(2013) Four Widows (18 page)

She shook her head. “I know he is dead and it’s time to move on.”

We continued to stare at Suzanne, surprised at her forthrightness; confiding in someone like Fraser Davies who had just walked in the door. I was awake now.

“Your husband…”

“Ted.”

“…has been continually absent?”

Suzanne nodded without making a sound.

“For how long?”

“Seven years and some.”

Fraser Davies was momentarily thrown but he recovered his composure. “Have you heard about a decree of presumption of death?”

“Yes, go on–I’ve been doing some research.”

“A missing person may be declared legally dead after a certain time.”

“And?”

“It would make the death official and help you move on.”

“I want to move on.”

Kate reached over for her hand.

“Suzanne can make Ted
officially
dead even if he’s not? What is the point of this?” Cece butted in.

“The courts are empowered to grant a decree of presumption of death and dissolution of marriage, enabling the other spouse to remarry.”

Suzanne hastily put him straight. “I’m not remarrying.”

“You might not feel like this now but perhaps someday?” He spoke softly and with such conviction that our heads immediately swivelled in Kate’s direction. She had the grace to blush.

“Is this what you want?” I asked Suzanne, resisting the temptation to ask Kate the same question.

Suzanne nodded, face thoughtful as if she were already getting her head round the idea of being an official widow.

“You know there will be a court procedure,” warned Fraser Davies. “Assets discussed.”

“I can handle it. I’m happy to go down the official channel rather than just do nothing. I want to move on. I can’t move on like this. Married but not married.”

He nodded and with great professional sensitivity changed the subject. “I love this part of town. My grandparents used to own a grocer’s shop in the Grassmarket.”

Before we digressed, I said, “I think we should have a toast to Ted and Suzanne.”

Suzanne looked noticeably brighter and raised her glass. We chinked and started talking again, listening to Fraser Davies who had considerable knowledge about the city and its past.

The night continued without further event. Cece spent time circling in and out of the kitchen, talking to staff. I think we expected Fraser Davies to be wrong for Kate: baggage stuffed with the worst stuff. Yet, we should have known that careful Kate would know what to do. She wanted someone who knew the score; been there, done that. Someone who could make it through the bad times and be Nth-metal strong, unbreakable. Kate was someone who would
never
make the same mistake twice.

I could sense movement in us–tugging at the chains. Kate had met Fraser Davies. Suzanne would soon be an official widow. I would find out what happened to Harrison. Like it or not.

Cece cottoned on, too. She leaned over to me and said, ever dramatic. “Change is parked outside–change is here.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Gee and Me

“Has McCarthy caught the killer?” asked Cece.

She asked this every time we met until Kate snapped. “Chrissakes, Cece, it’s not like putting cheese in a trap. And what’s with the ‘killer’ talk?”

Cece looked indignant. “Tellin’ it like it is.”

“I
think
Lori would let us know,”

I nodded. “So far, so little. No breakthrough.”

Cece liked to run with the theme of the curse, convinced I’d soon be discovered in a log-cutter’s basket once The Watcher was done with me.

“Honey, you don’t think I’m insensitive ploughing on with this party?” asked Cece, gripping my shoulder, looking guilty. “I won’t go on about it when you’re around. On the other hand, I don’t want you to feel left out.”

I hugged her impulsively. “I need a distraction. Thank you for being so considerate though.”

Before Ribbons’ relaunch, I decided to have another go at persuading Gee to come to Edinburgh. Our mother was still convinced something was hugely amiss. Admittedly, I was less sympathetic, furious that my sister’s off-radar behaviour had turned her into a brat. This was the same person who was a responsible paediatrician taking care of children with unique medical conditions requiring the most sensitive and pioneering care. She was a specialist in childhood diseases. She should know better.

To keep mother sweet, I said I would invite Gee to Cece’s party. We would make time to talk.

