Chapter 2
Next morning, after Lloyd has headed off to a job, I spot another tribute to Ravi on Facebook.
Thinking of dear Pam and Kamal at this sad time.
So Ravi’s parents are still alive. Their house, Cherry Cottage, was virtually my second home throughout my teens.
I’ve no idea if they still live there. However, on my lunch break, I pop into the big Waterstones on Piccadilly for a sympathy card.
With a little time to spare, I also nip up to the kids’ floor in search of something for Poppy, my baby granddaughter.
At just two months she’s probably a bit young for books.
I also know that these precious years flash by so fast, and before you know it that little baby is a teenager, repulsed by the way you breathe or move through a room.
Then they’re a young adult who curls a lip at your multi-coloured plastic chandelier and vast collection of fridge magnets, and asks, ‘Wouldn’t you prefer clean lines, Mum?
’ And then she’s moving out, and has fallen in love with an IT specialist called Zack with a brick-shaped jaw and that changes everything.
It’s ridiculous, I know, to miss those cosy winter afternoons of just Cora and me, eating buttered crumpets and playing Buckaroo at our kitchen table.
However, as I spot a book she once loved, I’m hit by a rush of nostalgia.
With a small thrill, I buy the elaborately illustrated Noah’s Ark for Poppy, and then pick up my boss’s customary smoked salmon bagel from the ferociously expensive deli on Piccadilly.
Back at work – at Rupert Featherstone Fine Art Books – I attend to a bunch of online orders and queries, then devour the packed lunch I’ve been thinking about since 10.
15 a.m. These activities happen not in the gleaming wood-panelled elegance of our actual shop, but in the small, windowless back room.
I am allowed out of here. I look after our window display – it’s my favourite part of the job – and keep a tight rein on the shop’s general appearance.
I could do so much more, I feel – rearranging things, making the shop seem more welcoming and less intimidating.
But Rupert – a florid, well-fed man in his sixties – is permanently stationed at his desk by the front door, and it feels as if that’s his territory and this is mine.
I often hear him, booming away to his regular customers and friends who’ve dropped by.
And if I happen to emerge from the cave, it’s all, ‘Oh! Hello, Josie!’ as if I’m his scruffy little dog who’s broken out of confinement.
A terrier whom he’s quite fond of really, but she’s a bit stinky and prone to jumping up at guests.
Today it’s Charles, an old friend from Rupert’s boarding-school days, who’s breezed in.
‘What would you do without this girl?’ he chortles as I bring them coffees.
‘Given her a pay rise yet?’ There’s a bit of jovial banter, then I retreat to the back room where I package up a customer’s hefty photography book before switching my attention to the sympathy card.
Dear Pam, Kamal and family,
I’m so sorry to hear that you have lost dear Ravi.
Sending all my love and thoughts to you all.
Josie xx
Will they even remember me? It doesn’t matter, I decide.
They have far bigger things to deal with.
But then it occurs to me that perhaps, at some point, Pam or Kamal might like to drop me a line.
So I add my email address in tiny – almost apologetic – writing at the bottom and post the card on my way home from work.
Three days later, I receive an email from Pam.
Dear Josie,
Thank you so much for your thoughtful card. We know how much you meant to our Ravi. Yes, it’s been a horribly tough time, and our hearts are broken. Ravi was a real fighter – but you’ll remember that.
I’m not sure where you’re living now or if you’re still in touch with Shane. But as a family we’d love to invite you both to our celebration of Ravi’s life. You know how passionate she was about her music and the band, and you and Shane were a huge part of that.
I’m not sure if you know that Ravi spent much of her adult life in Australia where she was very happy. She came back home to Yorkshire when she was ill, so we had those last few months with her close to us again. We’re very grateful for that.
I should also tell you that Ravi left something for you and Shane. I’m under strict instructions to hand it over to you in person. To both of you, I mean – together. I know it seems strange, but she was very definite about this. You know how definite she was about everything in life!
We miss her so much, Josie, I can’t even begin to describe the pain. Right up to the end she was our beautiful ray of light. It would make us so happy to see you and Shane after all these years, and for you to share your precious memories at our special day for Ravi.
Full details below.
Lots of love,
Pam and Kamal xx
I stare at it, letting the message settle.
Ravi left something for me and Shane? That doesn’t make any sense.
I re-read it, more slowly this time to make sure I haven’t misunderstood it.
I feel terrible for Pam, Kamal and Dev, Ravi’s older brother.
But I can’t go. Not if there’s any possibility of Shane being there too.
It’s an awfully long time since I’ve even thought about him.
Actually, no. That’s a lie. He pops into my mind far too often for someone I haven’t laid eyes on since I was twenty.
It occurs to me, as I get up and knock myself some dinner together, that I could concoct a tiny lie.
Sorry, but I lost touch with Shane a long time ago and I haven’t been able to track him down.
But that’s not tiny – it’s pretty substantial – and I can’t bring myself to spout any size of lie to Ravi’s bereaved mum and dad.
Through my parents, I had heard that Ravi had moved to Australia.
The fact that she hadn’t told me directly seemed to signal that she hadn’t wanted any further contact with me.
