The Dead Wife's Handbook (7 page)

DENIAL

Chapter 5

As the empty void gives way to reveal the activities of the living world, I see that my daughter and her godmother are in the back garden of the house I used to call home. They’re playing a game involving a blindfolded Harriet and an overexcited Ellie running literal rings around her as Ellie giggles irrepressibly, refusing to be caught. The air must be as warm as it is bright, given Ellie’s bare feet flitting over the lawn’s freshly cut grass and the pale, smooth skin of her uncovered arms flapping energetically in the breeze.

She’s wearing one of my favourite outfits, a knee-length jersey dress in navy blue decorated with tiny white butterflies, a dress that might be nondescript if it weren’t hanging gracefully from the lithe limbs of my beautiful girl. Her long brown curls bounce in time with her body as she gambols from one foot to the other, her cheeks flushed with exertion. If I was down there rather than up here I’d scoop her into my arms and kiss her neck a hundred times, Ellie counting each and every one to ensure I didn’t miss a single caress, just as we’ve done innumerable times before.

‘You can’t catch me, Hetty!’

Ellie’s the only person I’ve known who’s ever been permitted to give Harriet a nickname. Harriet pretends she merely tolerates it but I think, secretly, she rather loves the
special moniker created by – and reserved exclusively for use by – her goddaughter.

‘I don’t doubt you’re right, gorgeous girl. Do you think you might have had enough of this game yet?’

Harriet pulls the blindfold from her eyes as if to answer her own rhetorical question, although the tone of her voice infers the likely response.

‘Oh. Put the blindfold back on, Hetty, or it’s too easy for you to get me.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true, darling, not in these heels.’

‘Take your shoes off and then you’ll be able to run faster. The grass feels all lovely and tickly between my toes.’

Harriet laughs.

‘I’d rather not put dirty feet back into these little beauties, if it’s all the same to you. Do you like them? I treated myself to them yesterday.’

Ellie squats down to inspect the shoes more closely. She’s always been fascinated by Harriet’s extensive foot-wear collection, spending countless happy hours ensconced in the floor-to-ceiling shoe cupboard in Harriet’s dressing room, a methodically catalogued selection of over a hundred designer pairs resembling something out of a fashion magazine. Sometimes Ellie and I used to retreat to Harriet’s on weekend afternoons when our sitting room played host to the screening of a football match. Harriet would let Ellie loose in that cupboard and she’d put on a show for us, shuffling across varnished wooden floorboards in shoes too big with heels too high for her little body to balance on, describing in the meticulous
detail of a five-year-old the defining features of whichever pairs she’d chosen to model for us that afternoon. I remember, on those cosy afternoons, thinking how lucky Ellie was to have Harriet in her life and how much I’d have loved to have someone like her around when I was growing up: the not-quite-aunt who’s nonetheless so much more.

‘Mmm, they’re quite nice. I like the colour. I’m not sure about that pattern, though. They’re not my favourite.’

‘Well I’m very sorry to hear that, young lady. I’ll endeavour to choose ones more to your liking next time.’

Harriet grabs Ellie under the arms and swings her into the air, causing Ellie to dissolve into uncontrollable, unself-conscious giggles.

They’re lucky to have each other, those two.

‘Come on, Hetty. Just one more go.
Please
.’

‘Oh go on then, you little tyrant. How could I possibly refuse?’

Harriet blindfolds herself and begins to totter precariously towards the ever-changing direction of Ellie’s laughter. I’m not sure if it’s the game Ellie’s finding amusing or the sight of Harriet teetering around the garden on three-inch Jimmy Choos in a Diane von Furstenberg dress. Either way, it’s indicative of Ellie’s powers of persuasion that she’s got Harriet playing this game in the first place. That or it’s proof of Harriet’s adoration for her goddaughter. Or, more likely, it’s a combination of the two.

Ellie’s teasing Harriet, poking her from different angles and then running away out of reach until finally Harriet
manages to grab her arm and keep hold of her long enough for this round to be over.

‘Right, that’s my lot, madam. I’m afraid this godmother needs a cup of coffee and some room-temperature oxygen in her lungs.’

