(2013) Four Widows (3 page)

I noted the mischievous glee in her eyes but Suzanne looked alarmed, which made Kate release the sharp-bark laugh again.

“Christ, she’s going off on one. Next we’ll be hearing about Cece’s chocolate-martini moment. Lori, that’s your cue to leg it,” Kate said with a hint of mischief.

“What’s
leg it
?” Cece asked, genuinely mystified.

I smiled and said I would love to eat at her restaurant, lamb or not on the menu.

Cece scanned the coffee house menu. “Seriously though, my business is jinxed. Goddamn
cursed
.”

Suzanne recovered and said quite earnestly, “God doesn’t dish out more hardship than we can handle.”

“You think? Darn considerate of him,” Cece retorted. She trilled a line from a song, sounding alarmingly like Dolly Parton, “
God is watchin’ us from a distance
…”

“There’s no going back, that’s for sure,” I said hastily, hoping Suzanne didn’t think we were making fun of her. I studied the bottom of my glass resolutely, wishing for more wine.

Kate lent forward and poked a pink-painted fingernail at Cece. “Listen to that. No going back. We’re in this together, support each other through tough times. We move on. We order more pick-me-ups because it’s my day off and I’m not doing the school run or clubs, thanks to my considerate, supportive dear mother who steps up when I’m working, rescheduling, multitasking…”

She stopped to inhale. It was the most I’d heard her speak all afternoon.

I looked around the table and summed us up, an opinion that didn’t change much as I got to know them more: dramatic Cece; serious Kate; eccentric Suzanne. Then there was me, working in media: creative drinker.

“Four widows,” Cece boomed. “Misery loves company.” She raised her glass with a stage-version wink and we followed her lead, somewhat inappropriately, I know; doing a Cliquot-loud chink that everyone heard over Carly Simon singing
Coming Around Again
on an expensive retro jukebox.

Chapter Three

He Loves Me

Harrison was my biggest love and my greatest mistake. I didn’t realise this, of course, until he was dead. Even now it is a hard admission to make. My mother, on the other hand, has no trouble nailing him: I had fallen in love with a scandalous man.

This opinion was first formed after “the hospital incident” in London, which, to be fair to Harrison, was not his fault. The fallout, however, was a terrible blow to his career and confidence. A blow to us as a married couple.

No, what was to follow or unravel in the months after his death is how one earns a truly scandalous reputation, albeit a posthumous one. And it had nothing to do with his abilities as a surgeon.

“He’s brought shame on this family,” my mother said emphatically, spoken like the true matriarch of the clan. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she believed the scandal would run deep for generations. We know this but we also know it wasn’t a single-handed accomplishment.

It’s no surprise to me that my mother came down hard on Harrison though because she had zero tolerance to bad behaviour. What’s more, she had great expectations and had married a good man: my father was unsullied by scandal.

The only time I ever saw a chink in my father’s armour was at my mother’s surprise 50th birthday party. Everyone turned out for the celebrations except him. He couldn’t or wouldn’t switch his shift. “Never date a doctor,” my mother whispered as she cut her cake. And I noticed her smile was not bright enough to hide the disappointment in her eyes.

Talk to anyone and they’d tell you Harrison was a maverick man, flamboyant, confident and great at his job. Patients loved him. I’m not surprised; he had this tremendous aura and an incredible assuredness. Heavens, he gave the impression he could pass his hand over a liver and cure it of cancer.

Such confidence was well-earned because he did a remarkable job–and at 40 years old had done more surgical procedures than one would have thought possible as well as finding time for lectures, research meetings and forever mentoring interns. Formidable fix-it machine.

I believe his flair for fixing people was not just learned in medical school but stemmed from an intuitive and instinctual talent. No one needed a second opinion after a consultation with Dr Harrison Warner because he never left a stone unturned. His mission: heal people, save the world. As I got to know him, I realised he had a pathological fear of letting people down and worked over the odds to save them. He was a consultant, one of the leading heart doctors in the country.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. He fixed other people’s. He broke mine.

