The Promise, page 5
She would wake up, panting and gasping for air, as if she too had been submerged under the muddy Thames. And a few seconds later she’d realize that here was another awful day, and the horror of real life would swing into place once more. What happened to you that night? she wanted to cry to him. What actually happened?
‘Maybe,’ she replied to Clare’s question. ‘But not yet. It’s too soon.’
Too soon, as if this was merely a temporary loss. As if she wouldn’t always feel this way. That didn’t seem remotely likely right now, when she felt like half a person, a crumbling wreck of a survivor. At home she was clinging on to her sanity, but all around her chaos threatened to break in. The house was becoming grubbier by the day because she didn’t care enough to hoover and mop. It was so chaotic that Liz, Patrick’s mum, had taken to silently sorting and ironing laundry whenever she popped round. Squirting bleach around the loo now and then. Sliding a casserole or a crumble into the fridge for Zoe to reheat. These acts of kindness only made Zoe feel ashamed, though, as if her mother-in-law was judging her on her slovenliness; the lingering smell of bleach a reprimand that she was failing her family.
If you’d asked her a month ago, Zoe would have said that she was the one who did everything around the house, but it was becoming apparent there were plenty of chores that Patrick had taken care of after all: cutting the front hedge, for instance. Cleaning the compost bin. Managing bills and washing the cars and taking stuff to the tip. One of the brackets on Gabe’s curtain rail had come loose and Zoe hadn’t got round to fixing it yet. It was the sort of job that would have taken her husband five minutes, but she felt nervous about using the drill (which size bit did she need? which colour Rawlplug?). Her car insurance was due for renewal and usually Patrick shopped around to find a good deal for her, but she would have to do that herself this time. As for his car, she supposed she’d have to sell it, but she didn’t even know how to go about such a thing. Sure, she could ask her stepdad or brother, but even that felt like another task to add to her list. The sum of it all was overwhelming. Impossible. Far easier, somehow, to do none of it, to let herself sink further into the mess, until it eventually consumed her.
Recently she had taken to walking for hours at a time while the kids were in school, haunting parks and streets like a mournful ghost, in an attempt to compensate for her intake of crisps (which was getting dangerously out of hand), as well as to escape the messy house. She dragged herself around the Botanic Gardens some days, dimly noticing the narcissi nodding their pearly heads and trying not to think about how many times Patrick had given her daffodils over the years. She’d kept the last bunch he’d bought her for weeks after his death, unable to throw them out. Dan must have binned them, she’d realized the other day, and it was all she could do to stop herself scavenging through the bin, trying to salvage a few brown petals.
Today she had walked as far as Chiswick and abandoned her eulogy attempts as she drifted like a wraith past the shops on the High Road, trying to remember how to act like an ordinary person. Other women knew what to do, she thought dully, pulling her scarf tighter around her throat as she saw clusters of them sitting inside cafés or holding up clothes to show one another in boutiques. Other women jogged together through parks and green spaces, their gleaming trainers pounding along in sync; they pushed grizzling tots in buggies alongside one another and invited each other round for coffee, chat-chat-chat. Zoe could no longer move in these circles with such thoughtless ease, though; she had become an outsider, unwelcome. Turned out that when you lost your husband and all-time love of your life, other people found you awkward company – they were afraid of being too happy or glib in your presence; they felt they had to adopt hushed tones and touch your arm as they tilted their heads to one side. How ARE you? Always the How ARE you?s, eyes wide with concern. It was driving her nuts, frankly.
The worst thing – one of the many worst things – was that she would always be marked out in this way now. Always branded as poor Zoe, poor widowed Zoe. So sad, wasn’t it, have you heard, oh my God, I couldn’t believe it. Do you think it was suicide? I heard a rumour that they had money troubles, you’re kidding, who would have thought it? Oh, she’d heard all the whispers, seen the nudges and glances, however sympathetically people might act to her face.
