The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Read online

  ‘Of course you do,’ I say.

  Ed stares at me, his face colouring. ‘Oh God, Rachel. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… that’s not appropriate. Sorry for offloading all this. I realise my problems aren’t in your job description.’

  ‘Hey, it’s fine, don’t worry.’

  ‘No. It’s not. I think—’

  ‘Please. Don’t worry. Really, Ed. It’s fine. We all need to talk sometimes. It’s no problem.’ I can see he’s unconvinced. ‘Look, I should go anyway.’ I look at my watch. ‘I’ve got some… stuff that needs doing so…’ Sure. Stuff!

  ‘Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. Thanks for bringing Oli’s bear back. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I pause, seeing a broken man before me, but not feeling comfortable enough to throw my arms around him and bear hug it all away. ‘See you tomorrow, little man,’ I call up to Oli, before heading to the front door. A photo on the side catches my eye and I pause to take a closer look. ‘She was beautiful.’

  Ed takes a deep breath, sadness swirling around him as he gives a tired, shallow nod. ‘She was. The love of my life. Someone who made me the best version of myself, every single day that we shared.’

  I bite my lip, feeling a hunger for that same sensation someday. ‘You’re lucky you found each other.’ I smile, then realise how clumsy that must sound to a man in mourning. ‘Look, I don’t know if I ever said it, but I’m sorry for your loss.’ He tries to smile at me. ‘And your question, about the truth, we can never know,’ I say, and he drops his eyes to the floor. ‘But we can feel, and that has to be good enough, for everyone’s sake.’ The look on his face helps me, in that second, to make a decision.

  I pull open the door, a cold rush of air inviting me to leave. ‘It’s going to take time, Ed. You know that, I’m sure, but if you need anything, to talk or whatever, my help doesn’t just have to be with Oli. I can be here for you too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, his voice breaking. And I know that I categorically mean it. Nobody needs to fight something like this on their own. That’s what Dad tried to do and it fractured him. It fractured us all.

  Ed, Oli, they deserve better than that. Just like me and my brother did. Just like Dad did. But what does that mean for me? For this new future Dad and Mo are pushing me towards? Is it what I want? Or what they want for me?

  Twenty-Two

  Rachel

  Confused about this newly emerging dichotomy, I take the long way home, pulling up outside Dad’s. The SOLD sign swings slightly in the wind, a sort of in-your-face reminder of my own, personal, bigger picture.

  The house lights are off, Dad’s car isn’t on the drive. Because it’s Bridge Night Monday. I’m glad he still goes. He spent so long hiding himself away, pretending all he needed was me and Richard, when we both knew we could never be enough. He needed friends. He needed to talk. He needed to focus on his own journey through life, just as much as he had to support us through ours. Which, I guess, is what Ed needs to do. That Dad never took that time for himself must have made those later years – when Richard and I started to go out more, leaving him on his own – so hard on him. Could it have been avoided?

  And that’s when I realise that, for the first time since Mum died, I’m thinking about Dad as a man, a human being in his own right. A husband. A lover. A confidant. Someone Mum could share her innermost thoughts with, as he could with her. I remember how they’d laugh, even towards the end. Little in-jokes they’d share; little looks. We didn’t just lose our mother, Dad lost his best friend. How could it have taken this long for me to realise that?

  My throat constricts and my heart beats harder as I recall the nights I’d hear him cry. The funeral, as he held our hands tight. I always thought that was to comfort us, but maybe it was the other way around. He dedicated a life to me and Richard, pressing pause on his own until he thought we were sorted. And now, because he saw I wasn’t sorted, long before I noticed that I wasn’t, he’s making changes in his life that can help me achieve a dream I didn’t know I wanted. Didn’t know I needed. And sure, he needs to sell up for his own reasons, for his own life. But he saw how much it could help me, too, and he continues to make the sacrifices of a man raising children, albeit grown-up ones, entirely on his own.

  A journey Ed has barely started, which stretches out for years to come.

