(2013) Four Widows (2 page)

Talk about coasting on high-drama conversation. I wasn’t sure if the woman was going to burst into tears or a show tune. She wasn’t done, that’s for sure.

“People are angry with me. I
feel
it.”

Kate drained her coffee cup and clattered it back into the saucer. “Seriously, give it a rest. You’re boring Lorien stupid. She just wants to grab a cup of…” she spied my gin and recovered smoothly, “…pick-me-up and get back to work. Must you monopolise her?”

I gripped my glass as though my life depended on it and smiled. “Lori, please.”

Cece pounced and grabbed my right wrist, making me jump, everyone jump. “God, she’s right, I’m so
sorry
. I do this when I’m stressed; talk too much. And eat. I wanna EAT! I’ve fallen off the weight wagon, y’know.” She tightened her grip. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ big fat brie with Chateauneuf. Or cake. Y’all want cake? I’m in the mood for Madeira, nothing too sugar-rush before noon. I’m talkin’ business and you going through a personal…” she paused for effect, “…
hell.”

“I—”

“When Hugh and Michael died, I told myself, what else matters?” She steamrolled on. “Life can go on without me. Not interested. Am just
not
.” She looked genuinely bereft for a moment, sparkling eyes watered down.

Actressy moment almost over, Cece looked pained while the others watched me for a reaction. In truth, I couldn’t trust myself to finish a sentence.

“She’s hyped. Trust me, she’s not normally like this,” Kate said. She paused a beat. “Actually, she is.”

“You’re doing that thing, Kate.”

“What thing?”

“Talkin’ about me like I’m not here.”

As first impressions go, Cecelia came across as overblonde and overbearing: no volume control whatsoever. But as conversation continued, she exuded warmth and humour. This could be someone who perked you up, hooked and hauled you up from six feet under.

Saying that, despite the lively banter, I felt, at first, cornered and out of sorts. I’d effectively been hijacked when all I wanted to do was drink my drink and leave.

I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Back to business, please.”

Cecelia needed no encouragement. She was perceptive, though, understanding that I could feel included without being questioned or put on the spot.

I sat with elbows resting on Marilyn Monroe’s head, slugging gin and chewing my wrecked nails, and, once the alcohol kicked in, came round to thinking that I might not sink to the bottom of this town after all. I started to feel relatively okay in their company, relaxed a little.

Cece was larger-than-life, a neon glow in her expensive silk trouser suit, torpedo breasts and blonde hair bringing movement to the room. People glanced over when she talked and laughed too loud. I didn’t miss some school mum lipsticked-mouths pulled tight, disapproving.

She caught me staring and announced in a stage whisper, “This suit brings out the
worst
in people–too
look at me
. Too Scarlett O’Hara and confirms everyone’s worst fears: shameless widow who drove her husbands to an early grave.” She glugged at her wine and battered it back on the table. “Trust me, sugar, ain’t such a big city after all.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s a killer suit–”

She tossed her head back and laughed louder than a waterfall. “HA HA! I KNEW I’D LIKE YOU.”

I meant what I said. Then again people expect you to act, and even dress, in a certain manner when your husband dies. Hollering across a posh coffee bar dressed up to the designer nines tends to send out the wrong signals.

Black covered a multitude of sins. It was the lock-and-stock fashion favourite and a universally accepted colour code when it came to official mourning. What about the other stuff, though, such as secrets, lies and murder?

There was more to me than black.

Chapter Two

Misery Loves Company

I observed on the quiet. Kate had removed her hat to reveal thick ink-black hair pulled into some serious knot on top of her head, which seemed to exaggerate cheekbones sharp enough to chop carrots. Her grey flint eyes were watchful and cautious, not throwing off the same sparkle as Cecelia’s did. She sat with one leg hugged close to her chest, defensive position, chin propped on knee and, although she was sitting down, I guessed correctly that when she uncurled and stood up, ironing-board straight, she’d be very thin and very tall. Dressed in basic black and heels; typical office wear with no frills, she had a fierce demeanour and penetrating stare–classic take-no-prisoners personality.

