(2013) Four Widows (19 page)

Kate came to my defence. “Chrissakes, she’s driving over it, not jumping off it. Give the girl a break.”

I was tempted to sit on the A90 and drive until the road ran out. Once I drove to Fraserburgh in Aberdeenshire and back again but tonight wasn’t the right night. I was sticking to my rules and a floodlit life, choosing to circle the city instead with its reassuring bright pollution. I cut through housing estates slowing down only at junctions. Then, damn it, I saw the car or rather the full beam, which dazzled me as before. Convinced it was the same sparkling graphite grey, I slowed down, he slowed down. I accelerated, he did the same.

The cat-and-mouse manoeuvres continued until I skipped through a red light.
If he follows, I floor it,
I thought. He did, so I did. I sunk the accelerator to the floor and found myself driving at 70 miles per hour through a 30-mile-speed zone, leaving the car lights behind me. I struggled to get my breathing and speed limit under control. “
Shit
,” I screamed, gripping the wheel to stop shaking. I had jumped another red light and lost the other car but it seemed too quiet now, I was almost eerily alone.

I talked myself down to 30mph and didn’t notice the car approach. It could have come from a side street or pulled out from a parking space but, whatever, it was now right behind me, lights bright enough to blind me.

I lost it–resolve and reason.

My sleep-deprived brain took me to the edge of a psychiatric disorder not helped by a high-testosterone surge that increased brain activity. I accelerated and swerved into the side of the road, burning rubber against the pavement as I slammed on the brakes. I think I even opened the door before the car had come to a full stop.

I started walking the white line down the middle of the road. Trapeze-artist focused, I put one foot in front of the other–just kept walking towards the oncoming car. Moving forwards like a tank, oblivious to threat or head-on collision, I gave no thought to how much it was going to hurt. The noise of the horn sounded far out to sea. I walked, powering forward by brain dysmorphia that told me I had the strength to pick up the damn car and hurl it in the direction of the river.

The breeze of steel as it rockets on its flight path takes me by the hand and hauls me off my feet as one would a reluctant dancer. I am aware of how fragile I have become, how lost. I smell diesel and brake fluid mixed into a smoke cocktail as the vehicle careers across the road where it goes into a spin at speed performing the perfect pirouette until it circles to a stop, smoking on the opposite side of the road.

I experience nothingness–just the still of the night and lazy, swirling smoke drifting indifferently towards the stars. The Watcher is here with me. The car door opens and I hold my breath, just a fraction, wondering if this is when I will see Harrison again, at last.

Someone staggered from the car, arms stretched out to balance, head still in a spin. I inhaled so hard I thought I might leave the ground; filled with gaseous fear.

He lurched towards me. No other traffic on the road–the world deserted but us. “What the
fuck
? What. The.
Fuck
?” he screamed.

I stood, helpless and mute.

“Stupid bitch. What were you thinking?”

I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. It wasn’t Harrison. It never was.

“You were following me,” I croaked, smoke-hoarse accusing.

The man stared at me, shocked and bewildered. He was probably in his early fifties, dressed in a suit minus the jacket. He tugged his tie loose.

“You
are
fucking insane. I wasn’t following you. What the hell is this?” He looked around, panicked, as though a carjacking were imminent.

The legs started to go. I crumpled to the ground where I stood and wondered what would become of me. Would I ever move again?

Hands on his thighs, the driver took deep breaths until he calmed down. I sat with my arms over my head, exhausted, remembering Harrison telling me he could sleep anywhere. I believed that now. I had a feeling that if I shut my eyes I would fall into a deep sleep stretched along the white line, linear.

The man, whom I’d clearly terrified, wasn’t having it. He shuffled over to me and hauled me onto my feet, frogmarching me back to my car, stuffing me forcibly through the passenger door.

“Missus, want me to call someone?”

I couldn’t speak.

“C’mon lady. I want to go home. Give me the number of someone or I’m calling the police.”

I thought about McCarthy rescuing me again and couldn’t bear the embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I haven’t been sleeping.”

“I could have
killed
you.”

I nodded.

“Boom!” He clapped his hands together, loud and abrupt.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Give me your phone.”