  And I want to help. I do. But for how long? How long do I commit to being at work just in case this man, who I barely know, needs me? Does he have other people he can lean on? I can’t be the only one, can I?

  I zigzag the back roads from Wollaton to Stoney Street and back home. When I do finally pull into the car park opposite our building, I spot Mo, teetering on the top step as she hugs her dressing gown around her – arms crossed, leaning into Greg's chest as they kiss goodbye. His arms surround her, swaddle and protect her. I don’t know what that feels like. Can Dad remember? Can Ed, even? How long before the memories of touch fade? How does that shape your belief in, and your knowledge of, the person you loved?

  I lock up and jog across the road.

  ‘Go on, you go. I've got work to do. And Rach’s back,’ Mo says to Greg.

  ‘Don’t go on my account,’ I say to him.

  ‘It’s fine, Greg was leaving anyway. I’m up to my eyes in a press storm and he is just a distraction.’ She grins at me, happy, glowing. And from nowhere, this rush of feelings and emotions suffocate me. Without even feeling or seeing the tears coming, I find myself standing in the middle of our street, sobbing.

  ‘Oh, Rach, what’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Greg says delicately.

  Mo pulls me inside. ‘I’ll call you,’ she says after him, shutting the door behind us.

  We get upstairs, me sniffing, her pushing me up, telling me it’s all going to be okay. As we get into the flat, she swings me round for a cuddle. ‘Tea or wine?’ she asks, and I shake my head, wanting neither. ‘Oh, Rach! What’s happened? Come on.’ I’m dragged through to the lounge and pulled onto the sofa, Mo’s hands clasping mine until she reaches for a tissue to wipe my face. She drops the box in my lap. ‘Talk to me,’ she instructs.

  ‘It’s nothing, really, it’s…’

  Mo gives me one of her looks. I sigh, knowing I’m going to have to explain everything, even though I’m only just working through it myself.

  ‘Oli didn’t have his bear when he went home today. I was in a different room, didn’t see Oli or Ed. Phoebe didn’t pack it and when I checked the room before I left, I found it.’

  ‘Right…’ says Mo slowly.

  ‘Oli’s mum bought the bear for him. It’s special. I didn’t want Ed to be worrying that he’d lost it.’

  ‘So you went round,’ Mo guesses. I nod. ‘Okay. But why the tears? I don’t understand… oh… Oh, no, Rach.’ I look up at her through my fringe. ‘You’ve got feelings for him.’

  ‘No.’ I sniff, wiping tears from my cheeks. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not that, I just…’

  Mo sits back, taking up the position she usually uses when she’s trying to analyse what I’m saying, so that she can work out what I actually mean.

  ‘I don’t. I don’t have feelings for him. I just… I was there, in his home, and this penny dropped, you know, about Dad. Ed’s there, trying to hold things together for Oli. He’s trying to survive each day. A tiny thing like the bear can tip him over the edge, and it just makes you realise, made me realise, he has to do this all alone. Just like Dad did. Like Dad is still doing, because I’m not grown-up enough to work out what I want in life, or how to achieve it.’

  ‘Well, you need to believe you can, first.’

  ‘I do…’ I trail off, realising that she’s right, that that is part of the problem too.

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you’ve stayed where you are because it’s easier that way,’ Mo says. ‘Don’t rock the boat, then you can’t expose yourself to anything that might challenge you. Anything that might
be hard.’

  I pick at a piece of tissue.

  ‘Not because you’re lazy or anything, Rach, but because you’re frightened. Intimidated, maybe.’

  More often than not, Mo’s right, but I’m not sure if it’s that or something else. I make a noise in frustration. ‘I don’t know. I really think Ed needs someone. What’s to say it wasn’t serendipity that brought us together? Maybe I’m supposed to help him and, in so doing, I’ll learn about myself, about Dad.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I sigh. ‘I am so confused about everything.’

  ‘You don’t have to help Ed. He will be okay, one way or another. You don’t have to apply such pressure on yourself.’