I met him for the first time in a bar behind Russell Square and, as first impressions go, it was the familiar diluted-Dettol smell still clinging to him from the hospital ward that turned my head in time to see him throw down a whisky without ice. I stepped back and stood in the shadow of someone else who was drinking at the bar while I inhaled Harrison Warner without him knowing I even existed in the world.

Without doubt, I knew he must work at a hospital; not just because the bar was in proximity to London hospitals and medical schools but more to do with the presence and confidence of someone that goes hand in hand with saving lives. He even ordered drinks with authority; someone used to getting what he wanted at whatever cost. I could picture theatre matrons and scrub nurses waiting on his every word: people passing scalpels on demand. Dr Heartthrob, swoon, baby, swoon–

I remember thinking at the time:
he’s beautiful but a handful–drop the drink, Lori, leave now and don’t ever look back. There is a wonderful, uncomplicated life waiting for you outside this bar
.

I didn’t, of course; there was never a chance I was going to do that. I had fallen in love for the first time. “My big fat infatuation,” said my sister.

And it was me who made the first move. I overheard Harrison telling someone that it was some night for bringing people back from the dead.

“Really?” I asked, wide-eyed.

Then followed doctor-defibrillator talk about the wonders of electric heart-shock treatment, which involved an enthusiastic explanation on hospital equipment that jump-starts a dead heart back to life.

Did I know, for instance, that if a shock is delivered within two to three minutes, the chances of survival increase by 60 per cent?

I nodded encouragingly. Decided it wasn’t the right moment to tell him that I knew what a defibrillator did.

Then he headed straight to the bar.

Later he told me that he knew I was a journalist because I asked endless questions and nodded–the nodding thing we do while giving nothing away.

His polished black hair was as marine-short as the stubble over his chin even though he told me he’d shaved that morning when I complained later about stubble rash. From the start, I clocked the attitude, cockiness even. He had fighter-pilot confidence; heart-doctor assuredness. Conveyed a sense of endless strength. He also had height on his side. I looked up to him.

Heart starter, maybe, but audacious Dr Harrison Warner didn’t seem too concerned about his own vital organs as he knocked back shot after shot, and neither did his colleagues getting tanked on Tequila. The table was littered with crushed lemons, salt and shot glasses.

I sensed recklessness about him, impatience. Risk-taker. The opposite of me.

“What does it
feel
like?” I demanded to know when he said he had saved a life. It was the same question I repeatedly asked my father, who could never offer a good enough explanation. To do such a purposeful job; give someone a second chance at life was something that would surely fill your soul with pride.

He looked at me for a dragged-out second and felled me with a confident grin. “It feels like fate.”

I remember a hopeless shiver of excitement.
This is it
, I thought:
me and you; marriage; picket fence; children
. There was a pause while I waited for him to go on but he swallowed more whisky instead and closed his eyes to the world as the malt burned down the back of his throat.

The less he said, the more I talked to fill the space between us. I usually let the men do the running; hell, not this time. I dredged up every question and anecdote possible to keep him interested.

At the end of the night, eventually, I confessed. “My father was a neurosurgeon. My sister is a doctor.” I raised my glass to him and attempted to look a little shamefaced. “Whereas, I don’t even know First Aid.”

“Then I hope you never need to resuscitate someone,” he said, mock scolding.

Resuscitate me, I thought. Mouth to mouth.

Chapter Four

Welcome to Holyrood

Cece insisted that Kate, Suzanne and I meet later for dinner at Ribbons. “I
absolutely
insist,” she said. I got the feeling this was someone who was used to getting what she wanted.

“She insists,” Kate said.

Cece’s departing words were: “Just so you know, I ain’t a good person– feel no joy when babies are born.”

Kate leaned in close. “If you take a raincheck, I’ll understand.”

I had to smile. “You know what–I think I can make it.”

In the meantime, I had to return to the office and break the news that our coveted cover star, Elvis James, maestro milliner, was a no-show.