“It’s okay. I just need a moment.”

He was now crouched beside the car. “I don’t think you should drive.”

“I won’t. Someone will come.” I smiled at him reassuringly, embarrassed that I had caused so much fuss.

He sighed wearily. “Look, I’ll wait with you.” His eyes were tired but concerned. The perfect stranger.

“I need to close my eyes for a minute.” This time I sounded firm and non-negotiable. Sleep was imminent and I didn’t want to miss the moment.

The man reluctantly stood up.

“I’m okay. Please.”

“You can drive?”

“Soon. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded but still looked sceptical.

I apologised again, watching him head back to his car, by which time I had an abrupt change of heart. “Don’t leave me,” I whispered. “Don’t leave until I’m fast asleep, please.”

Too late. He was gone. I remember the flicker of confusion as the car pulled away–not sparkling graphite grey but red. Ripe-tomato bright.

I remained in the car with the locks down for almost two hours and did sleep with the seat reclined to horizontal. When I woke I had to fight back the urge to call McCarthy. I craved a conversation with him. But I couldn’t tell him about the cars–the confusion of colours. I had to be trusted, otherwise it would all fall apart.

McCarthy was helping me keep Harrison alive and I encouraged it. We were investigating–and in my mind it raised fantastical hopes that we might find my husband. Better than the alternative:
there has been an accident.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Love Leaves Perforations

Cece didn’t murder her husbands, but she may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths.

Harrison would be the first to tell you that many things can damage your heart. Cigarettes first on his hit list; smoke tightens the arteries. Fatness, alcohol, high blood pressure and a rubbish diet featured hot on the heels of cigarettes. Cece put a new spin on the contributing force. “I’m a feeder. I tipped my husbands’ health over the edge–”

She was feeling under the weather lately, alarmingly retrospective. “I have loved too much and it has left…like… perforations.” She pressed her hands over her heart. “I’m not performing as well as I used to.”

“It’s called the ageing process,” said Kate unsympathetically.

“There were no signs.” Cece’s brow wrinkled thoroughly. “Hugh exercised. His heart worked harder than anyone I know. Then, woo hoo, calcium in his coronary arteries. Mike was fit as a fiddle, too.”

“What’s brought all this on?” Kate questioned.

“I
did
murder my husbands. I am officially a cholesterol high-fat feeder.”

“Honey, you were never a
force
feeder,” said Suzanne diplomatically. “You’re just an irresistible cook.”

We were supposed to be helping her organise the Ribbons relaunch but she was not on usual control-freak form. Ribbons needed a boost–she was right about that.

I looked around the place and thought there was nothing more depressing than seeing its emptiness when neighbouring eateries were heaving with people.

Cece followed my gaze to the competition across the street. “They come over to borrow kegs of beer because they keep runnin’ out. Hell’s teeth, can’t even sell my own liquor.”

“Let me go over the figures again,” Kate sounded more sympathetic.

“I have someone on that.”

“Perhaps some special promotions?”

“Someone has it covered.”

“You think?”

“I thought you were here to
help
me plan this big night?” Cece snapped.

We backed off.

Jim to the rescue. Since the girls showed up at the office, we had a couple of spontaneous nights out watching him gig at Tulsa. Everyone loved Jim.

I volunteered. “I know Jim’s doing the music but perhaps he could help in the run-up, too. He goes to more parties than anyone I’ve ever known–
definitely
the best person to help when you need to draw in a crowd.”

Kate and Suzanne agreed. We were getting nowhere because Cece wanted us to help but she didn’t. She was the most independent overconfident sensitive person ever.

“He would help?” It was the most responsive we’d seen Cece since we arrived.

“Classic overachiever,” I informed her. “He doesn’t sleep. He’d
love
to help.”

We swapped. I headed back to the office and Jim abandoned his lunch plans to help Cece at Ribbons. Kate and Suzanne heaved a collective sigh of relief–and couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

“Stay for one drink,” Cece coaxed.

“You two have work to do,” I said, firmly, looking over her head at Jim.

