The Happy Endings Book Club (11 page)

Sidekick.

Never love. Or darling. Or wife.

He’d published three novels while they were together before she confronted him about his choice of endearment.

“Why don’t you say, ‘To my wife’? Or my darling?”

“Why don’t I wear yellow? It’s just not me.”

“Aren’t I your darling?”

“Right now you’re my pain in the arse.”

And he’d given her a kiss and returned to his work. It was another novel, and when he published it, he dedicated it to his sidekick.

That was Geoff. And she knew that. But still, she was drawn over and over into that shop to open the books, as if by some miracle he’d posthumously change the wording and be romantic.

It was on one of those afternoons that she noticed Paige peering over her shoulder.

“Is that you? The sidekick?” Paige asked.

Eva nodded.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. He was a great writer.”

“Yes, he was.”

Paige tilted her head to one side. “He talked about you a lot.”

Eva stared at the woman. “Did you know him?”

“He did a reading here once.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“And he’d sometimes pop in and buy something. Whenever he did, he’d point out all the books his wife edited.”

“All my romance books?”

Paige nodded. “He was very proud of you.”

Much to her own horror, Eva burst into tears. “Why couldn’t he acknowledge that, rather than calling me his bloody sidekick?”

“I know, darling. Men can be such bastards.”

And from that moment on they were friends. Paige told Eva about the book club she ran, so she had joined. It was the darkest time in her life, and the friendship and support she’d received from this group of women had been such a blessing. They’d read books: always inspiring, uplifting tales, romances and biographies about great women. Just the type of read Eva loved and needed. Looking back, the one thing that had saved her from complete despair was her book club, and the women she’d befriended.

Book by book, month by month, meeting by meeting, Eva felt the weight of her grief lift. Not disappear, mind you, but it was unlikely that would ever happen. She didn’t know if she’d want it to. A man like Geoff would be mourned forever. She knew that was the risk she was taking the moment she met him.

It was Paige who had encouraged her to spend Christmas in Vienna. She’d been insistent, even when they’d spoken today, when for once Paige needed Eva’s support.

“It’s about closure, Eva.”

“It’s just bad timing,” Eva said down the phone.

“No, it’s perfect timing. I need your support next week. So please go and do this. It’s part of your grieving process, Eva.” Paige gave her a hug. “You’ll be more use to me afterward.”

Eva knew Paige was right.

Paige pointed out. “And you’ve always wanted to go.

“I always wanted to go with him,” Eva said. “But no, we always went somewhere hot.”

“Yes, how dreadful for you,” Paige teased. “Morocco and rampant sex for Christmas. I do think you were a little blind to what you did have. I was lucky if Tim ever gave me a card.”

Eva laughed. “You always know how to cheer me up.”

“And you always know how to depress me,” Paige said with a wink. “Remember, I met your husband. He was gorgeous.”

“God, I know. But not a romantic bone in his body.”

“Perhaps. But my husband was spineless, and believe me, that’s worse.”

Eva blinked as snowflakes landed on her eyelashes. She knew Paige was right, but still couldn’t help feeling angry with him right now. All she’d wanted was a little romance. She’d wanted him to bring her to Vienna. She wanted to kiss him under the Viennese Little Heart Tree. She’d dreamed about kissing someone she loved beneath its branches ever since she’d first read about that goddamn tree. It was the place for lovers to meet in Vienna.

Too late now.

She began to calm. The anxiety passed. The breathing helped. Or perhaps it was the gluhwein. She finished it and placed the mug on the table. She would now make her way back to the hotel and try to find an early flight home.

She took one last look around. Eva noticed a small striped tent off to one side. The cloth across the entrance was pulled back and she could see a woman seated at a small table, watching her. She glanced at the sign outside:
Wahrsagerin. Bitte kommen Sie rein.
A psychic?

She looked back at the woman, who motioned for her to enter.

Oh, what the hell!

