The Husband Who Refused to Die Read online

  I lie on the cold sheet, still keeping to ‘my’ side. The tears come. Slow, helpless tears. I haven’t cried for a while – as if I’ve run dry. In the beginning it happened a lot, often when I least expected it – grief hijacking me, still wearing that mask I couldn’t pull off.

  I want Dan to visit me in my dreams, though I want him here with me more – before I close my eyes. I don’t want the click of the lamp switch to be the last sound.

  I miss our little ritual. ‘Good night, Dancer,’ I’d say, cuddling into his firm chest before we drifted off. ‘Goodnight, Miss Silly Socks,’ he’d respond. They were pet names from childhood we both loved to hate. Dan’s mum called him Dancer because, apparently, he never kept still, always jigging away. My dad called me Miss Silly Socks – I guess because I’d inherited his daftness. Out of habit, I’d actually said ‘Good night, Dancer’ out loud a few times and the silence and darkness that devoured the words was agonising. I nearly say it again, as my wine-soaked mind messes with me.

  But I’m not sure I want to keep saying ‘goodnight’.

  Maybe I can bid him adieu – like Ashley did to me all those years ago.

  CHAPTER 3

  16 months later

  I’m in my bedroom reading the letter I keep hidden in the ripped lining of my padded jewel box when I hear the familiar knocking noise, the tippy-tap-tap that heralds Sunny’s arrival. She refuses to ring doorbells.

  I shove the letter in my handbag – a nervous glow of secrecy adding to my anxiety about the evening ahead – then stub my toe on the bedroom door, the sharp pain forcing out a tirade of expletives.

  It’s too late to cancel the date. Or retract the lie.

  ‘Hi, sweetness.’ Sunny’s at the door, a joyous grin revealing the Madonna gap between her two front teeth, her petite figure lost in a huge suede jacket and a long, frilly blouse in a riot of clashing colours.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, smile unsteady. ‘Come in.’ I yell up the stairs. ‘Eleanor, Auntie’s here.’

  Sunny leans in for a hug. ‘You smell lovely,’ she says breezily. It’s my usual Dior Dune perfume (or Dior-gasm, as Dan called it). I rarely wear anything else; just up the dose for special occasions.

  ‘And you look exquisite.’ She sweeps back to view my drop-waist tunic. My shoulders are rigid with tension, everything below them double knotted.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sunny drifts behind me up the hallway, declines my offer of a herbal tea. Her eyes scan the kitchen, no doubt noting the mess. Wasn’t like this when Dan was around. What would he think?

  I did marvel at my ability to transform a huge, sleek and shiny room with all its space and time-saving gadgets into a total bloody mess. But Sunny’s in no position to judge. Clutter fills every inch in her little Victorian semi.

  She sits perfectly still, bright façade reflecting in the glass of the kitchen table. The gaudiness makes me queasy. Or it is nerves?

  ‘Is that new?’ Sunny’s eyeing my outfit again.

  ‘No, I’ve had it a while,’ I say, voice lost to the clatter as I put a sauce-crusted plate into the dishwasher. I’m not sure why I fib; maybe because I don’t want to risk exposing the bigger lie by appearing to have made too much effort. Perhaps because I suspect she’s lying too – about liking my bland tunic. Our dress sense couldn’t be more different; hers all boho, different and daring, mine safer than a primary school playground – tops, leggings and blouses in muted colours, labelled ‘suitable for a staid woman of a certain age clinging on to a size twelve thanks to gruelling step classes and occasional ‘no carbs’ days. Sunny made the statement, while I whispered, occasionally mumbled, in the background. Adventurous for me was brown boots with a black handbag. I played safe with my hair too, occasionally growing it a few inches, and feeling a rare thrill of bravery as it tickled my collarbone.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, it’s fine thanks,’ I say, regretting I’d taken so long getting ready, as if that extra sweep of blusher or dab of concealer would make anything better – or easier.

  ‘Help yourself to anything you fancy tonight.’ I gesture to some flapjacks and kiwis on the worktop.

  ‘How sweet of you. Have you been cooking something nice?’

  ‘No, it’s … just some tea for Eleanor.’ I turn my back to clear more clutter, resisting another fib. It’s another pre-packed pasta dish plated up for my daughter to microwave. Imagining Sunny’s despair over its lack of nutritional value, and the subsequent depletion of vitamins from the nuclear blast, I grab an apple from the fruit bowl, thumping it down next to the meal, hoping for some redemption.

