February #2
I punched the air with joy when you told them all to eff off. And then you went and apologised. I like to think it wasn’t genuine.
The Jesy I’m building in my head wouldn’t say sorry for someone else’s behaviour.
However, I can see why keeping the peace would be the better tactic, given the circumstances. Either way, I thought I would email you personally.
I don’t know why.
This is fucking weird if I’m honest. However, I felt compelled to, if only to let you know that you deserve better. If no one else will tell you, I will.
As a stranger, I cannot believe how insensitive your family has been.
I am well aware this is none of my business, but I have never seen such a group of selfish people. They say funerals bring out the worst in people, but entire families?
Surely, they can’t be this bad all the time, can they? Don’t answer. I think I know what you’ll say, and all I can say is that you’re a very patient woman.
I know this is very odd, and you probably think (quite rightly) that I’m a freak. But I have left a gift for you with the minister.
Don’t let your family know, Jesy, and take something for yourself.
You absolutely deserve it after the shit they pulled. Think of it as financial compensation after funding (what I’m sure is) a beautiful service by yourself.
My mother always told me that when the weight of the world is on your shoulders, it’s nice to receive a few kind words. I don’t know if she meant it quite in this capacity, but it’s good advice to live by.
Although, please tell me to fuck off if you’d prefer.
They wouldn’t be kind words, but perfectly justifiable. I know if I received a message like this, I’d be thinking ‘crazy stalker’. Especially after hearing that I’ve left a gift with the minister. I’m not, I promise!
Though I suppose every crazy stalker would say that.
Just so we’re clear, you gave the funeral details out in these emails. I’m not actually stalking you.
Jeez.
This has not gone the way I planned. Shutting up now. Good luck with the funeral today. I will wear a pink tie to work in honour of Susan.
All the best,
Brian.
Jesy
Well.
That was unexpected.
I’m leaning over the keyboard, trying to poke an earring through a hole I can’t see, rereading the words on the screen, when Jerry stumbles through the door. I instinctively shut the laptop lid and mentally cringe.
That looked dodgy as fuck.
But Jerry doesn’t notice. Jerry never notices.
Not before his mother died, and certainly not now that the ‘only woman to ever understand him’ is gone.
His eyes are rimmed red, and there’s at least two weeks’ worth of growth on his face, which wouldn’t be a problem if he made any effort to keep it tidy.
Instead, it’s unkempt, uneven, and stinks of brandy and vomit.
I should be more sympathetic, I know. But then he opens that mouth.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” he grumbles, gesturing to my modest black dress.
There’s nothing wrong with it, I might add.
It’s perfectly suitable attire for a funeral.
I’ve covered everything that should be covered.
I can’t wait to hear what complaint he has.
Too long. Too short. The wrong shade of black, perhaps.
Or maybe, just maybe, there’s fuck all wrong, and he just wants a punching bag for the day.
Well, tough luck, buddy boy.
“This is what I’m wearing,” I confirm, jabbing the earring through my ear despite the stab of pain.
“Well, where’s the pink?” he asks. “Mum wanted pink.”
If my husband had handled his grief with any level of grace, this would be the part where I’d gently flirt with him and tell him about the pink knickers under my black dress. Instead, I gesture to my shoes, where a small pink bow adds a little glam to an otherwise boring pair of heels.
“You need to change,” he demands. “I mean, look at the state of you.”
I count to five. And then to ten.
When he rakes his gaze over me, I count to twenty for good measure.
“I’m not changing, Jerry,” I say, grabbing a cardigan. “Not unless you can give me a solid reason why I should.”
“‘Cos you look like a slut, that’s why,” a voice says from the open doorway.
I should have expected that.
Thomas, like his late wife, had never really approved of me. Back when Jerry and I were younger, that hadn’t mattered too much. Now, my wonderful husband of eight years has become so desperate for some parental approval that he’d happily throw his wife under the bus for some brownie points.
“Da’s right,” he says. “You look like a tramp.”
“I look fine,” I insist, pulling my shoes on. “Skirt below the knee, neckline along my collarbone, arms covered, legs covered. I’m failing to see the slutty part.”
“I can see your nipples through your dress,” Thomas spits. “It’s too tight, and you’ve obviously skipped a bra.”
I resist the urge to cover myself. I am indeed wearing a bra because there’s absolutely no way the girls would sit this high on my chest without one. But there’s no point arguing. “Maybe you shouldn’t be looking at my chest, and you wouldn’t see my nipples.”
“Don’t speak to my da’ that way. Especially today.”
I take a breath.
“I’ll meet you both at the church,” I say, grabbing my purse. “The car should be here soon.”
I don’t give them a chance to answer, pushing past Thomas, heading down the stairs and straight out the front door. I bypass every awful member of his family and walk purposefully down the street, every step reminding me that I am an outsider. Not welcome. Not appreciated. Not family.
I’m about five minutes away from the church when my phone buzzes. I should probably ignore it and make sure I’m there before anyone can steal Susan’s flowers. But it’s probably Isla, or Penny with some well wishes, and if I’m honest, I could use a bloody friend.
I take a seat on a nearby bench and check my notifications.
It’s not Isla or Penny. Nor is it any of the Pattinson clan ready to tear me a new one for storming out of the house. Instead, the email icon flashes.
One new email.
27 Feb | From: Brian Trainer | To: Jesy Pattinson
Subject: One more thing
Attachment: PinkTie.jpeg
Me again.
Weird, I know. But if you’re going to do something, do it right. Which of these two ties best suits Susan’s preference?
Fucking hell, you’re probably burying the woman by now. What an idiot I am. Okay, forget I asked.
Head held high. And remember the words ‘off’ and ‘fuck’ are handy in most situations where someone is being a prick.
All the best,
Idiot Man.