This was one of the benefits of not having Geoff with her. He would make some derisive comment and hurry her past the tent. But Eva had always been interested in psychic phenomena. And she’d be lying if she weren’t just the slightest bit curious. Would she ever be able to move on from Geoff? Perhaps this woman would know the answer to that.

Eva entered the tent and the woman waved her into a seat. Neither of them spoke. Instead, the woman seemed to wait for Eva to get her bearings. The tent was warm, with a soft glow and the smell of roses. The table was draped in a purple velvet cloth and on it sat a pack of tarot cards and a crystal ball. Eva almost laughed. This psychic certainly had the tools. And the look. Eva guessed she was Romany, probably in her forties, with incredible dark eyes that seemed to stare straight through her. She had on the expected outfit, big skirt, lots of jewelry, a colorful scarf wrapped around her luscious black hair. When she spoke, her English was excellent, with a lyrical accent.

“You are okay now?”

Eva was thrown. Had the woman been watching her fighting off her panic attack?

“How do you know I speak English?”

The gypsy sat motionless. “How do I know anything? I just know.”

Never wiser words spoken, thought Eva.

The woman stuck out her palm. Eva placed her own hand on top and was then embarrassed when the psychic sniffed and said, “Payment, please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought … just a moment.” Eva dug into her bag and found her wallet. She remembered she’d spent all her change. “I don’t have gold … to cross your palm or whatever …”

The psychic shrugged. “I take Visa too.”

Eva hid her surprise by burrowing through her bag and finding her emergency stash. “It’s okay, I have enough euro.”

The woman clutched the notes and shoved them under the table, storing them god knows where. Eva certainly wasn’t going to ask. Then she turned her attention back to Eva.

“You are very sad.”

Eva nodded. You didn’t need to be psychic to see that. Her friend’s granddaughter had recently said the same thing to her, and she was six.

“Your heart is broken.”

Eva hated that she was so cynical but that ole chestnut was pretty much a sure thing in a psychic reader’s tent. Women didn’t enter here because they were happy.

“He is sorry he was not more … romantic.”

All the air in the tent was suddenly sucked out.

Eva reeled back as though she’d been slapped. “What did you say?”

“He is sorry. He says … I don’t understand this, but he tells me … sidekick.”

Eva held the side of the table, bunching the velvet cloth in her hands. “Is he here?”

The psychic shook her head and Eva took a breath, suddenly relieved. Of course he wasn’t here. How ridiculous.

“He is outside. He doesn’t like my tent.” The gypsy smiled at Eva. “He’s a big man. Perhaps his ego would not fit in here.” She let out a husky laugh. “He says you were right, it’s nice here. But bloody cold.”

Eva stared at her in horror. She felt faint.

How can she know all that? Because she’s a professional con artist! The woman must be a fraud.

She was feeding on her need, her grief. But how would she know Geoff wasn’t romantic?

Because that’s a common failing in men?

How would she know about being his sidekick?

Eva had no comeback for that.

The woman leaned across the table. “He says he is sorry. He is here now.”

A sob caught in Eva’s throat. She’d heard enough.

“That’s enough. Thank you for your time.” Eva grabbed her bag and hastily made her way out of the tent. The night air hit her like a slap, back to reality.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Those gypsy women feed on people like me.

That thought made her feel better. She would hardly be the first woman in history to waste money on a charlatan.

She began to walk, her hands thrust deep into her coat pockets. She headed back toward the city hall. She’d catch the U-Bahn back to Karlsplatz and her hotel. She’d planned to walk, but Vienna at night held no appeal anymore. She felt better now she’d made her decision to leave. It wasn’t the right time, or the right place for her.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a couple kissing under the Little Heart Tree, off to her left. A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. She was suddenly enraged. She felt like shaking them. How dare they flaunt their love like that. And did they understand how precious it was? Probably not. She hadn’t appreciated how little time she’d have with Geoff. And now he was gone, and life was hard, so very hard. And she’d just made it worse by going into that tent.

