Chapter Eleven
Twelve months ago
‘Hey, sexy lady,’ said Greg, as I flounced past him. He grabbed my wrist. Pulled me towards him. ‘What’s up?’
I paused. Allowed him to wrap his arms around me.
‘Nothing,’ I mumbled. ‘Everything.’
Greg sighed and hugged me tightly.
‘Is it that sister of yours again? Come on. Let me make you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’ He led me into the kitchen. Pulled out a chair at the table. ‘Sit down.’ Checking the kettle’s water level, he pressed the switch. ‘What’s Freya done now?’
‘The usual,’ I glowered.
Greg opened a cupboard. Searched for mugs. Most of the cupboard’s contents were currently in the dishwasher. The hum of the machine and slosh of water indicated it was cleaning everything within. This included pots and pans from the roast dinner I’d cooked earlier. Greg had volunteered to be taxi driver. He’d driven over to my parents’ place and picked them up, leaving me free to get on with the cooking.
The kids hadn’t joined us for dinner on this occasion. Much as my parents loved their grandchildren, they couldn’t cope with their boisterousness. Tim’s voice, always the loudest, played havoc with Dad’s hearing aids.
After a leisurely meal, I’d cleared up, and Greg had run the Golden Oldies back.
Now home again, Greg had been all set to watch some late-night telly while I indulged in a bubble bath. Except, just as I’d been about to hop in the tub, my phone had dinged. Due to the late hour – and always mindful of a potential emergency – I’d dithered. One foot had momentarily hovered over the bubbly water. Then I’d stepped back. Opened the message. It had been from Freya.
Evening! I completely forgot to tell you. Visited the parents yesterday. Mum has blocked the downstairs loo – toilet paper, I hasten to add, nothing nasty. She’s obsessed with the stuff. Anyway, can you call a plumber on Monday morning? Oh, and go over there to let him in and make sure he does the job properly. I didn’t deal with it myself as didn’t want to pay a plumber’s weekend rate. And obviously I can’t sort it out myself tomorrow because I’ll be at work. So over to you. Ta! xx
I gnashed my teeth together as I now reread the text to Greg.
He set the teas on the table and sat down beside me.
‘Why couldn’t she have told me earlier?’ I complained.
Greg rubbed his hands wearily over his eyes.
‘Never mind Freya,’ he said dismissively. ‘Why didn’t your father mention it when I was there? I could have had a go at sorting the loo out myself.’
‘Dad is getting so forgetful,’ I tutted.
‘Mind you, if it’s as bad as last time around’ – my mother often blocked the loos thanks to her tissue fascination – ‘then it will require a specialist company. They’ll use a pump and a reinforced hose to clear the pipe. There’s only so much I can do with my plunger.’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
‘Not funny,’ I said grumpily. ‘To hell with the weekend callout charge. If Freya had bothered to communicate, it would have been fixed by now.’ I took a sip of my tea. ‘And Dad is starting to seriously worry me.’
‘As we’ve both established, your father is having his own memory issues, darling.’ We were both glum for a moment. ‘Anyway, it would have been difficult for your dad to tell me without your mother overhearing. She’s always glued to his side. And you know what she’s like. If Deirdre had heard Trevor telling tales, she’d have gone berserk. It’s a no-win situation.’
‘I know.’ I sighed again. ‘But I do wish Freya wouldn’t always assume that I’m available. I was meant to see my accountant tomorrow morning. I’d also set the afternoon aside to do a recce on a hotel. One of my clients is getting married there. Ah well.’ I blew out my cheeks. ‘I’ll have to juggle my diary. At least the parents have two loos in their house, otherwise it would be a problem.’
‘Until your mother blocks that one too,’ Greg chuckled. He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’
‘No,’ I said despondently.
My husband leant in. Put an arm around my shoulders.
‘I love you, Mrs King.’ He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose.
‘I love you too,’ I said, dredging up a smile.
‘Then that’s all that matters,’ he said, gazing into my eyes. ‘Life is short, Mags. Don’t stress. It’s not good for you.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. I moved towards him. Kissed him full on the mouth.
He reciprocated. I found myself responding. Kissed him harder.
‘Is my wife getting playful?’ he teased.
‘Maybe,’ I murmured.
In one swift move, I plonked myself down on his lap. Cupped his face between my hands. Began to kiss him with alacrity. But suddenly Greg was unwrapping my arms from his neck. Pulling away.
‘What?’ I said in confusion.
He touched his head. Rubbed around his temples.
‘I might have to pass on the fun and games,’ he grimaced. ‘I suddenly have a headache.’
‘Isn’t that my line?’ I quipped, as Greg continued to massage his forehead.
‘Sorry, darling.’ He gently tipped me off his lap and stood up. ‘Ouch, ouch. I’ve never had one like this before. If you don’t mind, Mags, I’ll head upstairs.’
‘Okay,’ I frowned. Suddenly Greg didn’t look too great. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something,’ I suggested. ‘I ran a bath twenty minutes ago. It’s untouched. Do you want first dip? I don’t mind having your dirty water.’ I smiled at him fondly.
‘No.’ Greg shook his head. Rubbed his forehead again. ‘I’ll shower in the morning instead.’
But Greg never took that shower. And I never oversaw a plumber for that blocked loo. Neither did I telephone my accountant to cancel our appointment, nor do a recce of my client’s wedding venue. Everything went out the window. Because, when I awoke the following morning, Greg wasn’t by my side.
Concerned, I’d hastened downstairs. He was slumped on the sofa. Unresponsive. Upon the occasional table was a glass of water. Next to it, a packet of paracetamol. The blister-pack showed that he’d taken two tablets.
‘Greg?’ I’d quavered.
But I’d already known from the pallor of his skin that my husband was dead.
To this day, the morning-after-the-night-before remains a blur. As did everything that followed. There had been an ambulance. A postmortem. A verdict – aneurysm. And then a funeral. Everything had seemed to happen at warp speed.
The Golden Oldies had been shocked. The kids, devasted. And me? Well… I’d been numb. Totally numb. However, I do remember the wake. It had been held at our local pub. The Angel. Someone – Tim? – had hired the smaller of its two function rooms. Freya had buttonholed me in the Ladies.
‘A good send off, Maggie,’ she’d declared as we’d stood at the washbasins. ‘But tell me. Why an oak coffin? Cardboard ones are so much more eco-friendly and far better for the environment.’