  ‘I know, Mo. I know I don’t have to…’ Which is when I realise that I want to. Because the idea of not helping him, of not knowing him, makes me feel… alone. And that invites more tears.

  Mo strokes my head, moving salty, wet hair from my forehead. ‘Are you absolutely sure that, without realising it, your sympathy for him isn’t… evolving?’ I look at her, eyes wide. ‘I’d understand,’ she adds. ‘I really would.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mo. I don’t think so, but… I don’t know.’

  ‘Because, if so, we may need to revisit the online dating idea. There’s a new one now, for people in uniform. You could bag yourself an officer, or a pilot, or… ooooh, a fireman!’

  ‘I’d end up with a lollipop man!’

  ‘There is a lot to be said for a hi-vis vest and a long stick, my friend.’

  We fall into silence, Mo sitting patiently with her hands on my knee. Letting me know she’s there, without sticking her oar in and pushing any further.

  Eventually I say, ‘He asked me a question when I was there.’ I move position, tucking my feet beneath some cushions. ‘He asked if it was possible to know the truth if the person to tell it isn’t there.’ Mo cocks her head to one side. ‘Like, he’s questioning something, you know? Like he’s losing faith. I told him he had to believe in how he feels. He knew his wife better than anyone.’

  ‘Wise words.’

  ‘Yes? But how? How does he do that?’

  Mo shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, chuck.’

  ‘No. Me neither. It just seems so… unfair.’

  ‘Life is,’ says Mo. ‘Men get better-looking with age, women are scrutinised to look younger every day. Men get paid better. Women are expected to conform to some ridiculous notion of perfection created, usually, by men. Pizza, burgers and Cadbury Creme Eggs are significantly more calorific than celery. Life just isn’t fair!’

  I laugh a bit of a snot-cry-laugh at her last suggestion. ‘Yeah, and jeggings – despite being supremely more comfortable than a jean,’ I sniff, ‘are the single most inappropriate item of clothing in my wardrobe.’

  ‘No, Rach. That’s not life being unfair, that’s just fact. Avoid jeggings at all cost. No good can come from them.’

  We share a giggle and I wipe my face, silently thanking the universe that Mo is in my life.

  ‘Look, I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’m on the crack of a sparrow’s train to old London Town. Pitching to a PR firm in Soho. May exploit my credit card while I’m there, so I need to get to bed. Liberty top to bottom requires stamina.’ She smiles. ‘You gonna be okay?’

  ‘I am.’ I sniff.

  ‘Just… go steady, will you?’ she says, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of my head.

  ‘I will.’

  Back in my room, I think about how it must feel to question the very person you have lost, knowing you might never get to the truth. How can you live a life and manage your grief with that? I pick up the photo of Mum that sits on my bedside table. What’s the answer to this one, then, Mum? But her face drops out of focus, and instead my own stares back, reflected by the glass: a woman in her late twenties with a niggle in the back of her heart. One she hadn’t seen taking hold, and one she can’t afford to embrace. But she also can’t walk away...

  I fear the question is no longer, How do you trust someone who’s no longer here? But, How do you help someone find the answer… without losing control of your heart?

  Twenty-Three

  Rachel

  Ed called the office this morning and told Vicky that Oli wouldn’t be in today. When she passed the message on, my first thought was to text him to make sure everything was okay. Then I remembered he’s just the dad of one of our kids. I wouldn’t do that with anyone else, so there’s no need to do that with him, whether I want to check he’s okay or not. I’m his child’s key worker, that’s it.

  In fact, being back at work, with only the babies and Phoebe to talk to, has given me some breathing space. I think Mo is wrong; this is empathy. It is about self-reflection, too; learning about myself and my own response to life, to losing Mum, to Dad. It’s also about the fact that, despite having had them for the better part of eighteen years, I am always surprised by the hormones my period flushes me with. I’m clearly being hormonally irrational. That’s all. Which is why, with new-found clarity, it feels nice to pull up at Dad’s for tea now. Tea and chat. No specific reason, just to spend time with him. After work. Before I go home.

