Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
It could have gone better. There’s no denying that.
Evidently, I crossed a line by suggesting his dead wife was anything less than perfect, and that bothers me.
I should have been smarter, played into the residual feelings that linger, and gushed over how wonderful she sounded, convincing him that I could be saintly and gracious about the woman who was my forebear.
Evidently, Alice is still taking up a significant portion of his time and attention.
A portion that could—should, even—be transferring to me.
I’m shivering by the time I get home. I needed the walk. Needed to clear my head, try to come up with a plan. I considered going past Jack’s house but thought better of it. We could both do with a few hours to think.
I let myself in and go straight upstairs.
Mum’s awake—I saw the light on in her window on my approach—but I don’t say hello, and she doesn’t come out.
She’s left another gift on my pillow—an early drawing of mine.
A fish. I don’t have the time or the inclination to decipher what she means by it, so I ignore it, lie on my bed, and open my phone.
Jack’s online again. I tap out a quick message: Thanks so much for dinner.
I think maybe you got the wrong end of the stick re.
the Alice thing. I didn’t mean anything by it—she sounds lovely!
I’d love to hear more about her. Hope you got home safely.
I don’t have high hopes for the message—a hunch that is confirmed when the ticks go blue before Jack goes offline—but it’s critical to start damage control early. And I am sorry. Sorry I allowed the mask to slip. It won’t happen again. Not with him.
And then there’s the wife. This paragon of virtue and grace and goodwill and kindness, who pulled him out of the rut he’d found himself in and positioned herself as his savior.
His guardian angel. It’s little wonder he’s put her on a pedestal.
She burrowed into his life like some—admittedly younger—Mother Teresa.
Even in death, she clearly has her claws sunk so deep that Jack cannot—will not—hear a word against her.
The good thing about claws, though, is that they must be trimmed eventually.
I cannot let this—her—be the end of something so promising. Something so good and fulfilling and perfect. He thinks—thought—I was special. I must make him think that again.
I google her again. I didn’t really throw my weight behind it the first time, when she was a mere name on his lips, but now she’s become a threat, and I need to find out more about her.
Alice Reynolds is an annoyingly common name.
There are hundreds of possible candidates, but none that seem to ring true to the woman he described.
I don’t know what it is that makes me so sure of this—perhaps it’s that none of them look like what I’ve discovered is Jack’s type (naturally expensive-looking)—but I come away from the search frustrated.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve played this all wrong. It’s the first time in a long while that my carefully constructed persona hasn’t worked for me, and I feel more than a little lost. I haven’t felt this adrift since Freddie died.
All I can hope is that Jack will turn up at the group on Tuesday, take one look at me—with my lovely blond hair that I take such good care of, the slightly overexaggerated makeup—and realize that he’s made a huge mistake. Patience is not a strong suit of mine, but, for him, I’d wait a lifetime.
—
Jack, however, doesn’t come to the group on Tuesday.
Fiona even delays the session for an unprecedented five minutes in his absence—and we all watch the clock tick down with a sense of impending doom.
I swear there’s a collective sigh of disappointment when Fiona gives her trademark phlegmy cough—a product of her twenty-a-day habit—that indicates we won’t be waiting any longer.
None of them are more disappointed than me.
I’d rested a lot on this meeting. I was well-behaved over the weekend.
I went to work and came straight home again.
I ignored that deep, infernal tug toward Jack’s house and scrolled aimlessly through his profile over and over again, searching for something that might help me turn the tide on this unfortunate development.
But he’s a different person now from the one he was in that profile.
He’s sober, for one thing. There was nothing—that I could see—that would bring him round to my cause.
I’ve sent him a few more messages. Small ones—just checking in—and he has staunchly ignored every single one. It’s left me in a very bad mood indeed. I can’t shake the niggling worry that I’ve messed up my chances.
Matt has the floor now. I can tell from the way he clenches and unclenches his fist that he is furious about something, and—to be fair—I can hardly blame him. I’d be angry, too, in his position. Incandescent, in fact.
Matt is here because his brother, Mark, died of a rare and aggressive type of prostate cancer.
Matt was there through every appointment, ferrying him back and forth to the hospital in a truly heartwarming display of fraternal affection.
