Chapter 17 #2
‘I, err. I, well, I don’t seem to have a lot of spare time.
Things are really busy at work right now.
’ Oh, here we go, I hadn’t planned for this kind of small talk.
I clearly don’t get out enough these days.
But what am I meant to say? That I spend most of my spare time hanging out with widows and widowers at a crematorium?
And that when I’m not doing that, I’m mostly occupied with trying to find a way to communicate with the dead?
Crikey, what did I do in my spare time before?
I must have done something with my evenings and weekends.
I definitely went to the pub more, and sometimes clubbing with the girls.
Of course, a lot of the time James was around, so we’d do things together, like going to the cinema, or eating out, or going for a run, or sometimes I’d run on my own while he went off for a cycle ride, and then we’d both arrive back sweaty and in need of a shower and – oh god, I really miss him in so many ways.
Sometimes at weekends we’d go on long walks or meet up with friends.
Sometimes we’d stay with some of his ex-army mates who’d left and moved away, so we’d get to visit some lovely places, like Exeter and Edinburgh and Tunbridge Wells.
Anyway, there never seemed to be a dull moment while James was alive.
These days an hour at the pub after work on a Friday is about all I can face.
I drag myself back to the moment. Oh god, I must come across as a really, really boring workaholic. How could this guy begin to understand? ‘Yep, really busy at work,’ I repeat, almost apologetically.
‘Makes perfect sense. Work’s a real godsend when you need something to take your mind off other things. Must be coming up to a year now since James passed.’
‘You’ve got a good memory. Yes, it’ll be a year in January.’
‘Still raw then?’
‘It really is. Sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday.’ Gareth’s so easy to talk to, I find myself opening up about it. ‘I don’t know how to move on. And the worst thing is, I don’t really want to.’
‘Well, don’t let people pressure you. Give it as much time as it takes. Grief isn’t the sort of thing you can control.’
‘But Carol’s managed to,’ I reply.
‘Has she though?’ He glances across at Carol.
‘Well, it’s almost like nothing ever happened, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’ He looks doubtful.
He obviously thinks Carol’s not herself, but there’s no time to talk about it because she’s just announced that it’s time to eat.
We all dutifully move over to the perfectly decorated dining table.
And now I feel glad I’ll be sitting next to Gareth.
I’m pleasantly surprised that he’s happy to talk about James and his death.
Most people would run a mile rather than discuss death or grief – in fact a lot of people just avoid mentioning James at all.
It’s not like you can erase someone just because they died.
But most people find it uncomfortable. I think people are worried they’ll say the wrong thing.
Or worried I’ll react to the subject by bursting into tears – which, to be fair, is a real possibility at times.
So, by and large, they avoid saying anything about it at all.
But sometimes it’s really helpful to talk about it.
I think I’d go mad if I bottled up this grief completely.
Gareth had obviously not checked out the name cards earlier, as he seems surprised to be next to me at the table.
‘Carol’s clearly keen for us to get to know each other,’ he jokes.
‘You know, I think she feels some kind of responsibility for my love life getting back on track. Which is weird, when you think about it.’
‘More than you know, as it happens. Carol seems to have forgotten that I’m gay.’
‘Oh, you’re not…’ I tail off. This is awkward now.
‘“Gareth the Gay”? Yeah, I know what she calls me. She thought it was a clever Lord of the Rings reference. James and I used to laugh about it. There’s no point being offended. There’s just no changing her. She is who she is.’
‘And trying to matchmake us is probably Carol’s idea of conversion therapy,’ I joke.
Gareth grins. ‘So, do you want to pretend to convert me?’
My hesitation clearly shows on my face, because he adds, ‘Come on, there’s no harm. It will make Carol’s day, and it will give us an excuse to get out of here early.’
‘Okay, I’m warming to the idea now! And I suppose she kind of deserves it after giving you that appalling nickname!’
‘So, a little mild flirting, and then straight after the meal we’ll be able to make our excuses and leave.
