‘Okay. Done. I’ll run back to the hotel, and I’ll see you back here in thirty minutes.’
‘Are you sure you’re not going to do a runner on me?’ Olivia asks quickly, a hint of nervousness in her voice. ‘This isn’t another way of saying you think this is going to be an awful evening so let’s end it now?’
Fred looks shocked. ‘Are you kidding me? This is going to be a great evening. Let’s just get it started on the right foot. Hey, maybe we can catch a movie after we eat.’
‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week.’ Olivia laughs, and when they stand up and thread their way through the restaurant to the door, she doesn’t mind in the slightest that Fred again places a hand gently on her back to guide her.
In fact, if she has to be honest, she’d say the shiver that runs up and down her spine is something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.
Olivia wakes up early, as she always does, and lies in bed for a while replaying the events of last night. She turns her head slightly to see Fred, face squashed into the pillow, snoring gently, still sound asleep. Yes. It was real. Yes. She did bring him home to her flat. Yes. She had sex for the first time since George. And yes. It was fanfuckingtastic. Oh shit.
What now?
Not that Olivia has ever had any firm or fast rules when it comes to dating, but she’s never been the sort of girl who engages in one-night stands, and given that her mother utters phrases like ‘Why buy the cow…’ it’s hardly surprising that she doesn’t exactly go around jumping into bed with near-strangers.
But Fred doesn’t feel like a stranger. If anything, he feels like an old friend. Their email exchanges have been so frank, so honest, and in the days leading up to their meeting, so intimate, they seem to have propelled this… what, friendship? Relationship? Fling?… into a space that Olivia isn’t sure she is ready for.
Not to mention how strange it is to have someone in her bed who isn’t George. How odd to feel Fred’s body, how delicious to have someone so young, so strong, and so very eager to please her.
She was the one, last night, who invited him back, ostensibly to see ‘how real people live in London, not like the tourists stuck in your posh hotels,’ but in fact she knew exactly how it would play out, had been ready from the beginning of the evening, although she would never admit it.
Why else would she have ensured there were fresh sheets on the bed, candles scattered around the room, no dirty laundry visible anywhere in the bathroom?
She was making coffee when Fred kissed her. He came up behind her and put his arms around her – such strong arms, so very different from George’s – and she tensed slightly, unsure of what to do, how to stand in this unfamiliar position, when he took the decision out of her hands by turning her to face him and leaning down to kiss her.
What a wonderful night it was. And now… what? Morning. Isn’t this when it is supposed to be awkward, difficult? Isn’t he supposed to wake up and be cold, regret what happened, get out of the flat as quickly as possible?
Olivia gets up and goes to make coffee in the kitchen. Under normal circumstances it would be Nescafé Gold Blend, instant of course, but – and yet another clue that this outcome isn’t altogether unexpected – she has fresh ground coffee to put in the cafetière and huge buttery croissants in the fridge.
‘Morning.’ Olivia jumps, turning to see a dishevelled Fred sleepily padding through the kitchen in his boxer shorts. God, she thinks, taking in his chest, the muscles in his legs. He is just so completely delicious.
‘Morning,’ she says, a touch frostily, but only because she is not sure where this is going and doesn’t want to be humiliated by coming on too strong when he may be getting ready to cold-shoulder her and walk out of the door, never to be heard from again.
‘So, Saturday morning, huh? What do we have planned today?’ And he comes up to her and wraps her in his arms, bending down to kiss her on the lips, and Olivia folds into him feeling warm and secure and oh so very, very good. She has forgotten, in fact, quite how good this can feel.
‘Thank you, God,’ she whispers, as she hands Fred a towel to take a shower. ‘And thank you, Tom,’ she grins at the ceiling, ‘he’s pretty great, after all. You did good,’ and when Fred hollers at her to join him, she slips her robe off her shoulders and opens the steamed-up door.
