Chapter Thirty-One
By the time I’d got home, settled Bess, and had a hot soak in the bath, I’d mentally consigned Dylan Alexander to a wheelie bin. As an afterthought, I’d revisited the bin, and tossed in a piece of paper. Upon it had been the words Lucky Escape.
In fact, as I now dried myself off, I started to feel mildly outraged. How dare Dylan give me his business card with contact number when there was another woman in his life. Or was I getting way ahead of myself? Where men were concerned, I was so badly out of touch I couldn’t read any subtext.
Even so, I suspected Jemima wouldn’t let her man walk his dog with another woman.
I revisited the moment when I’d spotted Jemima standing next to Dylan. Observed her stylish outfit. The slim figure. The immaculate hair and makeup. She was a glam ma’am. Common sense told me that Jemima must be special. Why else would she have been standing by Dylan’s side?
Men. I’d been so lucky with Greg. He’d never been two-faced. Years ago, a neighbour had had a soft spot for my husband. She’d made it known to him, too. And me, for that matter. She’d reminded me of Dorian, from Birds of a Feather. All tight leather trousers and leopard-print tops. Greg had admired her figure but never flirted back.
‘As Paul Newman once so famously said’ – Greg had declared – ‘why have a burger when you can have steak at home.’
But not all men were like my departed husband. Some guys were nightmares. Drinkers. Gamblers. Adulterers. Going on dating apps behind their partner’s back.
When I’d been growing up as a child, I’d overheard my mother chatting with my father about the couple two doors down. She’d told Dad that Margo Darcy had popped over and cried on her shoulder. Margo had confided that husband Philip had a mistress. That it had been going on for twenty years.
‘What’s a mistress?’ my eight-year-old self had piped up.
‘Never you mind,’ my mother had said, aghast that I’d overheard.
‘Why can’t I know,’ I’d persisted.
In order to appease me, my father had given a diplomatic answer.
‘It’s a person who works with someone that is rubbish at their job.’
This false explanation had backfired when I’d gone to a friend’s house for tea. I’d overheard my friend’s father moaning about his secretary. I’d then informed my friend’s mother that her husband’s secretary was a mistress. And no. I hadn’t been invited to tea again.
‘Are you there, Greg?’ I said aloud.
Silence.
‘So much for your little homily about moving on. It seems that Dylan Alexander has already done that. Is there anyone out there for me? Not that it really matters,’ I sighed. I folded up the bath towel and hung it over the hot rail. ‘But I do miss company. And yes, I miss romantic company too.’
Ha! So, you’re after someone to light up your erogenous zones, Greg chuckled inside my head.
‘Ah, there you are.’ I squirted deodorant under my arms. ‘Well, my darling, I seem to recall that you liked that too.’
I smiled as a misty memory came to mind. A Saturday night. Date Night we used to call it. Greg dressed up in smart jeans and a shirt. Me dolled up. Taking care not to cross the line of mutton impersonating lamb. Going out in a cloud of perfume. Driving to a restaurant.
Sometimes we’d go miles out of our way just to have a different experience. Like going to the coast. Brighton. A wild walk along the pier. Then we’d sip wine in a candlelit bistro. Get mildly tight. Then I’d rest my palm on Greg’s thigh as we drove home. He’d put his hand over mine. Tell me I looked beautiful. Once home, Greg would shut the door on the world. Pull me into his arms. Impersonate a Mafia Don speaking to his moll.
‘Get naked, babe.’
I’d giggle along with the role play. Afterwards he’d always tell me that he never got tired of making love to me.
I slipped into my pyjamas. I knew it wasn’t good to have these imaginary conversations with my departed husband. But I couldn’t help it. A psychiatrist would have a field day.
Therapist: So, you like talking to dead people?
Me: Yeah. It happens every time I go to McDonald’s and order ‘medium’ fries, ha!
Therapist: Death isn’t a laughing matter, Mrs King.
Me: Would you prefer me to be grave?
Therapist: I suspect you’re full of suppressed anger. You should write letters to all the people you dislike, then burn them.
Me: Okay – but should I keep the letters?
I brushed my hair, then spoke to Greg again.
‘I had an altercation with someone today. It was that blasted old biddy, Mabel Plaistow. It all was rather embarrassing. And afterwards I had twenty questions from Ella about Dylan Alexander.’
Ella is young. She’s also protective of her mum.
‘I guess so. Mabel Plaistow aside, it was nice going out earlier.’
You should go out more often.
I will, now I have Bess.
I meant romantically. I want you to be happy, Mags.
‘Thank you, darling. And Greg’ – I added – ‘I want you to know I still love you.’ Suddenly I was choking up. ‘I love you so much. Can you hear me, Greg. Can you really hear me? Can you send me a sign or something? Because, between you and me, I am a bit concerned about my mental health. Do you remember that conversation we once had? We made a pact. That whoever died first, the other person would send a sign. A red balloon. I’ve yet to see that red balloon, darling. Did you forget? In which case, I’m reminding you now. Meanwhile, if you could text me – somehow – I’d be over the moon.’
I jumped as my phone, propped against the washbasin, suddenly dinged. For a moment, my heart raced as my brain whirred with possibilities. Greg? Yes, of course it was Greg! But… but… my husband couldn’t really text me from Heaven. In which case, was this a further indication that I was going loopy?
I picked up the mobile. A text message from an unknown number. Puzzled, I clicked on it. Then gasped aloud.