(2013) Four Widows Read online

  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.”

&
nbsp; 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.”

  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 repeat
edly 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.