She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. She was allowed to grieve, for as long as she needed to. And she wanted to do that at home, where she felt closer to him. Not here, in the last place on earth he’d ever be.

“Eva.”

It was like a short sharp shout that echoed in her head. She turned. Did she know someone here? Surely not. And how embarrassing to run into someone from home, when her eyes were all red.

She looked around, but didn’t see anyone she knew.

Now I’m hearing things.

And at that moment the young couple under the Little Heart Tree finished going for gold and stepped away, and she saw him, right there where they’d been kissing. She knew it couldn’t be him. It shouldn’t be him. But it was. Leaning against the tree was Geoff, watching her.

She blinked a few times, but he was there. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was absolutely frozen. She waited for him to do something, anything. But he didn’t. He just stared at her … and she stared back. She wanted to run to him, to touch him, to hold him close and never again let go … but she didn’t dare move because she somehow understood the absolute fragility of this moment. One final moment …

And then the world re-entered.

“Entschuldigen!” a man’s voice apologized as he jostled her to one side. She staggered, and when she looked up again, Geoff was gone.

She pushed her way through the crowd, to the tree. Where was he?

“Geoff. Geoff!”

Another couple stepped out of her way and gave her a strange look as she passed.

“GEOFF!”

Eva circled the tree. Nothing. She paused in the spot where he’d been standing. Gone. A sob escaped her throat. Her hand flew of its own accord to her chest. Oh god, he’d been there. He’d been there for her. She lifted her chin upward, looking through the branches of the Little Heart Tree at the sky beyond. Snowflakes fell on her face. She’d never got her kiss here. But he’d come. He was here for here. And it was enough.

Clem,

This is your Christmas present. It’s a keychain stun gun that lets off five million volts. Now listen carefully. DO NOT CARRY THIS ON THE PLANE. Pack it in your suitcase. Then, when you get to New York, carry it on you at all times. Not because New York is dangerous. It’s not. It’s a great city. But if Sam is a psychopathic axe murderer, then you have this to protect you.

Love,

Deb

PS: Make sure you go to the Met, and the carousel at Central Park and also Times Square. Don’t bother with the Empire State Building. You don’t like heights and there’s heavy security. They might question the stun gun.

*

Dear Debra,

Thank you!!!!! You always give me the best pressies.

Where are you? You haven’t answered my texts. Your phone is off. You’re not in your room. You’re never up this early, which means you didn’t come home last night. Can you let me know you’re okay?

Anyway, by the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to New York. I took your advice. I’m staying at the Montana Hotel on Lexington Ave. And I’ll be carrying your Christmas present, so even if Sam is a psychopathic axe murderer, I’m safe.

I know you think I’m nuts, but you don’t know Sam like I do.

Please support me. Don’t be angry with me. I can’t stand not talking to you. I miss hanging out with you all the time. I miss my best friend. I want to share this with you. I’m so excited. Sam thinks I’m going to Spain after all—what a surprise when I knock on the door!!!!!

I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve. I’d love to see the New Year in with you. Please, please, please. Stop being such a moody cow and call me.

Love you,

Clem

*

Amanda hated that she was nervous. Wasn’t Christmas meant to be relaxing? Perhaps it was for some people … Like, Dylan, her son. But then a constant diet of Minecraft and A-grade weed (of course she knew!) was bound to help numb his brain. Granted, Dylan’s twin, Caitlin, wasn’t very relaxed, but Amanda suspected that was because she’d recently gone on the pill (either that or she’d had breast implants) and it was affecting her hormones (even more than being sixteen did). Usually psychotic in spurts, Caitlin had turned into Medusa twenty-four hours a day. Amanda could hear her now, screaming at Zack, who, in true ten-year-old style, added fuel to the fire by mimicking her.

Amanda was tempted to drop a Valium, but the last time she’d done that was three years ago when Peter’s parents came for Christmas lunch. They’d left that day finally understanding why Peter had dumped Amanda for Maxine. Maxine would never fall asleep on the turkey.

