One Moment, One Morning

  ‘Sorry?’ This is unexpected.

  ‘Me. ME!’ He thumps his chest, now furious. ‘It should have been me who died.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey . . .’ Anna placates him, puts an arm around his shoulders. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘That’s what you all want, isn’t it?’ He throws off her arm. The anger is mounting and turning outward; the direction Anna dreads.

  ‘What do you mean – what we all want?’ Though as she says it, she knows this is the wrong tack. Not that there is a right one.

  ‘You’d rather it had been me. You. Karen.’ He turns to her, eyes cold and narrowed, full of hatred.

  ‘No, we wouldn’t!’ This is ridiculous, and not a conversation she wants to have, particularly at this moment. It’s even more unnerving because his observation is accurate: he’s picked up on her own thoughts, earlier, and she’s filled with remorse for having contemplated such a thing, however briefly. But for Steve to pursue this tack is not constructive. It’s certainly not helping her – or him, come to that – feel better. This is what she can never get her head around: whatever is eating away at him, it is only made worse by alcohol; heightened rather than eased or numbed.

  ‘You’d rather I was dead.’

  ‘Stevie Babe.’ Anna’s voice is firm; she uses her nickname for him to further placate. ‘We would not. You’re being ridiculous.’

  Then, curiously, as if God, or Fate, or whoever, has – belatedly – heard her plea, he seems to listen, to reflect. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I love you, babe.’

  ‘I love you too.’ And with that he propels himself – almost gracefully – lengthways onto the mattress. Within seconds he’s flaked out, snoring.

  Tenderly, Anna pulls off his shoes, undoes his belt, eases his jeans down his legs. He rolls over, murmuring but not waking, as she pulls the duvet out from under him, then tucks him beneath. He’s still in his underpants, shirt and socks, but no matter.

  Relieved, she sits back on her haunches.

  In slumber, the warm arc of light from the bedside lamp casts Steve’s features differently again. The curl of his lips seems sweet and guileless; his eyelashes brush his cheeks angelically; she can see the glistening trail of tears on his cheek, like a small child who’s fallen asleep exhausted by his own outburst. Now she can see the boy that predated the man, when his rebellious spirit was innocent and playful, not damaging and self-destructive. She wonders when the balance shifted; when, like a see-saw, he tipped from merely being a naughty youngster – for she knows he was; he has told her – and became first troublesome, then troubled, and then turned to drink.

  Nonetheless, she can smell the alcohol on him. It is not just on his breath; it emanates from every pore. It is vodka, she knows. Whoever said vodka was odourless, was wrong. It smells acrid, deadly, is redolent of clandestine binges and lies. She loathes it. It repulses her. She appreciates she likes a drink too; she shared a much-needed bottle with Karen earlier, for example. But Steve’s consumption is in a different league; she can stop when he can’t, because for him it serves a different purpose. Sometimes she wonders if it is obliteration not just of circumstance he is after, but of his whole personality.

  Had she known this when she met him, would he be here now? She is unsure. It is like being tugged in half by two separate Steves. The seductive, capable, charming Steve – the sober Steve: and the hostile, resentful, offensive Steve – the drunken Steve, the addict. So she feels torn, beholden to him on the one hand, fearful of change on the other. She worries about what would happen if she were to finish it; and not just to him, but to her. He might go off the rails: she doesn’t want to be alone. She’s over forty; someone said a colleague was ‘past her sell-by date’ only today at the office, and Anna is a few years older. And she does love Steve; she even still fancies him. Irrationally, the chemistry between Anna and the sober Steve is electric. She loves the smell of that Steve, too. It turns her on, Steve’s natural scent: primal, delicious, other.

  She smiles to herself, remembering.

  *

  ‘Come and meet our painter,’ Karen says one afternoon when Anna pops round on the off-chance she is in. ‘I got his number from a woman in my post-natal class.’ She winks knowingly, and as she leads the way upstairs, mouths so he doesn’t overhear, ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  Steve is standing at the window.

  Painty cut-off jeans, big painty canvas trainers, painty T-shirt, painty arms, painty sun-bleached hair. He turns as they enter the room, brush of white emulsion poised.