Harriet pulls off the blindfold to discover Ellie already presenting her tried-and-tested disgruntled pose: arms folded, head down, brow furrowed and lips pursed in a caricature of what she thinks disappointment should look like. It’s an expression I always failed to resist because it made me laugh so much I’d feel it was churlish then to refuse whatever she wanted.

‘Awww. But I don’t want to go inside yet. Just one more go? Please. I’ll let you catch me much quicker this time, I promise.’

‘Now, gorgeous girl, you might be in possession of persuasive techniques that would put most lawyers to shame but I’m afraid you’ve met your match here. Maybe we’ll play some more after lunch. Why don’t you run around here for a bit and burn off some of that incomprehensible energy. We’ll call you when lunch is ready, okay?’

Harriet kisses Ellie on the top of her head before joining Max in the kitchen where he’s in the process of basting a tray of potatoes. I love seeing Max in the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On Cooking’ apron that I bought him for his birthday as a joke a few years ago – a joke because back then his food preparation skills extended to emptying a tin of microwaved beans on to two slices of heavily buttered toast and referring to it as cooking. I’d never have believed it if someone had told me then that here he’d be now, oven gloves in hand, overseeing the roasting of a leg
of lamb coated with fresh garlic and rosemary, just one dish on his long list of newly mastered culinary achievements.

‘Bloody hell, where on earth do kids get all their energy from? I’m knackered and I’ve only been out there for half an hour.’

‘More like fifteen minutes, Harriet. But it’s true. And children are pretty shrewd when it comes to coercing their godparents into playing energetic outdoor games with them on a Sunday morning.’

‘Very funny. You know I can never resist her. And so does she, unfortunately. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. A ninety-hour week in the office is a breeze compared to a weekend of full-on childcare. It makes you wonder whether there’s something ever so slightly insane about the desire to have kids, especially people who do it on their own.’

Harriet pauses long enough for the tactless penny to drop.

‘God, I’m sorry, Max. I’m such a klutz. Just ignore me, will you, and I’ll try to think before I speak for the rest of the day.’

Max laughs as he returns lunch to the oven.

‘I don’t think we can expect you to change the habit of a lifetime in a single day, Harriet. Don’t worry about it. You’re right – it is totally exhausting. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I’ll ever have the energy to go to bed after nine o’clock ever again.’

‘Ah, well, speaking of which, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you. You know what we were talking about a few weeks ago? You know, the blindingly obvious fact that if you don’t engage in some kind of
adult interaction soon, you’re going to turn into the sort of strange old man whose house children are scared to walk in front of after dark?’

I probably could have guessed that Harriet wasn’t going to let this one lie. I love her to bits, really I do, but I suppose you don’t get to be as successful as she is by giving in gracefully to the first sign of opposition.

‘How could I forget, Harriet? And I did think about it, honestly, but my feelings haven’t changed. I’m just not ready for that yet.’

A wave of relief surfs over me. I’ve spent the past fortnight fearful he was going to reach a different conclusion. I should have known better. I should have known Max better.

‘Yes, I know what you said, but that doesn’t mean you’re right. Anyway, I figured that since you’re probably not going to do anything about it yourself, I’d better do something about it for you.’

‘God, what have you done, Harriet? Please don’t tell me you’ve fixed me up with one of your terrifying lawyer friends? If you have, you’ll just have to cancel it. I’m not going.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max. I’m not that stupid – even I know that would be a date from hell for you. No, I’ve taken the smallest of baby steps. Not even you can object, really.’

I wouldn’t bank on it. I object, your honour, and I don’t even know what the crime is yet.

‘Enough with the suspense, Harriet. What’ve you done?’

I’m not sure whether I want to know or whether I’d prefer to remain in the kind of blissful ignorance that doesn’t involve overhearing my best friend discussing possible dating strategies for my widowed husband. It’s a bit like overhearing your parents talk about the intricacies of their sex life; it just simply shouldn’t ever happen.

