Chapter 3
The trouble is, I can’t stop loving him.
Loving James is what I do. I tried to stop loving him, I even tried hating him for abandoning me, for choosing to go cycling that day instead of taking the car, or just staying at home in bed.
I hid all the photos of him at the back of his half of the wardrobe; I took all his cycling trophies off the shelf and hid them in the wardrobe too; I forced myself not to listen to the two saved messages from him on my mobile, and got as far as thinking about deleting them.
What’s more, I stopped writing my letters to him.
My attempt to stop loving him lasted for two days.
And then I gave up. But for those two days I felt physically sick.
Like no other sickness I’ve known before.
It was as though I was fighting every cell in my body.
Because every cell in my body loves James, and going against that was like cutting off the life blood to every single part of me.
So, anyway, I was going to tell you about my new friends.
They’re the only upside of this whole sorry mess.
They’re mostly at least three times my age, but they’re lovely, lovely people, and so supportive.
And no, I haven’t started gate-crashing seniors’ hour at Sainsbury’s.
No, I got to know them at the place you’d least expect.
The crematorium. Yes, really, the crematorium.
We’re all regulars there. Sad but true. The number of visits per week varies.
Everyone in our crowd is there at least once a week.
Some go every day. Tom is in his early eighties, but fit as a fiddle.
He’s there morning and afternoon without fail, come rain or shine.
In the winter he goes home for his lunch, but in the summer he brings a little picnic with him.
Every day he does the Times crossword there, and has done for the last eleven years, ever since his wife died.
He won’t leave until it’s finished. And that’s how he spends his days.
True love, or what? I go as often as I can.
Some weeks it’s more than others, but most weeks it’s just two or three visits.
I’m back at work now, you see. People don’t expect you to take very long off when you’re ‘just a girlfriend’.
Why do I keep going back? I’m not sure why.
I just feel drawn to it, like there’s some kind of magnetism.
It’s stupid, I know. James was cremated, so it’s not even as if there’s a big grave or anything.
But somehow because his ashes are buried there, I feel like in some way he’s there too.
I talk to him there, just as if he can hear me.
I remember my first visit, the day after James’ funeral.
I sat in the gardens and cried, and then without thinking I just started talking to him as if he was right next to me.
I don’t know why. I felt like such an idiot when I realised what I was doing.
Afterwards I went to the café to get a cup of tea and warm up.
It was a freezing cold January day, and I’d ended up sitting outside much longer than I’d meant to.
My hands were starting to go numb. It was lovely and warm inside, with quiet, soothing music playing, and some cosy corners with sofas as well as regular café tables.
I asked for a pot of tea and I ordered a toasted tea cake too, because I fancied the idea of one, even though I knew I was probably too upset to eat anything.
The lady at the counter, Sarah, who is actually the manager of the café, was so sweet and said she’d bring it over to the table.
When she came over with it, I’d just been hit by another of those huge waves of grief which come crashing over you when you’ve lost someone you love.
So much for the five minutes I had just spent redoing my make-up before I went in. Sarah was so sweet.
‘Would you like some company?’ she asked, and when I nodded through a flood of tears, she just sat down next to me and put her hands over mine and waited patiently for the wave to pass.
‘I think I must be going mad. I’ve been talking to him, as if he can hear me,’ I confessed.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, lovely,’ she said, passing me a box of tissues. ‘Loads of people do that. And I’m sure our loved ones can hear us.’
I looked at her questioningly. Was she just humouring me or did she really believe that? I kind of needed her to believe it.
‘Oh yes, I’m certain of it. Who is it you’ve lost? Is it your dad? Your grandad?’
I shook my head. ‘My boyfriend.’
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry.’ Her soft Welsh accent was soothing, and I found myself telling her all about James and me.
And that’s how Sarah and I became friends.
Anyway, those of us who are regulars at the crem have got to know each other so well it’s like being in a sort of club, like a kind of frequent flyers club, except there are no Avios with this one.
Actually, last week I did suggest to Sarah that they should set up a loyalty scheme, you know, like Caffè Nero has, and she said she’s going to have a think about it.
And we now have an official name. I had been joking about the frequent flyers club thing, and Frank, a lovely man in his seventies, who lost his wife a couple of years ago, said ‘more like frequent flowers’ and it stuck.
Because it’s true. We do all bring flowers.
Not every visit of course, but now and again, on special dates and so on.
The first time I brought flowers it seemed a bit weird.
I’d never bought flowers for James before.
I’d buy him bike-related things, or concert tickets, or a nice bottle of whisky, or a trip away somewhere, but not flowers.
James bought me flowers. He was quite traditional like that.
He’d often get some delivered, especially while he was away, and there’d always be a cryptic message from him with them, like a clue I’d have to work out – sometimes something funny, sometimes something romantic, but always uniquely James.
And although I loved the flowers, the messages were definitely the best part, because working out his message would remind me that, however far apart we were, we were still on the same wavelength, still inextricably connected.
But now that amazing connection has gone.
Because he’s gone. And that’s what I’ve got to get back somehow.
So, the Frequent Flowers Club, that’s who we are.
And the lovely thing is, they all get it.
It’s the one place in life where I don’t feel judged.
The one place where there’s no pressure to ‘move on’.
Other people say I have an unhealthy obsession with James, but to my mind most people have an unhealthy obsession with forgetting, with putting things behind you, with moving on.
I mean, exactly how am I meant to do that?
I can’t just stop loving him. It’s like it’s built into my DNA to love him – like I’ve got a ‘Love James’ chromosome.
I think about him all the time. I can’t help it.
It’s not like I wake up and say to myself I must think about James every minute of the day.
It just happens. Things remind me of him, tiny things.
I see a cyclist in the distance and just for a moment it could be him.
I hear a Dusty Springfield song and I hear him singing along again.
Dusty Springfield? Bet that surprised you.
Yeah, it surprised me too. But his gran used to love Dusty Springfield and played her records all the time.
And James adored his gran, so of course he ended up loving Dusty Springfield too.
And now they’re all in my music library too, tunes like ‘I Only Want To Be With You’ (true), ‘All Cried Out’ (clearly not true), and his absolute favourite, ‘Goin’ Back’.
At the supermarket I pick a jar of Marmite off the shelf, and I have to fight back the tears as I remember.
No, it’s just you now, Amy. No one’s going to eat that now.
Because James was the only one who liked it.
And now he’s gone. But not from my head. Never for long.
Two people in the Frequent Flowers Club have even become a couple.
Joe and Olive. Who knew you could find love at a crematorium?
They’ve each been visiting their loved ones two or three times a week for over ten years now, and the friendship just gradually blossomed into something more, and now here they are planning a wedding.
It’s so romantic. And they make such a lovely couple – must have turned heads in their youth, and such kind people too.
But since the average age of the group plummets when I show up, I doubt very much I’m going to find love there.
Not that sort of love. Besides, I don’t want it.
James has ruined me for romantic love. He’s the sort of person who does that.
Once you’ve been in love with him, that’s it, no one else is ever going to come close to his level.
I used to find that Sinead O’Connor song really irritating, but when James left, I finally got it, because it’s true, nothing compares to him.