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CHAPTER 46
Dear Sam,
It’s all coming together. Bit like us earlier this evening. Sorry, couldn’t resist.
Funny, at the start of this horrible pandemic, I thought my life was so over. My horoscope told me to hunker down: Use this downtime to gather strength. I came off Facebook. Sometimes even your fake reality isn’t good enough to share, and I didn’t want people from Brid gloating, calling me a loser, Oh, did you hear about Naomi Harper? Apparently…
Didn’t imagine how handy it would be, seeing no one, hardly anyone at the funeral, no one at our wedding in a few weeks’ time. You know how quickly gossip spreads in this place; you can’t keep anything quiet, not a thing. And I need things to stay under the radar for a bit longer, so it’s just as well you’re not up to going out.
You said I was an angel today. I won’t lie, I’m tempted to agree – I practically did that whole buffet on my own. It was good, all things considered, that your gran’s old mates didn’t seem to recognise me. I mean, why would they? I’ve only met them once, when we went to see Joyce sing in the courtyard outside the Mill Brewery that time. Still, I was glad when they left. And then, what happened between us afterwards… I liked your idea of waiting till we were married, mostly because I don’t want to let myself fall in too deep again, but I thought if I didn’t give you something, you’d start getting suspicious, or worse, lose interest.
Joyce’s death has been a double advantage for me actually. The money, obviously, but also the state it’s left you in. Not great, is it, when people you love leave you without warning? It can destroy a person, really affect them, in ways you’ll understand now. And part of me thinks that with Joyce on the scene, I was only ever going to come in second. I know you’d say no way, but it’s true. I wonder if you’d ever have been able to commit properly while she was alive. Tell you something, of all the women I imagined myself competing with when I was younger, I never imagined someone in their eighties.
So yeah, the mood was right. You were emotional, a flower ready to pick. I always did fancy you, Sam. You were always so tanned, all year round. Weathered. I mean, it’s a T-shirt tan, not an all-over tan like the other men I’ve dated, but no one sees that except me. And I’m sure I’ve mentioned your arms more than once. So, so fit. I guess I thought I’d give you a taste of what was to come, just to seal the deal. Like a first-one-free type thing, something to get you hooked, something to leave you with withdrawal symptoms only marriage to me will cure.
It was nice, really nice. I want you to know that. You’re a good lover, Sam. A bit shy, maybe, but once you get going, you’re all right – more than all right actually. A lot of the guys I’ve been with might be better at getting served in the pub or finding a deal on the car insurance, but when it came to sex, they were selfish, selfish and a bit quick, if I’m honest, and half a minute later you’re lying there staring at the light shade listening to the snoring thinking, Oh good, I’m glad you’re all right, Jack. You never did that. You always made sure I was OK before you thought of yourself.
I’m going to miss that.
CHAPTER 47
Sam has COVID and has to isolate. I say this as if it’s fact, but actually Naomi told me down the phone.
‘Did you do a test?’ I asked, but she didn’t answer, not directly.
She said: ‘I’m looking after him, don’t worry. He needs rest and plenty of hot drinks.’
I knew she wasn’t there in the evenings, because Sam had told me.
‘I could do the shopping if you like,’ I tried. ‘Or I can call and see him in the evenings?’ I was thinking I could talk to him from the driveway or something. I knew Naomi should’ve been isolating too, but I didn’t know her well enough to point that out, even gently, and so when she replied no, that the doctor had said no visitors, I said, OK, sure, no worries.
I don’t believe Sam ever had COVID. I think that was another of Naomi’s lies. If I’d had to diagnose him back then, I would have said he was suffering from debilitating grief and – possibly – the inklings of something not right. The house had been sold from under his nose, but of course I didn’t know that then. It was only my feeling based on the way he told me Naomi was sorting out the money, the banking, Joyce’s estate. I got as far as asking, ‘And you’re OK with her doing all that?’
‘Yeah! Nomes is amazing with money stuff.’
Inkling-wise, I can only tell you from four years wasted on Betsy’s father, a man who on the surface seemed like a great guy but who I always knew, somewhere deep down, was not great at all… yes, I can tell you from bitter experience that human beings are buggers for ignoring their inklings. So when he said that, like everything else and despite my unease, I left it.
The sale of the house takes longer than anticipated.
‘These things always drag on,’ Naomi tells him as she checks his temperature and says it’s still a bit high. ‘Even when they’re straightforward. But it’s all super chill, don’t worry. We’ll have completed by the time we get married, a day or two after tops.’ These are the words she uses, though Sam thinks she seems agitated.
Sam returns to work. Miranda hugs him tight, the two of them shedding a Joyce-dedicated tear or three on her driveway before they get in the van. Sam thanks her for the bouquet she sent with a note:Dearest Joyce, keep singing those shanties on the other side, darling woman. With love, Miranda.
At the site, he is greeted with more hugs and handshakes by the guys, despite regulations to the contrary.
‘I’m the safest person in the UK right now,’ he jokes.
They tell him they’re sorry about Joyce, that she was a great woman, that it’s rare to find the likes of her these days. When his eyes brim, they sigh and pick up their tools, point out what needs to be done next.
That night, Sam packs up the vintage tea set Joyce kept in the sideboard, a leather case of sterling-silver cutlery she never used, and a twenty-four-piece Habitat dinner service, white with silver edging, that Naomi said she liked because it was retro cool. These things he will move into the van before the house clearance people arrive. Despite the burglars turning Joyce’s dressing table upside down, her wedding ring and a fine gold chain with a pearl pendant remain, and these he keeps in his pocket for now, his hands finding them whenever he remembers her, which is every minute of every day. The ring he will get resized for Naomi; the necklace he can give her after they are married. The rest is junk, according to Naomi, and he puts it all carefully in a cardboard box, just in case any of it takes the fancy of the clearance company people.
The piano he contemplates for a long while before, in a flash of inspiration, he texts Miranda.
Hey. Do you think you could look after Joyce’s piano for a bit? Betsy might like it.
Sure. Betsy would love that! How come?
I’ll tell you when I see you. Is Friday OK to have it delivered?