Ignore them, she reminded herself. Don’t get paranoid on top of everything else. She was outside and in the fresh air – well, as fresh as it got on Turnham Green Road anyway – and she had managed to survive all the way to eleven o’clock this morning without crying. Also – silver lining! – yesterday Dan had reappeared and even though she still hadn’t forgiven him (and probably never would), he was at least offering support, which she had grudgingly accepted. He’d collected a mountain of paperwork and post that had built up, untouched in Patrick’s absence, and had taken the lot away, promising to deal with everything. This was progress, she supposed. A tiny step forward through the misery.
Just as she was daring to feel positive, however, a man walked past her with the same aftershave that Patrick had always worn, and she found herself instantly floored by the familiar scent. The blood drained from her face at the spicy, woody fragrance; the heavenly smell that brought to mind all those nights when he’d worn it: restaurant dinners and parties, nights in the pub, his arms around her. She’d been spraying the cologne onto his pillow every night so that she could hug it, and the bottle was nearly empty. Would it be ridiculous of her to buy more? She just missed him so much. She was lost without him. So lost!
A sob escaped her, then another. Here it came: the desolation, roaring up inside as if it had been lurking beneath the surface the whole time, waiting for her to crack. She put her hands over her eyes and leaned against the nearest shop window, legs shaking. What was she even doing here? So much for hiding in plain sight amongst the yummy mummies of Chiswick – now she had outed herself as a grieving wreck, a woman who fell apart at a single floating waft of Givenchy, tears coursing down her face in public. She didn’t know what to do with herself. There was nowhere to hide and yet she couldn’t pull herself together, she couldn’t stop crying, she—
‘Are you okay? No, you’re not, I can see you’re not. Come inside the shop – come and get your breath back for a moment.’
A woman was talking to her, her face quite close, although Zoe’s eyes were too full of tears to really see anything. An arm slipped around her back, then she was gently led through the shop door. ‘Just a minute, let me . . .’ said the woman, and Zoe was dimly aware of her closing the door behind them and flipping a sign to Closed. They were in a small homewares boutique, full of beautiful cushions and throws as well as shelves of vases and ceramics, the sort of place she would never dare bring her children for fear of expensive accidents.
The woman who had rescued her guided her towards a rather lovely pink velvet armchair with elegant wooden legs. ‘Sit down,’ she encouraged.
Zoe sat. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped, mortified that this was happening. She put her head in her hands, still trembling with emotions, and tried desperately to pull herself together. ‘God, I’m so embarrassed and sorry,’ she managed to say.
‘You’re fine, don’t worry – just have a moment,’ the woman said, grabbing a box of tissues from behind the counter. ‘Here, take these. Can I make you a coffee? Peppermint tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ sniffled Zoe, hiccupping as she tried to force her breathing under control. She’d always teased Patrick for being a hypochondriac – Call an ambulance! My husband has a cold! – but if she’d had any clue that he was actually going to die on her, she’d have tended to him far more lovingly. Why hadn’t she cared for him more, when she had the chance? Why had she ever been mean to him, argued with him?
‘A biscuit, then? You look very pale, if you don’t mind me saying. Mind you, don’t we all, after this horrible winter. Here, take one, you’ll be doing me a favour. I’ll only eat them all otherwise,’ said the woman, waving a packet of chocolate digestives under Zoe’s nose. She was wearing a short, loud patchwork skirt, Zoe noticed, with a silky black top and a chunky copper necklace that clinked like tiny cymbals whenever she moved.
The smell of the digestives was surprisingly uplifting. Zoe was ravenous after the walk, she realized; and, come to think of it, had forgotten to eat breakfast in all the palaver of the Monday-morning school rush earlier. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a biscuit and nibbling the edge. Sugary crumbs exploded in her mouth and she took another bite, resisting the urge to cram the whole thing in at once. It was delicious and made her feel the tiniest bit more able to function. ‘Sorry,’ she said again, aware of how peculiar her behaviour must appear. ‘I lost my husband recently. Or, rather, he died – I haven’t just mislaid him somewhere.’ She grimaced, risking a look up at the other woman, braced for a wary what-have-I-got-myself-into? expression on her face.