Easier said than done. Gee never visited me in Edinburgh and made no effort to invite me to her home. In light of this, I had a sure-fire plan. Over the phone I swore I would turn up on her doorstep unless she agreed to visit. Gee in turn accused me of harassing her. I reminded her that I couldn’t perform paediatric miracles but I could be persistent. Extremely so–my special talent.

We compromised. Eventually, reluctantly, sullenly, she agreed to meet for coffee somewhere between Edinburgh and Aberdeen, which turned out to be a place called Carnoustie, a seaside town with a good golf course, according to Jim when I told him where I was going.

He whistled, knowing how unsupportive she had been over the last six months. “Good luck.”

I’d driven to just about every other place within a 50-mile radius of Edinburgh so it was good to head somewhere different. I almost looked forward to seeing Gee despite that fact she was making me completely crazy.

We met near the beach. When we hugged I could feel her shoulder blades threatening to slash the shirt off her back, although she probably had the same thought about me. My first thought was she was back with Adderall; the favourite cocaine substitute when she wanted to let loose
.

I stared but her pupils looked good. She was the same as ever: skinny jeans and familiar awkward slouch: hangover posture from being five foot eleven inches at the age of 12. She still looked polished around the edges though; lightened hair and expensive fringe while I had gone darker. Updated versions of our teenage allegiances: me to the Goth side, Gee hanging with the beautiful people.

We decided to walk and talk, grabbing coffees to go. Gee wasn’t up for small talk so I got stuck in there. “You need to take Mum’s calls or else she will be on the next plane. She’s really worried about you.”

“I can’t get her off the phone. You
know
what she’s like.”

“Yeah. I
do
. She calls me whenever you don’t pick up. Then I get to hear how worried she is. About you.”

“Then don’t answer either.” This was her solution. I genuinely believe she wasn’t being malicious –she just knew how to cut off.

“How’s Ben?”

“At nursery.”

“Chris?”

“At work.”

“Give me a break here, Gee.”

“Look, he spends two weeks off shore at a time. He also works extra shifts.”

She missed him, it was obvious, and I knew she hadn’t made friends. I also got the impression that she wasn’t as financially flush as she liked since killing her career.

“Don’t worry about Mum. She will soon see more of us–I plan to return to London.”

News to me. “I thought it was working out here.”

“It is for Chris.”

“Does
he
want to return to London?”

She looked me up and down. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m
fine
.”

“Chris keeps banging on about how Aberdeen is better for Ben: more space, less people, good work. He lands a contract on an oil rig and uproots us for two whole years.”

“Give the guy a break. Maybe he accepted the job because
you
decided to take a career… whatever–.”

“I don’t
need
him to support me,” she snapped.

I seriously doubted that unless phlebotomists’ salaries had rocketed lately but didn’t push it. “Have you talked to him? Does he know you’re not happy here?”

“Don’t mention it to Mum yet. I don’t need the pressure.”

“Chris would do anything for you. You know that–”

She looked at me and I couldn’t read her expression; pity or indifference, it was a universal glassiness. Then she dug deep into her handbag for a bottle of pills and chased down a small red one with the dregs of her coffee.

“Chill pill,” she said, noticing me staring.

“Shit, Gee.” I chucked my coffee away.

Since Adderall went out the window, I knew she dabbled in Oxycontin, Vicodin and Percocet. Yet, I trusted her because she was a doctor; liked to think she knew what she was doing and what she was taking.

“I don’t
drink
,” she said, pointedly, which was true. She was always quick to list the ravages and effects of alcohol far exceeded the damages of taking drugs.

“Mum thinks you’ve got depression. So did Harrison.”

She dug her hands into her pockets for change. “All that tells me is that people think too much. Another coffee?”

I shook my head. “Talk to someone.”

“We
are
talking.”

“You know what I mean.”

The beach looked good. When I suggested a walk Gee looked at her watch. “Can’t wait too long: late-afternoon shift.”

“And how is work as a phlebotomist?”

“Beats drilling through babies’ backbones for bone marrow.”

We headed towards the sand and I continued to question. “You take bloods, seriously? All day every day.”