Not that it mattered now. Maxine and her immaculate manners were history. As were Charlotte, and Martina, and Kat. Peter went through women like Amanda went through Kleenex in spring. His behavior was also due to allergies. Peter was allergic to commitment.

Until now.

Peter had been with Alice for six months and the changes were obvious. He wasn’t as brash, or as loud, or as annoying anymore. He didn’t need to be the center of attention constantly. He was present and focused when he was with the kids, and he rarely glanced at his watch during the prerequisite swap-over conversation he had with Amanda.

Amanda had always managed to maintain a semblance of friendliness with Peter, for the sake of the children, but she still disliked the bastard. Not because he’d left her for Maxine. Oh no, she’d disliked Peter for years before he’d finally walked. Year by year as their marriage unraveled she had marveled at the fact that she’d bred with someone so completely self-absorbed. She would often stare at him across the dinner table and wonder what it was that had brought them together. What she’d fallen for. It was as though she had relationship amnesia.

If she’d found it difficult to put her finger on then, it was impossible now. He was a stranger. A stranger she saw in her children—and if she was honest, it annoyed her a lot. She hated it when Zack’s lips curled at a certain angle just before he yelled, and when Dylan gave her a patronizing snarl, and there was this thing that Caitlin did with her chin—pure Peter! And in those moments she’d try so hard to find even a dying ember of that thing she’d loved in Peter, so much that they’d had these kids.

But recently, he’d changed. He’d been, if not completely likable, then close to it. Their conversations were pleasant. While there had certainly been times when she’d fantasized about Peter being hit by a comet, the truth was she’d fantasized more often about him treating her with respect. Peter’s recent behavior gave Amanda hope that they were headed in that direction. And it was during one of their more enjoyable conversations that Zack had asked if his father could come over for Christmas and Amanda had agreed. Bring Alice, she’d said at the time. It would be good for the kids.

Amanda had never met Alice, which was why she was now nervous.

“Maaaaaaarm.”

It was never just Mum. It was always a dragged-out, neighborhood cats brawling, caterwauling, fingernails on a blackboard sound that emanated from Caitlin’s mouth. Amanda often tried to recall those distant days when she’d bounced her daughter on her lap and encouraged her to say, “Mum, mum, mum.” It was the sweetest sound in the world back then and she was riddled with guilt that it bugged her so much now.

“What, Caitlin?”

Caitlin marched into the kitchen. “Zack just told me to eff off.”

Amanda glanced at the top cupboard that housed the Valium. It was calling her name in a much sweeter voice than any of her children had used for years.

“Caity … please, just do me a favor and ignore him. He’s ten … and male …”

No other explanation needed. Even Caitlin nodded. She turned to leave but Amanda stopped her.

“Caity … are you and Damien having sex?”

Caitlin looked as though Amanda had just asked her to eat a live kitten sandwich.

“I was young once too, you know.” Amanda blanched, horrified by her own inanity. She changed tack. “I adore babies, but I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet.”

“You won’t be.”

“Seriously, darling, I couldn’t handle it. I’m only forty-two. I’d go nuts if you got pregnant.”

“I won’t.”

“But accidents happen.”

“Mum, I’m on the pill …”

Ka-ching!
She’d walked straight into that one. Amanda patted her daughter’s arm and moved over to the sink, where the turkey was laying stark naked, legs in the air. Amanda sighed. Apparently she was the only one in the room who never found herself in that position.

“Anything else you want to know?” Caitlin’s voice was a mixture of fear and loathing.

“Yeah, sure, what’s Alice like?"

Caitlin stared at the ceiling for a moment, as though the answer was hanging from it. “She’s cool.”

That was a given. All Peter’s girlfriends had been cool. It came with the territory. He’d dated a trail of young, successful hipsters, who fed his ego and drained his bank account. Amanda hardly considered herself to be a complete nanna. She’d been one of London’s hottest stylists when she’d met Peter. Back then, she too was thin and gorgeous, a regular on the scene … She’d boinked Michael Hutchence in a nightclub toilet once, for christsake.