Suzanne, on the other hand, with her heart-shaped face, couldn’t have been more than 5ft 2ins but what she lacked in height she made up for in curls: white blonde hair that could knot fishing nets and secure masts. She looks like one of the Gene Marshall fashion dolls a former colleague used to collect.

I gave in to peer pressure when it became apparent that more alcohol would flow over lunch. And what I needed was a glass of wine big enough to sail a ship in. Cece later ordered us another bottle of pick-me-up, which turned out to be a teeth-squeaking chilled Champagne–the capriciousness of the bubbles much like the unpredictable contents inside my head. We drank through the last quiet hours of the afternoon.

My no-show interview came up in conversation and the girls sympathised. They seemed to know too well the desire to hide behind closed doors at some point in their lives.

I phoned the office to tell them I was chasing another lead, which, as it turned out, wasn’t strictly untrue. The sun, meanwhile, beamed through the Art Bar, throwing laminated celebrities into the spotlight again while we had to shift and duck so we could talk to each other without squinting.

I relaxed back onto the faux-leather seat and accepted these new-found friends as fate – guardian angels on a mission to rescue me – although the truth was more matter-of-fact. Cece’s restaurant, Ribbons, in the Grassmarket, did the catering at my husband’s wake.

The official burial was near his parents’ home in Surrey but colleagues at Ninewells hospital in Dundee organised a small gathering in Edinburgh, where Harrison went to medical school, to pay their last respects. Cece supplied upmarket finger food for 40 people and, although we never talked at the time, Cece was up to speed on my story: London couple moves to Edinburgh and doctor husband is killed in road traffic accident.

Cecelia reminded me that we first met when I walked into her restaurant to settle the funeral food bill and that’s how she recognised me this morning in the Art Bar.

“That’s right. I’m glad I paid you.” This was intended to be a joke but was shaved close to the bone. I have no idea how I continued with life and functioned straight after
it
happened. How I continued even now–like putting money in the parking meter, working the washing machine, paying for finger food, seriously?

Turns out Ribbons wasn’t far from the office.

I couldn’t recall being the slightest bit organised: did I really read an invoice? I remember nothing: phone calls, questions, paperwork, more paperwork, legal questions, insurance documents and organ donation–yes, even that. I remember everything: mostly the feeling of falling a vertical mile; the only way is down.

Finally, I stuttered to a stop and, when I wasn’t working at a frenzied pace on a weekly magazine, I drove around Edinburgh, back and forth over the Forth Road bridge while I battled insomnia. Looking out for the telltale yellow panes of light in people’s houses at 3am–dotted souls shining around the city: wide awake like me.

“I assumed you’d gone back to London,” Cecelia said, interrupting my thoughts.

“I… just kept my head down,” I said after a moment’s thought. “Too much to do, never enough time…”

We left it at that. I’d attempted to sound light-hearted but there was no fooling these women. Cece flashed me the sympathetic honey-been-there-done-that look.

What were my options? Returning to London and married life in storage? No, it was a tiresome geographical conundrum. Couldn’t go forward and couldn’t go back.

“Well, you’re here now,” Suzanne said, looking relieved, as if they’d sat round this table forever, waiting for me to blow through the door on a breeze.

“Sweetie, I
know
this is gonna freak you out,” Cece drawled after a fleeting second of silence. “But you and I ain’t the
only
widows here.”

Without hesitation I looked at Kate first and she nodded, expressionless. I noted thin fingers without a wedding ring gripping the wine glass stem, throttled neck.

Evidently, she was not someone comfortable talking about the loss of one’s husband. I like to think I’m good at reading people but she was impenetrable, intimidating with an aura that was blacker than a witch’s hat. Kate was such a contrast to Cece, who seemed to wear her heart on her sleeve; not one with a problem with disclosure. Kate, on the other hand, was a closed book. Secretive like me.

I managed a sympathetic nod, half expecting Kate to at least mention her husband’s name, how long it had been; an acknowledgement of sorts. But no. She just sat back in her seat and sipped her drink, cool as you like.