“That’s me. Like a vampire.” She bared her teeth and we both laughed.

“You can go back to surgery whenever you like?”

She turned to me exasperated. “Lori, listen. I’m
not
going back to surgery.”

I wanted to talk more about Harrison but she was distracted and edgy; checking her phone.

“Come to Edinburgh,” I said. You have time to think about it.”

“I’ll see. I need to work out shifts and childcare.”

I knew I wouldn’t see her but at least I could report back that she was alive and communicative–to a point.

We said goodbye with a tight hug until she pushed me away, rough love.

I walked across the promenade to the car and looked back to see Gee had kicked off her shoes and was sprinting across the sand like a professional athlete. I envied her almost– running into the sunshine, her shadow behind her. She looked free.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Walk the Line

Driving back from Carnoustie, thinking more about Gee than Harrison for once, I noticed the car in the rear-view mirror. It was sparkling graphite grey; submersible machine coming to the surface, headlights blazing at odds with the summer’s afternoon. Rush-hour traffic was starting to build and the car queued up on my bumper before sinking out of sight. I switched lanes and floored the accelerator to 85 miles per hour. Traffic thinned out.

The car reappeared. It didn’t take much to convince me that the driver had a menacing presence; different from the usual aggressive ones who just wanted to overtake and be done. I clocked the pulled-down sun visor over the driver’s face, mouth grim set. Waiting for the moment to cut lanes, I careered left and hit the brakes, abruptly dropping from 90 to 40 while deafened by the sound of my own heart about to bounce through its cavity wall.

The grey car continued in the fast lane at high speed but soon dropped back into the middle lane where I was fast catching up. There was a magnetic pull between our cars until no lanes or lines divided the traffic, just us dancing at dangerous speeds. I could see him, The Watcher with glasses, grey hair and sledgehammer-square jaw. He resolutely refused to look over even though he must have been aware of the high-level laser stare, lingering for a second before roaring off, overtaking on the inside. Then he was gone; swallowed up in the sludge of traffic.

Panic choked me but I kept driving, gripping the steering wheel until my fingers turned blue.

I should phone McCarthy, but what would I say? I had no licence plate number and only a vague description; glasses, grey hair and square face–not inspiring material for a virtual identity parade.

I called Jim instead, attempting to sound bright and purposeful. “I’m heading back to the office.”

“Everything okay?”

Damn, Jim, x-ray friend. He could see through me. Said it was his musical ear; master of inflection. No hiding even a flicker of surprise from his ears. He was on the case, sucking the life out of conversation until he got the scoop.

“Yup, all fine. I see you when I get back to the office–if you’re still around?”

“I’m always around.”

“Jim.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll see you later.”

I heard the tenderness. “Sooner rather than later.”

He doesn’t stop talking about you
.

Lucky for me, Jim was out when I returned and the office was winding down for the night. Taking advantage of the quiet, I got my head down and worked until midnight with little distraction. Gee surprised me by sending a text.
Thk 4 coffee
, it said. Succinct, but it was the first text in a long time and it comforted me. I reread it several times during the evening. I had a good feeling that she was reaching out to me. We would be fine in time. We would be better for it–this colossal absence since Harrison’s death.

I left the office. The need to drive kicked in but tonight it was more defiance than desire. The recent Carnoustie experience couldn’t put me off. Back on the horse, rodeo.

Despite being followed, I felt safe inside the car; doors locked with the power to go from zero to 70 in four seconds. Accelerating down the street, I saw The Fringe entertainment had kicked off as people headed in the general direction of pubs and clubs, snaking queues on pavements. I wondered if Jim was playing somewhere.

I took my favourite route and sped towards the Forth Road Bridge where I could see it shine reassuringly; solid and dependable. This habit continued to freak Cece out. “Darlin’ I don’t get the obsession with the bridge,” she said on more than one occasion.

“It’s a great piece of architecture?” I explained lamely.

“It’s a
bridge
.”