That version of her was as dead as her celebrity shag.

Nowadays, her hips were bigger, her breasts were smaller, and no amount of make-up could hide the lines around her eyes, but she didn’t feel completely unattractive. And she had a wardrobe most women would kill for, thanks to her boutique, the Pantry. (Her boutique that Peter had often called her hobby, but was in fact one of the things she was most proud of.) She knew she wasn’t ready for the wreckers just yet. It’s just there were moments, usually moments when she was feeling good about herself, that she would catch a glimpse in the mirror … and she looked like her mother. Amanda had morphed into her mum, and that was never a good thing for a woman’s self-esteem. Especially when the women Peter now dated were so young.

She could picture Alice now, sexy, edgy and streamlined—a bit like Peter’s new Mercedes—and it made her want to puke. Instead, she grabbed a handful of stuffing and shoved it up the turkey’s arse.

“Oh, turkey, I christen thee Peter …”

The phone rang, but before she could pull her hand out of Peter the turkey’s arse, Zack pounced on it.

“Who is it, Zack?”

Amanda could hear Zack having one of his one-ear-on-the-TV-the-other-on-the-phone conversations. “Yeah … yeah … yeah … I’ll tell her.”

Zack hung up and returned to the television.

“Tell me what?” Amanda called out.

“Something about Dad’s brother being here for lunch.”

“He doesn’t have a brother.”

“Oh, and they’re running late.”

“Your father? Late?”

Amanda yanked her hand out of the turkey and a big chunk of stuffing flew through the air and hit her in the head.

“Oh for f … udge fudge fuck.”

Amanda washed her hands in the sink and then ran her fingers across her hair. Yep, just as she’d suspected. Stuffing in her hair. Lucky they were late. It had to be Alice’s fault, because Peter was a stickler for being on time. If she and the kids weren’t ready to walk out the door ten minutes before they needed to, all hell would break loose. Dylan had christened his father “The Minute Nazi.”

Amanda zipped into the bathroom, hung her head over the sink and washed the stuffing from her hair, which ruined the blow-dry she’d paid for yesterday afternoon. She raised her head and looked in the mirror and willed herself not to cry.

“It’s only hair.”

It wasn’t only hair. It was her pride. It was her shield today, against her failed marriage and Peter’s new-found happiness. Against her single status. She wanted Peter’s girlfriend to see that she too could have a boyfriend if she wanted. That she hadn’t been tossed aside. That she was freaking fabulous too. But now she had naff hair, which clearly indicated she was anything but.

“Why do I care what she thinks?” Amanda muttered.

She combed her hair down. It was a lost cause now. At least she had a great cut and color. There was no sign of the dark roots or stray gray. Not on her head anyway. She’d recently found her first gray
down there
. She was mortified. How would she ever let any man near it again? She’d shared the news with Sadie, her friend from her book club, who also happened to be the most interesting person she’d met in years. Her advice was to get a Brazilian.

“Seriously, I can’t believe you still have a jungle down there. I know it’s kind of retro and cool right now, but honey, if it’s going gray, get rid of it.”

Amanda had nearly peed her pants laughing, as she often did when she was with Sadie. But there was no way she was waxing
that
. As far as she was concerned, bald ones were
not
for adult women.

Amanda checked the house for the tenth time. Reasonably clean, reasonably tidy, with an air of faux cheer thanks to the overdecorated tree. She’d long since removed any obvious signs of Peter, apart from some photos in the kids’ rooms. Alice wouldn’t know that they’d bought the piano on a whim, thinking it would be fun to learn to play together. (They never did.) Alice would see the couch and form an opinion on its shape and color, but not know that Zack had been conceived there. Amanda drifted over to the tree. Alice might notice all the decorations, but how could she know that each and every ornament had been bought somewhere different, on one of their trips overseas. The Christkindlmarkt in Vienna, the Marché Saint-Germain in Paris … Bergdorf Goodman in New York. And perched on the top was the star Peter had bought her in Venice and placed on the tree himself each and every year of their marriage. For the past three years, Amanda had clambered up there and done it herself with the help of a stool and a strong vodka cranberry juice.