  ‘I’ve bought some oils – thought I could give Elle a massage, relieve some of the tension in her shoulders from sitting so long at that computer,’ Sunny says. ‘Oh yes …’ she roots in her bag ‘ … I’ve handed in my notice. I’ve got several more reflexology patients, so no more waitressing from next week.’

  ‘Great.’ Did that mean she was staying in Tetford?

  Sunny places two small glass bottles on the table, a train of bangles clanking as they disappear into the cavernous cuff of her blouse. My mobile rings.

  ‘Hi, my lovely.’ It’s great to hear Imogen’s voice. I’ve missed her terribly since her husband Ben’s promotion prompted their move to France.

  ‘Hi … just a moment.’ I excuse myself and head to the living room, closing the door. I perch on the corner sofa. ‘How’s Reims?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Just wanted to wish you luck for the date.’

  ‘Thanks. I need it. I’ve got a big fat knot in my stomach. I can’t believe I’m putting myself through it again.’ And I couldn’t. I’d loathed the last one, carrying Dan, disbelief and a heavy conscience through the stilted, getting-to-know-you talk.

  ‘Just enjoy it, my lovely,’ Imogen urges. ‘Least it’s not a stranger this time.’

  ‘I guess – if you count seeing him for about five minutes at the office.’

  ‘Is anyone looking after Eleanor?’

  I lower my voice. ‘Yes … Sunny’s here.’

  ‘You mean, you’ve asked her – after she sabotaged the last one?’

  ‘I don’t really have a choice, do I? My other babysitter pissed off to France.’ Imogen laughs and I imagine her big gummy smile, which makes her nose wrinkle in the middle.

  It took months to pluck up the courage to face a first date and ask Sunny to babysit. She obliged, but it didn’t take a supersleuth to spot her disapproval. She called during dessert to say Eleanor was very unwell, so I dashed home early, only to find my daughter queasy after overdosing on granola bars. I didn’t get cross. Sunny had done me a favour really. Sales rep Nigel had bored me through two courses, then shown me his hernia scar while I was eating profiteroles.

  ‘Seriously, Eleanor refuses sitters now. Sunny’s family, so it doesn’t count apparently.’ I hesitate. ‘Anyway, I fibbed – said I’m going out with Tash.’ Silence. ‘Well, I am! It just happens Tash’s new boyfriend’s bringing his divorced friend along too.’

  ‘Won’t Eleanor let it out?’

  ‘No – I’ve fibbed to her too.’

  ‘Tut, tut. The dreaded white lies again.’ Imogen adopts her familiar tone of mild rebuke.

  ‘It was easier.’

  ‘Maybe … but … well, better not keep you. Give you time to paint on some ‘snog me’ lips!’

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. We often discussed which bits of each other’s bodies we’d trade. Top of Imogen’s list was my ‘innie’ waist and blue eyes (she described her own as pond-weed green), while I coveted her 36DDs and happily confessed to an acute case of lip envy. Imogen’s were plump, with a cupid’s bow to die for, while mine were pathetically thin.

  I crane my neck, peering at my heavily-coated pink lips in the mantel mirror, unsettled by the thought of kissing a near stranger.

  After the call, I find Eleanor being subjected to an over-the-top hugging ritual in the kitchen. She’s all smiles. She doesn’t seem to mind it from her eccentric auntie
, just another of her endearing quirks. I get far more scowls than cuddles these days. Sunny’s long fingers disappear into her bag.

  ‘Oh, I found this, Elle. I adored it when I was your age.’ She holds out a book with a picture of children flying on a dragon on the cover. I stifle a giggle as I watch Eleanor pretend to be pleased. The only thing she reads made out of paper these days is Heat magazine. But the drama tuition’s paying off; she’s becoming quite the actress.

  ‘Thanks.’ Eleanor flicks a fake grin, then turns to me. ‘Is Tash coming here?’