’ He slips his arm round the back of my chair and moves in a little closer before starting to speak again, gazing at me intently.
I can’t help noticing Carol smiling and looking rather pleased with herself when she glances across and sees us so close together.
Gareth turns out to be really good company, and we have actually hit it off, albeit on a purely platonic level, so the Christmas meal has been a lot less painful than I’d anticipated.
After the meal I offer to help Carol clear up, but she refuses – she’s clearly keen for me to get back to spending time with Gareth.
Seeing how insistent she is, Gareth quickly seizes the moment, and asks if we can be excused.
‘You don’t mind if we slip away early, do you, Mrs Harrington? I’ll give Amy a lift home.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. You two go and enjoy yourselves!
And Gareth, you’re twenty-eight, you must call me Carol, not Mrs Harrington.
’ She looks positively thrilled, clearly thinking her masterplan has been a success.
She gives me her usual slightly awkward hug – hugging Carol is kind of like hugging a garment on a coat hanger, and not on one of those luxury padded satin coat hangers, more like one of those cheap metal ones you get from the dry cleaner’s.
She waves us off with a big smile on her face.
Gareth opens the door of his car for me – he really is a gentleman. It’s just a short drive back home, and a few minutes later he’s turning into our, my, road.
‘This is it, here on the left.’ I indicate the bungalow and Gareth pulls up on the drive. ‘Do you have time to stop for a drink?’
‘I’d like that.’
I show him in. ‘Beer, wine, gin, tea, coffee, hot chocolate?’
‘A hot chocolate sounds wonderful. Can I help?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. Cream and marshmallows?’ I offer.
‘Mmm, yes please.’ He wanders over to the bookcase and starts browsing the titles.
He’s still browsing when I come back in the room with the drinks.
‘Quite an eclectic collection.’
I nod. ‘Not all my choices, of course. But I can’t bear to get rid of any of his books, even the cycling ones. It’s so stupid. I know I’m never going to read them.’
‘But they’re part of your life with him.’
‘How come you get it? Most people our age don’t seem to understand how I’m feeling at all.’
‘It’s not the same as what you’re going through, obviously, but I lost a very good friend three years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Gareth.’ I feel really bad now. I’ve been rattling on all afternoon assuming that I’m the only one grieving here. ‘Was he a boyfriend?’
‘No. We never got to that stage – sadly. I fell for him pretty much as soon as I met him, but I was in a relationship, and by the time I’d managed to disentangle myself from it, he and I had settled into such a platonic friendship, I somehow never managed to push beyond that with him.
If I’m honest, I was wary of rocking the boat and losing his friendship altogether if he didn’t want as much as I wanted. ’
And now Gareth is starting to look a bit teary. I put the mugs down on the coffee table and give him a hug.
‘This grief thing stinks, doesn’t it? Do you think it ever goes away?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, ‘I don’t know. I think it gradually dominates your life less, but it’s still there, like a dull ache you can ignore most of the time when you’re busy.
But in those quieter moments, it can catch you unawares and you find yourself right back there, struggling to stay standing as it crashes over you. ’
I know exactly what he means. I can feel tears pricking my eyes, just thinking about his grief, and then mine too.
‘What we need is a box of chocolates and a good old weepy movie.’
‘You are so right. What do you have?’
‘Here, have a look through these. See if there’s anything you’re in the mood for.’ I switch on the Apple TV and hand him the remote. ‘I’ll go and grab some snacks.’
I return with a tray laden with goodies. Popcorn, salted pecans, mince pies and a large box of Lily O’Brien’s dessert chocolates. (My favourites! Who knew you could squeeze all the taste of a Banoffee pie into a tiny mouthful of chocolate?) The Apartment is ready to play.
‘Okay, so it’s not entirely weepy, but it has its moments,’ Gareth says, half apologetically.
‘Good choice! Did you know this was James’ favourite?’
‘I had no idea. Would you rather choose something else?’
‘No, this is perfect. Just pass that box of tissues please.’