Peter was lucky. He’d walked out this door and straight into his brand-spanking-new apartment where there were no ghosts to haunt him. It would be easy to shag someone new in a new apartment. Even if Amanda did finally meet someone, she could hardly shag on the kitchen floor. She still remembered Peter puking there. (Dodgy oyster … nearly killed him.) Or in the shower with the tiles she hated, but that Peter had insisted on.

Peter still lived here, embedded in the walls, whether she liked it or not. Perhaps it was time to move. She’d moved on, emotionally. That wasn’t the problem. She didn’t want him back. She wasn’t angry with him anymore. Not constantly, anyway. And she definitely dreamed of meeting someone else. She’d been on a few dates, no one special, but she was certainly open to loving again. More than that, she yearned for it. But where the hell would she meet a man? She ran the Pantry and was a full-time taxidriver/tutor/shrink/jailer for the kids. Ideally, the perfect man would just ring the doorbell. Today would be nice. Santa’s perfect delivery—FedSex. Like that would ever happen.

If Peter got her anything for Christmas she’d probably die of shock. She’d spent every year of their marriage hoping, praying he’d get her something decent for Christmas. It never happened. The first few years he got her underwear: the type of lacy lingerie that men buy women thinking they’re being generous, when everyone knows the gift is for them. Around their fourth Christmas together, Peter had started giving her whitegoods and household appliances. The vacuum for the car was a particularly memorable year.

Peter hadn’t bothered getting Amanda anything since the divorce. She at least made the effort and got the kids a gift to give him. Admittedly last year it was an aftershave she knew he hated. But this year, with his girlfriend in tow, there was no way she was going to look like the bitter ex-wife. She’d bought them a gourmet hamper from Fortnum & Mason.

Amanda relaxed a little. The house looked fine. It would all be okay. She just needed to … stop sweating.
What?
Why was she sweating?

“DYLAN!!!!” Amanda legged it down the hall and flung open his bedroom door. “Did you turn the heating up again?”

“Did you knock?”

“I’ll knock you. I’ve told you not to do that.”

“I’m cold.”

“Because you haven’t moved for a week. Get up, get the blood flowing.”

She was about to lecture him on drugs, blood clots and teenage mental illness when the doorbell rang.

“Goddammit, Dylan.” Like it was his fault.

The doorbell was Amanda’s cue to
really
start sweating. Not moist palms and a light sheen. More like “I’ve just run a marathon across the Sahara Desert” type sweat.

“Turn that bloody heater down now!” she snapped and bolted for her room.

She grabbed the handtowel in her bathroom and pressed it under her armpits. Then she lifted her arm and took a sniff. Not good.

The doorbell rang again and she heard Zack bounding down the hall. Being ten, he hadn’t yet reached the Age of Lethargy.

Amanda gave herself a quick wash, a coat of deodorant, a dab of scented oil, and slipped on a fresh shirt. It wasn’t new, like the other one, but at least it didn’t smell like a camel. She glanced in the mirror, saw her mother … and wished to hell she kept the Valium in the bathroom instead of the kitchen.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrm!!!!!!”

Time to face them. Christ she hated Christmas.

Amanda made her way down the hall. She could hear Peter talking, and then laughter … Dylan’s, Zack’s, Caitlin’s … and another laugh, husky, sexy … Alice.

Amanda flapped her arms up and down to ward off more sweat. She felt like the turkey … and just as helpless. Three deep breaths and a couple more flaps … and she marched straight into battle.

“Sorry, everyone, I just had to …” Amanda locked eyes with Alice. The whole room spun like a roulette wheel: place your bets. It couldn’t be …