Chapter Twelve
‘Hellooooo?’ Olivia pushes open the front door and her niece and nephew trip in behind her. ‘Holly? Anyone here?’ She follows the sound of a television and walks through to the living room where Daisy and Oliver are comatose in front of a cartoon.
‘Hey, guys,’ Olivia says, as her niece and nephew move like zombies towards the sofa, planting themselves next to the other kids without taking their eyes off the screen for a second, without even saying hello.
‘Where’s Mum?’
No answer.
‘Where’s Mum? Oliver?’
‘Upstairs.’ He gestures feebly with a hand, and Olivia sighs and goes to find Holly.
The problem with grief is that it doesn’t go away. As time ticks on, the rawness dissipates somewhat, and you find yourself settling into the pain, becoming accustomed to it, wearing it around your shoulders like an old, heavy scarf.
And life has to go on. There are children to look after, meals to cook, cards to illustrate, playdates to arrange. Grief has to be filed away, compartmentalized, allowed out only when the rest of your life is sufficiently organized, when you can have time to yourself to give in to the pain.
Both Holly and Olivia allow themselves that time for grief, but as the weeks go by they are finding they are bound less by their shared grief, or indeed their shared history, but more, in fact, by a true friendship, by respect, admiration and a delight in one another’s company. A delight that led them to find each other, and to swear they would be best friends for ever, all those years ago.
Holly hears the footsteps on the stairs and quickly minimizes the email she was writing, so what is left on the screen is an innocuous picture of a ladybird.
‘Hey, you!’ Olivia walks over and gives her a hug. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh I just had some bills to pay online,’ Holly says. ‘I know, I’m a horrible mother sticking my kids in front of the TV, but it’s the only way I can get anything done.’
‘Do you not think Jen does that about a million times a day?’ Olivia laughs. ‘And she says she also feels horrible but frankly when the au pair is at language school, what else is she supposed to do? I’m far bloody worse. I stick them in front of the box and I’m only their aunt who babysits from time to time.’
‘Just time to time?’
‘Okay. Most weekends. Still, do you think we ought to turn it off now that we’re here? Probably best that they all play, don’t you think?’
Holly flushes a bright, guilty red. ‘Oh God, of course. You should have just switched it off. Come on, let’s go downstairs,’ and the two of them head down to the ground floor.
Twenty minutes later Oscar and Oliver are racing around the house shouting, waving light sabres, and Ruby and Daisy are behind closed doors in Daisy’s bedroom, Ruby helping Daisy draw pictures, much to Daisy’s delight, although she periodically opens her door and roars at the boys, in a very ungirly fashion, to stay away from her bedroom, or to get out.
Olivia sips her tea and recounts, blow by blow, the events of her glorious few days with Fred.
‘He sounds completely delicious.’ Holly laughs.
‘He is.’ Olivia blushes. ‘He’s practically perfect in every way.’
‘So… how are you going to navigate it?’
‘Navigate what?’
‘A long – distance relationship.’
‘I’m not.’ Olivia frowns at Holly. ‘I’m pretty certain that isn’t what this is. The truth is he was, he is, gorgeous, but he’s in his early thirties, and he’s still a boy, not someone I could see myself with at all.’
‘Really? So it was just mad sex?’
‘Pr
etty much.’
‘Oh God.’ Holly sighs heavily as she gets up from the table. ‘How I miss those days of mad sex.’
Olivia laughs, thinks nothing of it as Holly bends over to get the carrot sticks and hummus out of the fridge for the kids’ snack.
‘Okay, so come on then,’ fess up,’ Olivia says finally. ‘What have you been doing?’
Holly straightens up and looks at Olivia in confusion, and ever such a tiny touch of guilt. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You look fantastic, that’s what. You look like you’ve lost about a stone since I last saw you, which was, what, about two weeks ago? And you’re all glowy and gorgeous. What are you doing? Hang on, let me guess… Pilates? No, it’s probably Bikram yoga or something and the GI diet… am I right?’
