shoes. This was my first dress since childhood, and it felt strange to have my legs on public display. She had tried to steer me toward vertiginous heels again—why are these people so incredibly keen on crippling their female customers? I began to wonder if cobblers and chiropractors had established some fiendish cartel. On reflection, though, she was correct in stating that the fitted black dress did not really “go” with either my new boots (too informal, apparently) or my Velcro work shoes (it appeared that nothing did, much to my surprise; I had thought that they were the very definition of versatility).
We compromised with some improbably named “kitten heels,” which, contrary to what one might think, had nothing to do with cats. They were heels which were easy to walk in, but which were, nonetheless “very feminine.” On what basis was this decided, and by whom? Did it matter? I made a mental note to research gender politics and gender identity at some point. There would be a book about it—there were books about everything.
On this trip, I’d even bought a handbag, judging that my shopper probably wouldn’t be appropriate for a funeral. The fabric was imprinted with a very jaunty pattern, and I felt it might stand out at a graveside. The wheels could also be a bit squeaky.
The bag I finally settled on was impractical, being far too small to carry, for example, either a hardback book or a bottle of Glen’s. I examined it when I got home, stroking its glossy leather outer and silky fabric lining. It had a long gold chain which you simply placed over your shoulder, leaving your hands free.
At further horrendous expense, I’d also bought a black wool coat, single-breasted, knee-length, fitted. It was warm and plain, characteristics that I found attractive. Looking at all my purchases, spread across my bed for closer examination, I assuaged my concerns about the cost by reassuring myself that the entire outfit could be worn again and again, either together or separately. I now owned what I believed was called a “capsule wardrobe,” clothes which were appropriate for most social events that the musician and I might attend together. I’d look right in them, on his arm. An evening at the ballet, perhaps? The opening night of a new play? I knew he’d be opening up uncharted worlds for me. At least now I had the appropriate shoes for them.