She bought fresh flowers for Harriet’s bedside and lit soothing candles in the evening, scented with some of her favourite fragrances: grapefruit, lemon, orange and pomegranate. When Harriet couldn’t face eating, Stella made cooling smoothies, which she could drink from a special non-spill cup with a straw.
Stella probably felt closer to Harriet in her final days than she’d ever been before. They chatted about all manner of subjects, from things they’d done together to books, poetry, politics and world events. But most of all, they talked about Jon and Jemima, and Stella promised faithfully she’d look after them.
‘Jon’s going to be lost,’ Harriet had said. ‘He can hardly boil an egg and he’s hopeless round the house. I’m not even sure he knows how to use the washing machine. Jemima will be incredibly sad, of course, but she’s young and strong and she’s got lots of friends, thank goodness. She’ll be okay. It’s Jon I worry about more.’
‘You mustn’t fret,’ Stella had replied, moistening Harriet’s dry lips with lip balm and popping an ice cube in her mouth for her to suck on. ‘I’ll show him how to use the washing machine and cook simple meals. He and Jemima will always be welcome at my place, and I’ll plan some nice things for them both. I won’t leave Jon to grieve by himself.’
When the end finally came, Stella was holding Harriet’s hand on one side of the bed, while Jon and Jemima held the other. Jemima looked achingly like her mother, with pale-grey eyes, straight blondish-brown hair, high cheekbones and a small, slightly arched nose.
Her face was flushed and she was shaking with the effort of trying not to cry. Stella’s heart went out to her even as she thought any minute her own might break into a thousand little pieces.
As Harriet’s breathing became more laboured, Jemima told her mum she loved her and Stella gently stroked her friend’s hair.
Finally, she whispered to Harriet that she could go now and promised again she’d look after her little family. Harriet gave a deep, rattling sigh, a single tear trickled down her hollowed cheek – and she was gone. No one spoke a word until the nurse came into the room and confirmed what they already knew.
‘She’s at peace now.’
Stella and Harriet had known each other since they were babies and had lived close to each other all their lives. Both only children; they were like sisters, really.
Their mothers had met at a local antenatal class and become firm friends. The girls were always in and out of each other’s houses, and the families went on many holidays together. Losing Harriet was like falling from a plane and Stella was still going down, wondering when she’d hit the ground.
A bat fluttered so close to the open window, she could see its tiny black eyes and translucent wings. She feared it might enter the room, but it swooped up into the sky and disappeared from view.
After marvelling at its speed and gracefulness, she resumed her train of thought. The aftermath of Harriet’s death had been horrific. Jon had been so maddened with grief that for a time, Stella thought he might take his own life. She’d been the one who’d looked after Jemima, talking with her for hours, trying to make sense of what had happened, organising lunches and dinners, trips to the theatre and cinema, anything to take her mind off her sorrows.
Stella had arranged counselling for her, attended meetings at her school, discussed university options and bought new clothes to cheer her up.
It was utterly exhausting and she felt guilty for neglecting Hector and Lily, but what choice was there? Harriet would have done the same for Stella’s kids.
When Jemima started university in September, nine months after her mother’s death, things had become a little easier. She seemed to settle in well, but Stella still worried about her and Jon and felt duty-bound to keep a close eye on them both.
No wonder she was hard up. She’d stopped pushing her catering business –Deliciously Yours – and orders were right down. It was only thanks to a few faithful friends that she had any work at all.
The phone pinged beside her on the bed and she hesitated for a moment before picking it up. She’d learned to dread texts since Harriet died. They were almost always from someone needing something.
To be fair, her friend, Alisha, had kindly messaged to wish her a happy holiday.
Hope you have a great time – you deserve it XX
Another text was from her GP, reminding her about her next smear test. Ugh. Then there was a message from Al.
Stella inhaled sharply. What did he want? She thought they’d agreed to no contact for a while, or at least only in an emergency. Just below was something from Jon, so she opened that instead.
Hi Stella, I hope you’ve arrived safely. I’m really struggling today. Can we have a chat? Sorry to bother you on holiday. Thanks. Jon.
A weight seemed to settle on her, like a monkey on her shoulder. She snapped on the lamp next to her bed and blinked in the sudden brightness.
No longer wrapped in her protective cocoon, she felt exposed and vulnerable again. More wants, more needs, but how could she refuse?
Opening her Recent Calls list, she quickly found the number.
‘Stella?’ She could sense his relief. ‘I so wanted to talk to you… Thanks for calling… I’ve been feeling so lost… Missing Harriet… I still don’t understand…’
For a while she just listened with eyes closed, making sympathetic noises every now and again: ‘Mm’, ‘I understand’, ‘Of course’…
He’d said the exact same things to her many times, but that didn’t lessen the weight of his suffering now.
He was like a toy – a car or train, perhaps, with a coiled spring inside that needed to unwind fully before it would grind to a halt.