Holly starts laughing. ‘God, no, I’m far too lazy to do exercise – are you mad? Running around after the kids is more than enough exercise for me, and the three times I tried yoga I almost died of boredom.’
‘God, I know!’ Olivia groans. ‘Every now and then I feel horrible about not doing any exercise, so some well – meaning friend drags me off to a yoga class telling me I’ll love it, and I’m always bored stupid.’
‘But you look insanely fit.’
‘It’s just running an animal shelter, not to mention walking the dogs. That’s about all the exercise I need.’
‘I don’t even walk dogs,’ Holly laughs, ‘and definitely no yoga for me. I’m not sure that chocolate digestive biscuits are on the GI diet… what do you think?’ Holly jams a whole biscuit in her mouth and Olivia starts to laugh.
‘How old are you, Holly? Six?’
‘No,’ Holly mumbles, crumbs flying out of her mouth. ‘I’m four,’ and the two women grin at one another.
‘So…’ Olivia muses, refusing to let it go. ‘Are you and Marcus having lots of fantastic sex all of a sudden? Is that what it is? I mean, I’d always heard that once you get married you stop having sex altogether, but there’s clearly something going on.’
‘Christ, no.’ Holly swallows quickly. ‘Can’t think of anything worse. I’ve just been feeling really happy recently and haven’t been very hungry. You know how it is, sometimes you’re hungry and sometimes you just seem to have no appetite, and the last few weeks I just haven’t had much of an appetite.’
‘Well, whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop. You look completely fantastic,’ Olivia says, reaching out for a chocolate digestive of her own.
‘Don’t stop’ is what she said. Does that mean I have permission to carry on doing what I’m doing? But what am I doing? I’m not doing anything. We’re just friends. That’s all.
Holly had forgotten all about Will. She had written him off as one of those silly crushes you have when there has been emotional turmoil in your life. She had been to Maggie and Peter’s house many times since the day after the service and was grateful to have them back in her life; and she’d known that if she ran into Will there, she would have been polite but cool.
Heaven forbid she would have given him the slightest indication that she was the least bit interested.
Life had gone back to normal very quickly. She had written a long letter to Sarah. A letter filled with memories of Tom. Of the things she had loved about him, of stories she hoped would bring some solace to Sarah. She’d known she couldn’t send the usual condolence card. The I’m-so-sorry-to-hear-of-your-loss card, of which she’d seen hundreds on tables around Peter and Maggie’s house. Holly hadn’t planned to write the nine pages she did, but she’d been glad when she finished, knowing that even if it wasn’t received in the spirit in which it was sent, it had somehow comforted her to write it all down, and that had been enough for the moment.
One morning she had just got back from taking the kids to school and had dashed upstairs to get her portfolio before running into the office for a meeting about next year’s line of Christmas cards – the theme was going to be angels, and Holly had spent a week researching and coming up with ideas for illustrations.
She had put together a presentation that was incredibly beautiful in its simplicity: thick vellum card, roughedged, almost as if it had been torn, and a halo of tiny white feathers. On others, tiny Christmas trees of the same delicate feathers, some with a small sprinkling of glitter. Another had a single sprig of miniature mistletoe and another a tiny holly leaf. In small handblocked letters beneath were individual words: peace, love, faith, trust, joy. They were exactly the type of Christmas cards Holly likes to receive herself.
Holly loves Christmas, probably, she has always joked, because of her name. Her memories of childhood Christmases are nothing but good, and she still feels a flutter of childlike excitement when she finishes decorating the Christmas tree and stands back, turning on the lights for the first time.
As a little girl she would make car journeys pass more quickly by leaning her head on the window and counting how many trees she saw in windows. Each one was exciting, each one a promise of more glorious things to come.
Marcus has never quite been able to see the point of Christmas, so although Holly still does all the things she has always done – a huge tree glistening with lights, holly wreaths over the fireplace and around the front door, fat red candles nestling among gleaming cranberries in glass vases – sharing Christmas with her family isn’t ever infused with the joy that Holly had always anticipated.