But her rescuer gazed back with compassion instead, her chocolate-brown eyes sincere. She was younger than Zoe, mid-thirties at a guess, and pretty, with long chestnut hair and freckles. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘How awful. I’m so sorry. You must be going through hell.’
Zoe had to press her lips together because there was so much sympathy in the other woman’s voice that she could hardly bear it. Also because ‘hell’ just about summed up her life these days. ‘I am,’ she admitted shakily. ‘It’s been the worst thing ever. And I smelled my husband’s aftershave on another man just now and . . .’ She could feel her face rushing with hot colour. ‘I know it sounds silly, but it caught me off-guard. Little things keep doing that.’
‘I bet they do,’ said the woman. ‘It must take ages to process a loss like that.’ She waggled the biscuit packet temptingly again. ‘Have another,’ she urged. Then, as Zoe dipped her hand obediently into the crinkling wrapper, she said, ‘Do you want to talk or would you rather sit and get your breath back? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, obviously, but I could call someone to pick you up if that would help?’
Calling someone and drawing any more attention to her tearful breakdown was the last thing Zoe wanted. The idea alone was enough to propel her to her feet, knees still wobbly, but determined to hold fast. Forget the biscuits, it was time to go. A customer was at the shop door now, peering through the glass as if wondering what was going on inside and Zoe’s cheeks burned. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, which wasn’t true but never mind. ‘Anyway, I’d better . . .’ She gestured towards the street outside, real life waiting for her re-entry. ‘I’ll leave you to it. But thank you.’ She forced her mouth to smile and walked quickly towards the door. Nothing to see here – I am absolutely fine. One hundred per cent okay; do not ask another question.
‘No problem,’ said the woman from behind her, but Zoe didn’t turn back. Keep walking, keep walking, she ordered herself and her body obeyed, taking her out through the door again and into the street, quickly past the shop window, where the woman was probably still staring worriedly at her, and away. Anywhere. Just away, and fast.
‘I’ve lost the plot,’ she said to herself, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘Were you watching that, Patrick? I’ve totally lost the plot without you.’
Chapter Five
Two days later, Dan parked along the street from a large, noisy comprehensive school and peered through the windscreen, feeling slightly overwhelmed as hundreds of kids poured out, all loud voices and massive bags, jostling and barging. No, not all of them, he corrected himself, because in the wake of the gobby ones, shoving and yelling, he noticed some quieter kids with their heads down, plugged into music, detaching themselves from the boiling teenage mass as it thundered along. He suspected his nephew Ethan might be part of the latter grouping. He remembered it well from his own secondary-school years.
Parked up near the postbox, he texted Ethan now, as per their arrangement. Silver Ford Focus.
Ruth Henderson’s boiler aside, this was pretty much the first useful thing he had done since his sabbatical had begun, Dan realized, leaning his right arm against the window. In fact, if he was honest with himself, it was possibly the most useful thing he’d done all year. In recent months he had felt something of a zombie, wearing the same three suits on rotation, taking the same Tube journey each morning and evening, buying the same sandwich from the same deli when it came to lunchtime. Sometimes he would be sitting there at his desk and he’d blink and find himself unable to remember what day of the week it was. What season, even. Sometimes, also, he felt as if he were the only unmoving constant in the office. Around him colleagues were getting married and having children, leaving for other jobs, taking interesting-sounding courses, planning holidays, seeking sponsorship for the marathons and charity bike-rides they’d signed up to. He, meanwhile, just . . . existed. It had been that way ever since his divorce, in hindsight. When everything went to pot in your private life, it was surprisingly easy to throw yourself into work, say yes to every job, however dull it might be, and turn that into your world instead.