  I knock on the door as I push it open. ‘Hiya!’ I shout.

  ‘Come in love, hi.’ The familiar smell of coffee wafts through again, just as it always does, irrespective of the time of day. ‘I’ve got the pot on, you want one?’

  I head into the kitchen to find him surrounded by half-open cardboard boxes, each one with a scrawl of contents on the side, and bubble wrap on any available work surface. ‘Wow, Dad. You’re getting stuck in. When did these cupboards last get emptied?’ I say, picking up an old, faded orange sippy cup that brings memories of being three or maybe four years old. I’d sit in front of the telly on Mum’s days off, watching The Shoe People and Wizbit as she made lunch for me. We’d go to the park, or the shops. Or down to the library to sit in corners reading Meg and Mog books in hushed tones. I smile.

  ‘Coffee?’ Dad asks again.

  ‘Nah, I’d not sleep, Dad. And nor will you. Caffeine’s not good this late in the day.’

  ‘Only ever drink decaff now anyway. You want one?’

  I pick a mug up off the side and thrust it beneath the coffee pot. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘You want that?’ he asks, nodding in the direction of the sippy cup.

  ‘You know what, yeah. I think I do.’ I smile, shoving it into my bag. ‘It’ll probably end up in the back of the cupboard, but… I dunno. Memories, you know?’

  ‘Certainly is funny the things we attach sentimental value to. That old tea set me and your mum got for our wedding… it’s mostly chipped and your mum hated it, so I’m not fussed about keeping it. That tablespoon, though? It’s the one she always used when she had a go at baking. Was her grandma’s. I just can’t bear to part with it.’

  I feel the weight of it in my hand. The patina of discoloured silver makes me smile, before I carefully wrap it in paper and place it into one of the open boxes.

  ‘So, tell me, what have you been up to? How’s Mo? Have you heard from your brother? I haven’t since last week, but there’s probably not much in the way of Internet signal in the Annapurna Mountains.’

  ‘You can get it pretty much anywhere these days, can’t you?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He posted something the other day saying that it was a brief link to the world, while they had the Internet. Did you see the photos?’

  ‘Ahh… no. I must have missed them. I’ll have to have a look.’

  ‘Yes, you must. The photos are quite breathtaking.’

  ‘He always did have an eye for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad, looking over at a photo of Mum. Once upon a time he’d have told me Rich got that from her. He stopped comparing either of us to her after a while. I don’t know if it was because it was too much for him, or too much for us. Will Ed have that with Oli? I guess it depends on nature versus nurture, Ellie not
having been around long enough to influence him.

  Dad moves into the lounge, where more boxes are stacked high, covering most of the patio doors, which haven’t been opened in years. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he says, shifting some tape and paper from the sofa. ‘Thirty years,’ he says, looking around. ‘Some of it’s not been looked at since we moved in.’

  I remember that Rich and I got used to living in a slightly chaotic environment after Mum died. I’d bring friends round to begin with, when we were old enough to have them for sleepovers or whatever. After a while, all of them – except Mo – stopped coming, our house apparently being too messy; somewhere to poke fun at, not to go to. Ed’s house isn’t like that, not yet at least.

  In one corner sits Dad’s collection of academic journals. Stuff he wrote when he worked at the university; stuff he had published; findings on research he’d done. ‘What’re you gonna do with all that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. I wondered about recycling the lot, to be honest. It’s all in the archives at work anyway. I don’t need copies.’

  ‘You can’t just bin it all!’

  ‘What else do I want with it? I can’t take ’em with me.’

  ‘You could build some shelving or storage for them in the new place.’

  ‘It’s a caravan, love, there’s no room for anything I don’t need. And, besides, I meant when I die.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Dad started to talk like this a few years ago, as if by acknowledging it would happen at some point down the line it might lessen the blow for me and Rich.

  ‘Anyway, enough of that. I’m living and breathing the packing, I’d welcome some distraction. How are you? What’s going on?’