The sting of air-conditioned air almost knocked me off my feet when I entered the office building.
Corset Magazine
HQ, near Holyrood Park, was a slick tower building, great glass and elevators, where we shared space with businesses and high-end boutiques.

Men marched purposefully, while women trotted through the main revolving doors on heels, clutching coffees, relieved to hit the ice-blast atmosphere. Not me, I shivered violently. Acute tiredness, I suppose.

How did I get here, Holyrood, I reflected, pausing before I walked through the security turnstile to the lifts. Strong sunlight powered through 4,000 panels of glass, throwing large circles of light on the floor. I could have been standing in the headlights from an alien spaceship. Extraterrestrial abduction away from this life, now there’s a thought.

London to Edinburgh happened faster than I could click my Pierre Hardy heels. I handed in my notice and four hours later received a call from the deputy editor on
Edinburgh Tribune
, a broadsheet affectionately known as
ET
, with weekend supplements, one of which was a style magazine about to get its own launch.

He barely made time for polite introductions or even to confirm that I had indeed stepped down as Editor on
2Glam
magazine before getting straight to the point: there was a job on
Corset Magazine
. Was I interested?

I flew up to Edinburgh and back in the same day for the interview, which took place over lunch at the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street.
ET
deputy editor Archie Shaw met me with an iron-fist handshake. Short and dense, he had grizzly bear facial hair to match his black flat-top cut, which didn’t move when he did. He got down to business without wasting words–there would be no conversation regarding my decision to swap London for Edinburgh because, as far as he was concerned, I didn’t have a personal life. The message was clear: it was all about the magazine and if I didn’t concur, I was out.

By the time coffee was served, I was offered the job as two sugar cubes rolled into Shaw’s cup like dice: he was taking a gamble on me.

We steamrolled through details, both in the mood for brisk business and keen to escape the thick quietness of the hotel dining room with its immaculate-set tables; napkins the size of pillow cases folded fiercely.

The final details were tied up at the bar where I confirmed I would accept the position as Editor on
Corset Magazine.
It was the fastest most effective interview I’d ever had and an indication of what the job would be like: head-down hard work.

Shaw assured me that I had a dream team waiting for me. From him, I took this to be praise indeed because Shaw didn’t look like a man forthcoming with a compliment.

“The Boy will look after you,” he said.

“The Boy?”

“Jim. Thinks he’s a rock god but he’s got it.”

The interview ended there. Shaw left with a final fierce handshake. I watched him, furry figure darting through the opulent entrance of the grand old hotel and wasn’t sure what to think but sincerely hoped I had
it
.

Shaking away the memories, I made it up to my office to find the team was waiting, keen to see how the Elvis James interview had gone. There was a huge level of expectation, especially since Elvis had worked behind closed doors for 15 years, never once making a personal appearance at his own shows.

I shook my head as I walked to my desk.

Jim threw down his pen. “Shit, man.”

I sighed and flung myself into my chair, feeling the sedative effects of gin mixed with wine.

Jim Williams, “The Boy,” aforementioned by Archie Shaw, worked as showbiz editor on the newspaper and was my deputy on
Corset
. When we were first introduced I blurted out, “Oh no!” I’d meant to
think
this but an inappropriate vocal tic took over.

Breezing over embarrassment with a firm handshake to crush bones, I said it was great to meet him while thinking,
must relocate this one
. I set Tom Ford standards in an office: suit up or ship out. And, no, a wetsuit didn’t count. Jim by contrast had the surfer look going on–solid-trunk neck, Tony Hawk T-shirt and jeans falling off his backside to show off, dear God, designer underpants. It was a look more at home skateboarding on the South Bank than an editorial office. To complete the stereotype, when he wasn’t working or scratching an unshaven chin, he was singing with his band, Malt. They had a decent fan following on YouTube, apparently.

“Seriously? No Elvis.” Jim scooted his chair towards me.

“No Elvis.”

“I thought he was… cured.”

“Me too.”