  ‘Steven, this is my friend, Anna,’ Karen says.

  ‘Hello,’ he grins. ‘Nice to meet you.’ His voice is deep and attractive with an Antipodean twang; Anna wonders if he is Australian. Later she learns he is from a well-off family in New Zealand. ‘So you’re posh,’ she had observed. ‘You mean for a painter,’ he had said, and yes, in all honesty, she probably did mean that. Compared to decorators she has met in the past, he is distinctly well-to-do.

  With hindsight she might have questioned why a man with relative social advantages ended up just doing odd jobs. But her initial take is just to note that he looks a few years younger than her and Karen, and assume he is still finding his feet, career-wise. She wonders if he is a writer or something artistic, decorating to earn extra cash. There are lots of creative people in Brighton; it wouldn’t be unusual.

  ‘Anna’s got loads of work she needs doing,’ says Karen.

  Have I? thinks Anna. She’s just moved into her new house, true, but she’d been planning on doing it herself. ‘Ah, yes,’ she says, cottoning on. ‘Perhaps you could come round and give me a quote.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he grins again, eyes full of mischief. Then he holds her gaze a second too long. Anna’s stomach lurches with excitement – the attraction is clearly mutual.

  It is that simple. A quote leads to a drink that same evening – when, revealingly, he does not get drunk; obviously he is incredibly keen to impress her – which leads to a late-night dinner when she hardly eats anything because she is relishing their conversation; which leads to a night of ‘non-stop shagging’.

  Or that’s how Karen puts it the next day.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Anna protests.

  ‘Pardon me,’ Karen teases. ‘Making love.’

  ‘Ooh, no, not that either.’ Anna cringes. After just one encounter this sounds too serious, embarrassing.

  Soon, however, they are making love, and within a few weeks he’s moved in with her.

  *

  Ah well, Anna thinks, edging under the duvet alongside him. Good times, bad times – aren’t all relationships like that? She is too tired to contemplate any further. Minutes later she, too, is asleep, more soundly than the night before, just plain worn out by emotion.

  Lou is just locking up her bicycle when her phone bleeps, once, then again. She rummages in her rucksack and flips open the top.

  You have 2 messages, it says.

  One is from Vic, the second from a number she does not recognize, so she opens Vic’s first.

  You’re on, she reads. I’ve lured the wench to Brighton for you. Friday night out on the tiles, celebrate my birthday a bit early, crash at yours. Just promise you won’t do it with me in earshot. You owe me. Big style. V x

  Lou laughs to herself. Vic is straight to the point as ever, and it hardly sounds as if she is intent on staying sober. But she does have a point about the smallness of the venue: Lou can hardly put her oldest friend in the bathroom to sleep. Never mind; that’s detail at this stage – she might not even fancy this woman, or vice versa. Nonetheless, the prospect of meeting her is exciting. Now she will invite Howie, too – it could be a really good evening. Lou slings her rucksack over her shoulder and makes her way rapidly across the station concourse, a decided spring in her step, reading the second message as she goes.

  Hope this reaches you, it says. It’s Anna here. You on the 7.44 today? I?
??m middle carriage, just past the clock. Can give you that tenner.

  Lou is pleased. She has been thinking about Anna, and Karen, her friend, and, buoyed by news of Sofia, feels like a chat. She hits the green phone symbol and soon hears ringing.

  ‘Just coming up the platform now,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll try to save you a seat.’

  Seconds later Anna is rapping on the window to get her attention; shortly after that Lou is settled next to her in the aisle chair, rucksack on the shelf overhead, mobile and iPod on the table.

  Lou turns to her. ‘So how are you?’ Anna appears tired, she observes, and her hair is less immaculate than it was forty-eight hours ago. It is not surprising.

  ‘I’m all right, I guess. Anyway, before I forget, that money.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Lou brushes the air to indicate it’s OK.