I could have ‘reached out’ – a phrase frequently flung around by Zack, my daughter’s partner (‘Cora, could you reach out to the neighbours about that hedge situation? It nearly had my eye out on my run!’).
But what would I have done? Apologised and begged for forgiveness?
Or just wished her well? As nothing seemed right, I just left it.
But the guilt still lingers and so, with a growing sense of dread, I try to build myself up to contacting Shane.
In fact, there’s no ‘tracking down’ needed as I know where he is.
At least I know he’s on Instagram, although he’s hardly an active user.
There are several Shane Calverts but that’s definitely his profile picture.
Not that I’ve studied his account closely; my gaze might have briefly skimmed it, that’s all.
Just enough to confirm that these days he’s a father of two, and he still has that adorable, slightly off-kilter smile, and those mesmerising green eyes with little amber flecks – not that I’ve zoomed in – fringed with long, dark lashes.
Well of course he has the same eyes! Doesn’t everyone?
The once-dark hair that Ravi insisted on gelling before a gig – ‘Stop it, Rav! For fuck’s sake!
’ – is slightly salt-and-pepper now and is almost certainly product-free.
He was boyishly fresh-faced back then, but his stubble looks good.
I hope to God he hasn’t seen my pics. Not that I care – I mean, why the hell would I?
I fork down a bowl of pasta and, bolstered by a couple of glasses of wine, start to type out a message at the kitchen table.
Hi Shane, do hope you’re well. Sorry to land this on you out of the blue but have you heard the terribly sad news about Ravi?
She passed away earlier this month. It seems she’d been ill for quite a while.
Pam and Kamal are having a celebration of her life at their place – they’re still at Cherry Cottage, and they’d like us both to go.
The ‘us’ part triggers an involuntary shudder, but I plough on.
Ravi left something for us, Pam says. Something she stipulated – is ‘stipulated’ a weirdly formal word? Something that has to be given to us in person, apparently. I don’t know any more than that. I’m sorry to tell you all of this and hope it doesn’t come as a shock.
Best wishes, Josie
Relax, I tell myself. It’s just a quick DM.
So I only re-read it about thirty-five times, deleting bits and rewriting other bits, as if it’s going to be graded.
Now I’m worried that ‘Best wishes’ sounds as if I’m following up a job interview: Thank you for taking the time to see me, Best wishes, etc.
Would ‘Warmest wishes’ be better? A stark ‘Best’, or a more familiar ‘Love’?
No, not love! Indifference, then? Nonchalantly yours, Josie.
Still too chicken to send it, I mooch through to the living room with my laptop, hoping a change of setting will offer a crumb of inspiration.
Here I fall back onto my shabby corduroy sofa and stare up at my lopsided chandelier, as if it might spell out to me, in a code of dusty plastic droplets, what to say.
Already, I feel as if I’ve panic-written a dissertation.
Not that I have ever written a dissertation; I never went on to further education.
But Cora did, and I can still picture her wild, bloodshot eyes after every caffeinated, essay-bashing all-nighter.
I gather myself up and have another stab at it.
‘With thanks’, like a colleague? A brisk ‘Cheers’?
No, no – Ravi has died. It’s not and never will be a ‘cheers’ situation.
I’m not sure a DM even needs a sign-off – it’s never been an issue for me before – and I know I’m overthinking it as I consult ChatGPT.
Take it easy, it suggests. Love and light. Stay golden.
And they say AI is the future? Possibly, yes, if you want to sound faintly creepy.
I type out further options in my finger-jabby Gen X way, rather than the speedy double-thumb method of the young.
Cora keeps nagging me to change, saying, ‘Mum, you always make things harder than they need to be.’ Story of my life.
However, my make-up – which I’m deeply attached to – is, by her reckoning, not complicated enough.
‘No one uses powder any more, Mum!’ she announced recently, as if it were dust I’d swept up from the road.
Nowadays it’s all illuminators and glazing sprays and a Korean twelve-step ‘glass skin’ routine.
Twelve steps – and she’s a new mum! When Cora was a baby, I barely had time to wash myself.
I refuse to be bossed around by a twenty-eight-year-old and will carry on texting and powdering my complexion however I like.
I’m not getting into Botox and fillers and having my face yanked up (not that I can afford or have the nerve for any of that).
Hair-wise I’m letting the grey come through, albeit muddled with chemical blonde.
What I’m doing, I tell myself frequently, is embracing this marvellous life stage of anxiety and head pills and non-listening doctors!
However, remembering him now – that cocky GP who was barely old enough to rent a car – triggers The Rage in me, which causes me to stab furiously at my phone.
And this has the unfortunate effect of sending my message prematurely with the sign-off: Best golden love Josie.
My heart bangs. Oh God, I did not send that. No – I did! Fuck!
Don’t panic, I tell myself. As we don’t follow each other, my DM will have plopped into Shane’s requests folder. If his is anything like mine, it’s all bots and pervs – and who ever bothers to look at those?
Back in the kitchen, I grab the wine from the fridge and pour myself the last dregs, marvelling as I always do how an entire bottle can hold so little (is it the concave bottom?).
Then another thought hits me. The unsend option!
Does Instagram have that? I rush back through to check and snatch at my phone, feeling quite sick as I stare at it.
Shane has already replied.