The others were still staring at me but before I could get back on track Suzanne leaned over and whispered, “I’ve lost my husband, too.” Literally, as it turned out.

I was taken aback, startled. I think it took several moments to sink in. My first thought wasn’t “how sad,” but “how strange.” How
weird
we should all be here, together, sitting around this table. Admittedly, at this point, significant units of alcohol were slowing down the thought process but I did concede how unusual the situation was when you considered statistics: the average age to lose a spouse being nearer 70 than 35.

If there is such a thing as a positive take on a situation like this, you could say that at least I was luckier in love than Cece, who was a particularly bleak statistic, having lost two husbands before the age of 40.

So I guess you could call me the new recruit, having recently qualified when my husband met his untimely death when he crashed his car on the A90 Dundee to Perth dual-carriageway late one night.

His fate played on loop in my head: car leaving the road at top speed and firing through the air like a rogue missile, diving nose-down into a field where he met his end, crushed and lifeless until the morning sun made him visible to the commuting world and exposed the truth, an awful truth: a young man had needlessly died and robbed Ninewells Hospital of an excellent young surgeon. Or if you want the edgier version: my heart-saving husband, Dr Harrison Warner, who climbed behind the wheel of his black BMW 7 Series after 13 or however many vodka and Cokes and didn’t live to regret it. But I digress.

Suzanne bucked the black widow look too and was exquisitely dressed in a white embroidered chiffon and lace dress with a Victorian neckline. Her own design, I would discover. She reminded me of the London life I’d left behind, where people thought nothing of swishing out for Starbucks across Hanover Square dressed in couture.

Suzanne studied me equally as carefully and when the chatter broke off mid-air while everyone stopped to draw breath, she took advantage of a suspended silence and sat forward, elbows on table, too, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “We know what happened, Lori. We know you lost your husband,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

I nodded but this needled me. I lost my husband. Yes, but where, I wondered. Definitely before he accelerated off the road intoxicated at racing-driver speed.

Cece kick-started the conversation again with renewed enthusiasm. “Y’all help me with a business plan.” She thumped her thigh with her fist. “I make excellent food without the price tag. It is time to move on.” She picked up the empty wine bottle and peered inside as though looking for a message.

“Ever since Michael died, people have invented an Agatha Christie life for me where I’m the prime suspect cos y’all know that to lose one husband is unlucky; to lose two husbands is plain careless–or
worse
.” She whispered the words as though others were listening in.

“You know that one in two people are killed by someone they know,” Suzanne said. I looked at her to see if she was joking but, no, her brow had creased thoughtfully. “Read it somewhere.”

Cece stared at her, slack-mouthed. “That sure makes me feel a
whole
heap better.”

Kate laughed abruptly. It was a sharp bark that made me jump. The first time I had seen her close to animated.

The penny dropped and Suzanne blushed. “
Oh!
Gosh, I didn’t mean that… it’s just…
you
know what I mean.”

“I’ve read that clever men are
less
likely to kill themselves,” Kate said, throwing her tuppenceworth into the conversation, flashing small sharp teeth as she sloshed the last of the Champagne into four glasses. “It took Swedish scientists 26 years to reach this conclusion; whereas, had they talked to
me
, I could have saved them considerable time and effort.”

I listened, transfixed, noting that her words had left a hydrochloric acid burn on the surface of the conversation.

Cece very obviously changed the subject and announced that the summer’s rising temperatures meant we were on the brink of a red-level weather alert. “Dangerous meteorological heat.”

“This is Edinburgh, not China,” Kate barked. “And quit with the damn fan.”

Cece was holding a whirring portable fan, thrusting it intermittently under people’s chins during conversation. Microphone-like.

“Just
saying
.” Then she was off again, talking about food and asked if I had ever eaten at Ribbons.

I figured it wasn’t the right moment to confess that a three-course meal to me was red wine, paracetamol and an espresso so I softened the blow. “We have a great canteen at work.”

“You wanna eat. I’ll cook and the others will join us. Don’t listen to stuff about me killin’ a husband with a frozen leg of lamb, then cooking the murder weapon for poor police officers to eat.”