The kids love it, though. They make paper snowflakes and stick them to all the windows, string multicoloured paper lanterns throughout the playroom and kitchen, and bake gingerbread men and mince pies– which they adore making although they both refuse point – blank to take even one bite of them once they are baked.
Holly had been completely consumed by this presentation for the past few days, and turned back to check her emails before she left, just to be sure there wasn’t, as there so frequently was, a last – minute email from work saying the meeting had been cancelled.
And there it was. An email from Will. Holly, as usual, was in a hurry, but she leant over her chair and clicked it open, the rush on receiving the previous emails he had sent disappearing completely, simply curious to know what he might have written after what feels like weeks of radio silence.
To: Holly
From: Will
26/11/06 4:56:09 AM
Subject: Apology
Dear Holly,
I meant to write earlier but life suddenly seemed to become very difficult. Losing Tom felt like I was living in a dream sequence for a while. A part of me kept expecting to wake up and hear that it was a joke, that someone had played an enormous trick on me, and that the next time the phone rang it would be Tom at the other end.
But at some point after the service, it hit me. He’s dead. And I just couldn’t handle speaking to anyone at all. I think it hit Mum and Dad at the same time. It’s almost as if having a house full of visitors, people dropping in all day and night to pay their respects, allows you to not think about the terrible thing that’s happened to you, and you spend each day thinking that although it’s horribly painful, it’s not unbearable, and you are relieved that you are able to function, to smile when you see people you haven’t seen for years, and even to joke with them. You feel a bit guilty, particularly because you sense that there are those who want to see you fall apart on them, expect you to break down on their shoulders, and resent you for not doing so, but then there are the others who are relieved you’re normal, who turn away from you and whisper to their friends that you are doing fantastically, and they’re so grateful they haven’t been the ones to kneel down on the floor and pick up the pieces they once knew as you.
And of course there are Mum and Dad to think of. I’ve been going over every day, and they’re fantastic when people come over – they can sit and chat about nothing and everything and listen to stories about Tom without falling apart, but then as soon as everyone leaves, as soon as the house is quiet, I hear Mum sobbing in the bathroom, or Dad goes out to his greenhouse and I see him
there, shoulders heaving as he buries his head in his hands, sitting on a plastic milk crate, thinking that no one can see him from the house. I have a bird’s – eye view from my bedroom window, though.
So I have to be the strong one, particularly now. So strange to find yourself taking care of your parents. I didn’t expect to be doing this until they were old, although even then I suppose I had thought Tom would be the caretaker. It’s a role I’ve never played. Tom was the strong, responsible one. Tom was the one who always bailed me out of trouble when I was younger, whom I turned to even as an adult if ever I wanted sensible advice or words of wisdom.
We’d grown apart the last couple of years. Mostly because I always sensed Sarah didn’t approve of me, and I had been out to Boston to stay with them, but it didn’t feel comfortable, and so I’d see Tom when he came to England, and we’d talk on the phone every couple of weeks.
Of course now I feel so guilty. So much I wish I’d said, so many things I wish I’d told him. I imagine he knew that I loved him, but I’m not sure I ever told him, and I wish I had. And even though we weren’t as close as when we were kids, I still can’t believe it.
I think one of the biggest surprises is how alone I feel. Even though he lived in America, and I barely saw him, I feel completely alone in the world, and the grief sometimes does seem harder than I can bear, after all. And I suppose with that loneliness comes fear – not an emotion I’m used to, and I still can’t figure out exactly what it is I’m fearful of – my own mortality, perhaps?
So, I digress. The point of this is twofold: somehow I feel that I can talk to you and not be judged, and coming out of the abyss, I so desperately need someone to talk to right now; and I wanted to apologize for not being in touch sooner. I just couldn’t talk to anyone for a while. I hope you understand and hope you’re still willing to play the role of big sister – God knows I could do with someone like that now.