  ‘No, really, I want to.’ Anna opens her purse – Lou notices it’s quality leather with a chunky brass zip – pulls out a battered note and puts it on the table in front of Lou.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lou can tell there is no point arguing. She is grateful, not for the cash, but because it has provided an excuse for contact again. Lou likes the idea of having a travelling companion from time to time, and Anna has broken with custom – the unspoken law of commuters is to stick to companionable privacy. The train is not the normal place to get acquainted. ‘How’s, um, Karen, she’s called, isn’t she, your friend?’

  ‘Crap,’ says Anna.

  Lou nods: few other words will do in the circumstance.

  Anna sighs. ‘I guess she’s in shock. But it’s such a bloody mess.’ She looks out of the window. Lou can see she is holding back tears.

  ‘Had she and her husband been together long?’ Lou doesn’t want to seem nosy, but it is not her way to be coolly polite.

  ‘Nearly twenty years.’

  ‘So you must have known him well too, then.’

  Anna nods and reaches into her bag for a tissue. She dabs the corner of her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Lou.

  ‘Thank you.’ Anna tries to smile.

  ‘It’s, well, such a horrible thing to have happened to anyone.’

  ‘They’ve got two children,’ Anna blurts. It’s this that opens the wound: she croaks and the tears fall freely.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Lou winces. For some reason she’d not second-guessed this, though with hindsight it was likely. ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Molly’s three. Luke’s five. I’m their godmother,’ Anna adds.

  Lou feels for her, for them all. She reaches over and puts an arm around Anna’s shoulder. Even though she hardly knows her, it seems appropriate, and badly needed. Anna shifts forward to allow her to do so. The people opposite are vaguely watching, but one has earphones on, so can’t hear; the other is tip-tapping his laptop, and doesn’t seem that interested. Outside the window the Sussex landscape lays itself before them: green fields, rolling Downs, postcard-perfect.

  ‘I guess they all really need you right now,’ observes Lou. ‘Have you got someone to look after you?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Anna nods. ‘I guess.’

  Again Lou has the impression Anna’s home life has complications: her reaction is not that of someone with a hundred-per-cent-responsive partner. Lou is quick to recognize the signs and has been there herself in a different guise; her mother is far from supportive of her. But now is not the time to probe too deep.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ sniffs Anna, relaxing a little.

  Lou removes her arm. ‘Please don’t be sorry. As you say, it’s crap.’

  Anna continues, ‘It’s just Karen feels so guilty.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘She thinks she should have done more to help. That she could have saved Simon. She believes if she’d given him the kiss of life at once, he would have survived – that sort of thing. I keep telling her it wouldn’t have made any difference, but she won’t listen.’

  Lou frowns. ‘There was nothing she could have done, I’m sure. I saw: he died immediately.’

  ‘I know, that’s what I keep telling her. But you know what it’s like. You always think “if only . . .” And Karen’s especially like that. Often taking on other people’s problems. Feeling responsible for the world.’

  ‘She sounds a good person,’ observes Lou.

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘But I guess all that guilt is not very helpful now.’

  ‘No.’

  Though it’s very common.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I don’t know that much about grief,’ admits Anna.

  Lou makes herself clear. ‘I’ve not lost someone suddenly like your friend has. But my Dad died several years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it was a long time back. And, well, since then, I’ve explored it a bit through my work, too.’

  ‘So what do you do, exactly?’

  ‘I’m a counsellor. I work with kids who have been excluded from school.’

  ‘How interesting. Tell me more.’

  So Lou does just that. Anna is clearly grateful to have a shift of focus.

  * * *

  The children are at Tracy’s. Karen doesn’t want them to overhear the ins and outs of funeral arrangements, or every phone call she must make to friends, colleagues and family. Moreover, she is trying to maintain some sense, however fragile, of normality for Molly and Luke through this, and Tracy, with her long-standing relationship with both children, seems a good person for them to be with.

  So the half of Karen’s mind that was functioning normally put the children in the back of the car, did up the seat belts and drove them at a careful thirty miles an hour to Portslade. They were there, as arranged, at nine o’clock exactly. Karen then drove herself back, locked the car and put the kettle on. It is coming to the boil any second.