  ‘No, we’re meeting at the pub.’ I avoid Sunny’s eye, adrenalin bubbling in my chest. I shouldn’t have agreed to Tash’s stupid double date plan. I pat Eleanor’s arm. ‘Don’t forget to clean the hamster cage, darling, it stinks. I’ve had to use half a can of air freshener to mask it. And, remember – bed by ten.’ Eleanor slams the book on the table, eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘Jeez. I’m thirteen, not a flippin’ baby. You so stress me out.’ She flounces out, muttering things under her breath that my ears bleep. I trail her up the stairs, beaming potent glares from behind. Unable to bear further tension, I let her flee to her room while I fetch my handbag.

  Downstairs, I find Sunny staring wistfully at our silver-framed wedding photo, next to Dan’s ‘Midlands Business of the Year’ award on the walnut sideboard.

  ‘You two had something so special.’ She’s holding it close to her chest. ‘I’m sure that one day you’ll be together again, whether in body or spirit.’

  I bite hard on my cheek. Not now. I say my goodbyes.

  ***

  ‘Carrie, over here!’ Tash yells, waving a manicured hand.

  I’m late and the others are already settled at a table next to a sash window, dressed with plum damask curtains.

  For a moment, I’d thought I was in the wrong pub. It had changed so much since Tash and I scraped our work shoes across a threadbare carpet one lunchtime to face several old men with stained trousers and forbidding stares, perched on scuffed stools around the bar. It was full of perfume and excitable chatter that bounced off the flagstone floor, the rickety pine seats replaced with big oak carvers covered in plush fabrics.

  I intend to sweep across the room in a confident cloud of Dior-gasm, but with dread dragging in my belly, a swollen toe, four unfamiliar eyes on me – and after Tash’s big introduction – each step feels hideously cumbersome and I find myself shuffling like an OAP on a parquet floor.

  Tash leaps up, spiky necklace swinging between bronzed boobs squeezed into a silky red top as she lands an energetic kiss on each cheek.

  ‘You look gorgeous. Is that tunic new? You’ve had more highlights. I love the fringe shorter!’ Tash doesn’t wait for a response. ‘This is Toby.’

  ‘Hi.’ He beams through a set of perfect teeth framed by a ring of dark designer stubble.

  ‘And you remember Gaz.’ He stands, kisses my cheek. ‘Oh yeah, you spilled coffee on his paperwork didn’t you, you clumsy cow.’ Tash guffaws, running a set of multi-coloured nails through her thick brown hair. Gaz looks startled.

  ‘Says you!’ I protest, flushing. Tash is the undisputed queen of klutz, nothing safe in her elegant but unsteady hands. ‘I’ll keep my drinks well away from you tonight,’ I say, addressing Gaz as I grab my glass of wine and sit next to him.

  ‘Phew.’ He swipes a hand across his forehead.

  I’d met Gaz, the safety inspector, briefly, when he’d visited the office to talk about fire regulations. My colleague Mark had cruelly remarked that he looked like Daniel Craig’s uglier twin brother. ‘I think he’s hot for an oldie,’ Tash had whispered. ‘Mark’s just jealous.’ But he’s ditched the drab suit – not very James Bond as I recall – for a pale denim shirt and black chinos, making him look more youthful.

  As always Tash hijacks the conversation, pretty head tipping from side to side, saucer eyes glowing with all the attention. She could chat for England, which was why I’d let her talk me into the evening’s arrangements. Besides, I couldn’t refute her allegations that the lonely life I now led wasn’t good for me. ‘Why don’t all four of us meet, yeah, to like, break the ice, then Toby and I can pop off to that party. It’ll take the pressure off – pinkie pledge,’ Tash had assured, wiggling a polished little finger.

  Sedated by the Friday-night buzz and caught in the snare of Tash’s easy chat, I’ve almost forgotten it’s a date when she makes their exit excuses, leaving Gaz and I to move to the dining area with a distressed table, wonky white candle and lots of awkwardness between us.

  I find myself making inane comments to break painful pauses, hacking into a stuffed mushroom as if I’ve only just learned to use a knife. Gaz clearly finds it equally daunting, keen grey eyes darting about as he slurps green soup, his spare hand fiddling with the leather placemat. His large gold watch is similar to Dan’s and I feel a fall in my chest each time he lifts his wrist.

  Fortunately, with the second Merlot bottle drained, Gaz turns quite chatty, telling me about his seventeen years as a policeman.

  ‘Did you solve any terrible crimes?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes – nicked a guy stealing begonias from the park. Caught him red-handed!’ I chuckle. ‘Tetford’s not exactly the crime capital, is it?’