‘Well, you probably won’t know this given that you and Rachel started dating practically before the internet was even invented, but there’s this really great introduction website where you don’t have to do a thing. Well, not yet anyway. I do it all for you. It’s a site where people recommend their friends – write their profile and tell the virtual world how wonderful they are, so that you’re spared the embarrassing bit I know you’d hate. All you have to do is wait for the hordes of women who’ll be drawn to my exceptionally eloquent and glowing portrayal of you to get in contact. And then you take your pick. It’s genius. What’s not to like?’

Harriet beams at Max with the sense of triumph I imagine crosses her face every time she wins a case. Except Max looks less than ecstatic.

‘Harriet, it may well be the world’s greatest website but I’m just not interested. If it’s that fantastic I’m sure it’ll still be up-and-running in a few years’ time when I might actually be ready to start considering all that stuff.’

‘I knew you’d say that. Which is why, in anticipation of that auspicious day, I went ahead and created a profile for you.’

You did
what
?

‘You did what?’

‘Don’t be mad. It’s not like you can’t take it down if you really hate it. But I think it might just give you the proverbial kick up the butt you need.’

Max’s shock gives way to annoyance before morphing into an expression that’s as close to anger as Max ever gets.

‘Take it down, Harriet. Right now. You can’t go around doing stuff like that without even telling me.’

‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I? I didn’t tell you before because I knew you’d be weird about it. Just come and take a look. Aren’t you even a little bit intrigued to know what I wrote about you?’

‘No I’m not, Harriet. In case you can’t tell, I’m not exactly over the moon you’ve done it at all.’

‘Well, you might be a bit miffed now, but wait till I tell you how popular you are with the ladies. I only put it up on Friday night and when I checked this morning you already had four messages. Four messages, Max. That’s pretty damn good, especially for someone your age.’

Max breathes deeply as he puts a pan of water on the stove to boil.

‘Harriet, please just take it down. Right now. And we’ll pretend it didn’t happen. I know you think you’re trying to help but you’ve got to allow me to do things my own way, in my own time.’

‘Okay, okay, but at least let me read out what I wrote about you first. You must be just the tiniest bit curious.’

Before Max has a chance to protest, Harriet pulls out her phone and begins tapping away with a focus that clearly signals she has no intention of capitulating to any opposition.

‘Okay, here goes.
I’ve known Max for eleven years. He might be a bit uptight and he can sometimes be a party pooper and if you get him started on the War of the Roses he may never stop, but he’s solvent, sane (mostly) and stable and, quite honestly, what more can you expect of a bloke who’s only just the right side of forty? Give him a nudge and see if you can’t relight his fire.
There you go. What do you think?’

Max looks as flabbergasted as I feel.

‘You didn’t seriously put that up about me? In a public place? What if someone I know sees it, someone from school? For god’s sake, Harriet, what on earth were you thinking?’

‘Of course I didn’t write that, you idiot. What do you take me for? Calm down, will you, before you have a fit. It was just a joke.’

‘You mean you haven’t created a profile? That’s not funny, Harriet. You could see how annoyed I was.’

‘Oh no, I have created a profile for you. That’s just not what I wrote. God, you’re having a severe sense of humour failure today, Max.’

‘I have a sense of humour when something’s funny, Harriet. And this isn’t funny. So have you put up a profile of me or not?’

‘I have. And you’re going to love it. Come on, let me show you on the laptop so you can get the full effect.’

‘I don’t want to see it, Harriet. How many times do I have to say it, I’m not interested.’

Max is professing a lack of interest while nonetheless allowing himself to be dragged across the kitchen towards the open laptop on the table.

‘Just let me get it loaded. I don’t think you’re going to stay angry at me for long when you see how well I actually sold you.’

Sold him? Has Harriet swapped the modern world of corporate law for good old-fashioned pimping?

‘See, how nice is that photo? Have you ever seen it before? I thought probably not. My lovely friend Philippe – you remember, gay, French, accent to die for – took it at my birthday lunch a couple of years ago. Even I’d say you look passably good-looking in that picture.’

Harriet loads the photo full screen. Max looks gorgeous. His thick, brown hair is a bit longer in the photo than it is now giving it a very slight wave on top which I always thought managed to make him look both suave and dishevelled at the same time. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying and his smile seems to fill the frame, embracing you from without and drawing you in. It really is a lovely picture.