  Yet Karen is aware of a dichotomy, as if her head has split into two. One side is able to walk, talk, make tea and, yes, drive Molly and Luke to Tracy’s. It is this side that has put on respectable clothes and combed her hair. It is this same side that is seeing to everything that needs seeing to: talking to a vicar she’s never met and emailing people she doesn’t know, using the address book in Outlook Express on Simon’s laptop. Karen recognizes this half of herself – it is the effective administrator for the council, the organized mother who is hardly ever late for Tracy or for Luke’s school, the woman who goes round the supermarket in Hove with the children in a double-seated trolley and a list.

  But the other half of Karen isn’t functioning properly at all, or that’s how it feels. This half is a manic tangle, like one of Molly’s drawings: pens and colours everywhere, directionless, knotted. But whereas her daughter’s pictures are exuberant expressions of fun and life and happiness – or so Karen has always fondly thought – this is a dark, sinister hell of a place, all deep blues, reds, purples and black. It is a crazed muddle of emotions: there is the feeling she can’t shake, that she was responsible, of guilt turning in on itself, impossible to unravel. There is the sense of loss whose force she fears she has yet to feel fully – a gigantic, overwhelming sense of sorrow and gloom. Then, in the very centre of the snarl-up, there’s the bright red of searing pain, excruciating, burning, unrelenting, as if her skull has been sawn off and acid is being poured directly inside, onto the nerves of her grey matter.

  Karen tries to keep this hellish half of herself away: to squash and bury these thoughts, beat them into submission. She would rather organize, focus. She succeeds surprisingly well for long periods of time.

  She supposes she must be in shock, that she is able to suppress her emotions like this. She has seen Simon’s body, she has told other people, absorbed sympathy, witnessed and shed tears. Yet she feels she can remove herself from the whole experience, sever herself from reality, as if it is not really happening.

  She still expects Simon to come back. She keeps thinking she can hear his k
ey in the lock, his call ‘hello!’, his footsteps in the hall. Or that she has caught a glimpse of him, working at his computer, sitting at the kitchen table, watching telly with his feet up on the sofa.

  But no.

  So, instead, the funeral.

  It is to be a church one, she and Phyllis have agreed. Having never discussed with Simon what he’d want, they can only go on instinct, gleaned from what they know of him. They go through the decisions in a daze. Who should be notified? What would be best for him? How can they make these decisions when they have barely accepted his death as reality?

  Yet somehow, together, they do.

  The initial post-mortem showed that he’d had a ‘total occlusion of his left coronary artery causing infarction and rupture of his left ventricle’. In other words, it was a heart attack, plain and simple.

  ‘But it doesn’t really answer our questions,’ says Phyllis. And she is right: what they both really want to know is why is life so unfair – why their Simon? No amount of medical paperwork can resolve that for them.

  As for the funeral, Karen briefly suggested a less traditional ritual – this is Brighton, after all – but somehow being buried in the woods or a biodegradable basket – or both – just seems too alternative, too pagan, too plain daft for Simon. It is not as if he was a green campaigner or anything. Yes, he helped recycle bottles and paper and tins, though that was hardly difficult as they were collected from the house, and they bought organic vegetables – but that is the sum of his credentials. In reality, Karen cares more about these issues than he does and she wouldn’t want a woven casket, so why should he?

  They could have him cremated; he’d probably not mind that – he liked bonfires and barbecues and he built the living-room hearth. But somehow this didn’t seem right to Karen or Phyllis either; the idea of having such a big man reduced to a small pile of dust is too inconsequential, too transient. Simon weighed over sixteen stone, for goodness’ sake.

  So, they have agreed. No arguments, no dissension: he will be buried, with a proper headstone, in Brighton cemetery. It has gravitas, people have been buried for centuries, including Simon’s own father, not so long ago. But principally, it is because both Karen and Phyllis want the solidity of a grave. Insofar as Karen can envisage anything at the moment, she can picture visiting it in the future, with the children, and she prefers this notion to any other. Plus she is worried Molly and Luke won’t recall scattering the ashes in years to come. They are so small, and she wants to have somewhere they can go to remember.