  ‘I think you should lie. Pretend you helped convict a serial killer.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He smiles with his whole face and I grin back, feeling light and giggly.

  He’s describing the rock ’n’ roll antics of his youngest daughter’s drummer boyfriend when a few errant loops of linguini escape the clump I’ve painstakingly bundled on to my fork. One plops straight down my cleavage. I’m mortified, blushing hot as I hoick it out.

  ‘Oh dear.’ He laughs. ‘Let me.’ He leans in, patting at a sauce trail on my chin with his serviette. Our eyes lock and I get pleasing wafts of a dry, citrusy cologne. I feel a slight thrill – which shocks me. An alien feeling. I suspect he’s flirting, and I’m tempted to reciprocate, but I’ve forgotten how. I continue eating, avoiding his gaze.

  It turns out Gary has a string of hobbies – fencing among them – making my weekly fitness class, occasional theatre trips and daily TV-watching sound desperately dull. In my tipsy state, I find myself imagining Eleanor and I heading off on some great adventure, like learning to street luge in the Alps or nursing sick alpacas in Peru. Reality hits. Things have to change. I have to do something about the big fat work rut I’m in – still in the same, dull corporate communications job that, twenty years ago, was supposed to be temporary.

  ‘I’d love to be a writer,’ I say, keen to impress, yet surprised by my confession. I seldom said it out loud, and never to strangers. But I’m warming to him.

  ‘Books?’

  ‘God, no. Women’s magazines; just light-hearted articles or a column, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  ‘Lack of courage. And skill, I suspect. It’s stupidly competitive.’

  ‘You should try, you never know.’

  I shrug. ‘I quite fancy the idea of working in a theatre, too, behind the scenes, or maybe front of house. I used to do am dram years ago.’

  ‘It’s never too late to change careers. Several of my friends have.’ Gaz stops eating. ‘Your husband worked at Cullimore’s too, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Left to set up his own business selling health products.’

  ‘It must have been a difficult time for you.’

  I nod. Gaz knows I’m a widow and I wonder whether Tash has broken her promise not to elaborate, or if he’s used super-police powers and honed observational skills to link me to the news reports after Dan’s death. I’d been quite a celeb in Tetford, half expecting people to point and jeer when I was at the cashpoint: ‘It’s the widow of that frozen guy.’ I hated that Dan had been labelled a weirdo. ‘He wasn’t – you didn’t know him!’

  ‘Yes. Being a widow at forty isn’t much fun. And my husband’s body is being preserved.’

  ‘Seriously? How
?’ Gaz’s mouth has fallen open slightly, soiled knife held mid-air. I’m cross with myself for overdoing the wine, blurting it out.

  ‘It’s called cryonic suspension. The body’s basically frozen, so it can be brought back to life one day – well, in theory.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Gaz raises his eyebrows, then continues eating – a respectful silence perhaps – though I sense he’s desperate to know more, as people invariably are. And I could oblige. Before Dan went, I’d been reluctant to listen when he’d tried to explain the finer details of what would happen to his body after death. I’m not sure why. Fear? Denial? Maybe stubbornness. Suspecting he’d go off the idea, I didn’t think I needed to fully comprehend it. I’d once read about a woman with a fear of water who went through hell learning to scuba dive so she could better understand her husband’s hobby. Six months later, he’d taken up golf. But after Dan died, I read the literature more thoroughly. I owed him that. I tried to force my squeamishness aside, get my head around the science, though it was several galaxies beyond me.

  So I could tell Gaz, as he tears into his sirloin, how a mechanical compressor heaves on the chest to keep oxygen flowing while the corpse is cooled in ice, then – as he sips wine – how various intravenous liquids are pumped in and fluids drained out …

  Instead I say: ‘Don’t worry, I don’t understand it either!’

  ‘So, your husband really thought … thinks, he can come back to life?’ I see the outline of a sneer on Gaz’s wine-stained lips.

  ‘Yes. One day, when science has moved on.’

  Gaz’s attitude seems to change after that. He appears more distant during dessert, back a little straighter in the chair, eyes wandering again.

  We exchange numbers and, as we part company, he kisses my cheek, saying he’s enjoyed it, we should do it again some time. I agree. Yet I doubt his words.

  I decide that if there are other dates, I’ll be just an ordinary widow.