The sabbatical had been due to change that, of course. All staff were encouraged to take one after ten years’ service to the company and it had been the managing director herself who had told Dan, quite forcibly, that they were expecting him to take a break. It was good for staff well-being, she said. They would pay him for the time he was off; this was an incredibly generous offer that most other members of the company had been delighted to accept. There must be something he wanted to do other than work, surely?
He wasn’t sure at first. In fact he floundered around in the empty desert of his imagination for quite some time. Dan wasn’t the most adventurous of souls, after all; his Hammersmith flat was a mere three streets away from the house where he’d grown up. But then, just before Christmas, he got chatting to Tiggy, one of the secretaries, who’d recently given in her notice, planning to head off to South America in February for the trip of a lifetime. ‘Sounds amazing,’ Dan said, hearing her describe her itinerary with breathless gusto. ‘I’d love to go there.’
‘Seriously?’ She’d peered up at him through her cat-eye glasses, then smiled with a sudden new radiance. ‘Why don’t you come too, then? My travel buddy’s just dropped out, the selfish cow, and it won’t be as much fun on my own. And aren’t you meant to be taking three months off?’
Tiggy was ten years younger than Dan, she was outspoken and sarcastic and had a pink streak in her hair; in short, she was not the sort of travelling companion he would have picked for himself. And yet . . . Was it idiotic that he had felt unable to refuse? His polite attempts at deferral were deflected by her increasingly persuasive line of reasoning: Yeah, but you said yourself it sounded amazing and you’d love to go there – this is your chance! Look, it’s all sorted – you just need to book your flights. Remember how shit it is in this country in February? Like, the worst, right? Well, forget that, because you could be on a beach instead. Drinking cocktails. Learning to surf and scuba-dive – apparently there’s a wicked place you can dive at Easter Island . . .
Nobody was more astonished than Dan when, by the end of a fifteen-minute coffee break, he’d actually said okay, he’d think about it. It was partly the fact that Tiggy was so relentless and enthusiastic, but also partly because he kept eyeing this version of himself that went off and did exciting things, like climb mountains and scuba-dive, and rather liked it. Besides, she was right about February; he’d always found it the most miserable month of the year too.
‘Blimey, you must really fancy her,’ Patrick teased the following weekend, when Dan mentioned that he was considering taking this mad, impulsive trip with a colleague he barely knew. Dan had protested – Tiggy was so not his type, the idea was laughable – but the more he thought about getting on a plane and exploring cities and jungles and ancient temples and beaches, the more he was seduced by the idea of an adventure. Why not? He had never done anything like this before. Never been the reckless type. Never even been particularly brave. Since his divorce, his life had shrunk to a narrow tunnel, all safety and routine. Earning plenty, but never spending it. The thought of breaking out of his comfort zone and striding towards a new horizon . . . well, it appealed greatly, actually. Did he dare?
Yes, he dared. Encouraged by Tiggy (badgered by Tiggy, some would say), he dared. He’d be forty in the autumn and this could be his chance to finally do something extraordinary. And think how impressed – and maybe even jealous – Rebecca would be, if she got to hear about him gallivanting to a whole new hemisphere with another woman. A younger, cooler woman. She’d always nagged him about being too closed-off, too cautious – but you could hardly get less closed-off and cautious than travelling to the other side of the world. Right? ‘Okay,’ he told Tiggy the following Monday at work. He even sounded quite breezy about it, he reflected, thrilled by his own boldness. ‘I’ll join you.’
And so the plan had come together. A three-month tour, all carefully researched and mapped out. Obviously there were spreadsheets. He had downloaded guidebooks and travellers’ tips, he had worked as hard on his itinerary as he had done on his MBA. They established a few ground rules, too – or, rather, Tiggy had laid down the law. ‘Just to make this clear. One: no sex,’ she said, tapping a pen against her teeth.