Kate rested a hand on Jim’s shoulder, “Carly Simon, Nanci Griffith, Stevie Nicks and Dolly Parton. Good luck–”

Cece beamed. “Bonnie Tyler
Holding Out For A Hero
.”

“Make this a success and we’ll include fashionable restaurant reviews in
Corset
,” I added.

Jim grinned. “It will be a success.”

“We will reconvene later,” warned Kate on her way out. “I’m expecting an itinerary; menus, playlist, drinks, and, of course, all coming in under budget…”

Cece poked her tongue out.

I welcomed every distraction, which was just as well because Cece’s relaunch was up there with a State visit. She was on a mission: turn the curse around.

Cece went quiet. We didn’t see her for days but it felt like months
.
“I’m making intricate pastries and mouline mousse,” she told me on the phone. “So much to do.”

One week on she summoned us for breakfast at Ribbons to bring us up to speed.

“Good to see you’ve got your chirpy chirpy cheep cheep back,” said Suzanne happily.

“Oh, honey, I do, don’t I? Jim is good–the man has vision. I’m back on track.”

“Good.” I was pleased she was pleased.

“I
like
him,” said Cece.

“Too young for you, sweetie,” reminded Kate.

“Oh, he’s not in love with
me
,” she purred pointedly.

I laughed and chose to ignore her.

The big night upon us, we gathered at the bar where maitre’d Daisy dazzled us with a movie-star smile usually reserved for diners. Until now we had never been on the receiving end of such a bright-wattage welcome.

“She smiled at us,” said Suzanne, genuinely surprised.

“It won’t last,” I predicted. “Ms Victoria Secrets
loathes
us.”

“Ssshhh.”

Kate arrived with Fraser Davies, hair bouncing past her shoulders instead of its usual ferocious tied-back bun. Fraser looked at her in such a special way that I almost burst into tears. The moment whispered,
there is hope
.

Ribbons looked stunning. Lights had been extended down the steps and along the pavement to welcome guests. Suzanne had continued her theme of red and orange ribbons down the middle of menus while the bar area had been cleared of chaises and chairs to make more room for guests and, of course, Malt. The music had kicked off and Jim was drawing a crowd.

Cece appeared, buzzing about the place. Suzanne had dressed her in Ribbons’ signature colours: red and orange. She wore a strapless corseted floor-length red dress with two-tone layered asymmetrical ruffles that rippled with movement while delicate jewelled detail around the hem gave it the sparkle factor. Nipped in at the waist and deliberated exaggerated the hips, she looked like a tremendous volcanic attraction. I heard her say to Suzanne, “This dress is uh-may-zing.”

I half expected Fringe followers to stop on the street and take photos of this natural wonder. Goodness knows how Suzanne found time to make such a dress.

Kate and I also borrowed clothes from Suzanne’s existing Gracie Gold collection. I chose the lightest floatiest design I could find to beat the heat: an asymmetric satin-jersey dress that fell in folds from shoulder to knee in fresh peach, while Kate went for a midnight blue sheath dress worn with the Brian Atwood purple shoes.

Sous chef Jun ducked his head out of the kitchen occasionally, the faint sign of panicked sweat across his brow. He wanted perfection for Cece.

“Slavishly devoted to the boss,” whispered Kate mischievously. “Another one of her fawning admirers.”

He needn’t have worried. The taster menu was going down a treat and I glimpsed miniature-size roast talbot and orange mash on doll’s-house size plates whizzing through swing-kitchen doors.
Seasonal, fresh and faster than Superman
, someone had written on a whiteboard.

Cece, blonder still with a glass of Champagne in her hand, welcomed guests with genuine warmth. You would never know by looking at her what she had been through; how she had soldiered on. Meanwhile Daisy and staff could have been on roller skates, swooshing back and forth with trays of Champagne, replenishing glasses with swiftness like you wouldn’t believe. I had to hand it to Daisy, she might not like widows but she was a treasure in the entertainment arena. She could spy an empty glass from across the room and crack out the refill order super quick.

Chapter Thirty

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

There was a buzz about the place and Jim wowed the crowd. The bar area created a small intimate gig feeling and the band was on form. Jim flirted with diners throughout the set and was ever attentive to Cece, who was swishing to the music.