It was only as Mark lay on his deathbed that he uttered the words that would change Matt’s life forever: It’s genetic.
Unsurprisingly, Matt harbors a not insignificant amount of resentment toward his dead brother for that revelation.
Matt mops at his head with a dirty handkerchief.
His sanitary habits do leave a lot to be desired, but I suppose he’s got more of an excuse than most. Still, just looking at that dirty rag makes me want to retch.
He uses it for both his nose and his profuse sweating, and I can’t help but think of the cross-contamination of bodily fluids, all coming together in one snotty mess.
I rub my hands against my jeans, skin itching.
“My week’s been bloody awful,” Matt says.
“That little fucker Mark left me everything in his will. I only found out on Friday. Nearly a million pounds! Which would be great, if most of it hadn’t gone toward clearing his debt.
There’s only three hundred quid left. It’s yet another kick in the teeth, that’s what it is. ”
It is not entirely clear why Mark chose to wait until his final few hours to reveal to Matt that there was a high chance the cancer was hereditary.
I suspect there is more to the story than he is letting on, though Matt—in his capacity as a financial adviser—has hinted that he “misguidedly” encouraged Mark into some dodgy investments.
Quite how much Mark lost is up for debate, though evidently we are not talking pennies.
The will, I suspect, is intended as one final middle finger to his ailing brother.
Matt’s prognosis is not good. Following Mark’s revelation, he presented himself to the oncologist in a state of panic.
A state that was only made worse when he was told—in no uncertain terms—that it was very bad news.
Stage IV. Perhaps, the oncologist suggested, they might have been able to do more if Matt had come to them sooner.
He often uses especially colorful language when he recalls this particular facet of the story.
He tires easily these days. This little outburst is going to cost him—and sure enough he slumps back in his blue chair, looking spent.
Usually, I feel sorry for Matt. Mark’s death means he doesn’t even get a stab at revenge, and that’s a sorry situation for anyone. Today, however, I’m not in the mood. All I want is for Matt to finish his little speech and it to be my turn. I’d interrupt, but we all know how Fiona takes to that.
When it becomes clear that his outburst is over, I raise my hand.
“Go ahead, Iris.”
I clear my throat. “Firstly, I’m sorry, Matt.” Always good to start with sympathy, even if it’s false. “I can’t imagine what a difficult situation that must be for you.”
He inclines his bald head—shining in the overhead lights—toward me.
“I’ve found the last few days quite tough.
” Not a lie. “A few things have brought up some…uncomfortable emotions, I guess you might say.” I take a deep breath.
I’m going to need it, if I’m about to reveal this other, darker, sadder part to my journey with Freddie.
“Freddie and I didn’t always have the easiest run of it.
We had a few bumps in the road.” An understatement, if there ever was one.
Another deep breath. My voice cracks, and it’s not an act.
“The truth is, Freddie was involved with someone else…. I don’t think it was that serious, but it really drove a wedge between us.
I found out about it, and we argued. And I think all those uncomfortable feelings have just been coming to the fore lately.
I’m still angry about the betrayal, but I feel disloyal saying that.
I still love him, but I’m hurting, not just from his death but from the deception. ”
And there it is. The collective, sympathetic inhale from everyone in the room that suggests my words have met their mark. I don’t like to think about those times if I can help it, but it feels good to get it off my chest. I feel lighter, somehow.
“That must be incredibly difficult for you to process, Iris.” Fiona’s voice is—amazingly—soft, and I allow her words to travel through me.
To fill me up to the very brim, until even the Jack situation doesn’t feel quite so serious.
“Grief isn’t always a one-way street. There are often complicated emotions, regrets, even, around those we loved. Nobody’s perfect.”
A few people round the circle nod in solidarity, but Fiona’s words hit me right at my core. I realize that she’s right. Nobody is perfect, but Alice—to Jack—was as close as it came. And perhaps that’s where I’ve been going wrong.
I shouldn’t be sitting here spouting about Freddie. I must recalibrate my future without him in it. And that future—I’m more certain now than I ever have been—is Jack. I will find a way to get through to him. Even if it kills me.
The semblance of a plan starts to come together in my head.