4ALICE

A warm glow settles inside me as we part. I stand and watch Peter as he leaves the café, heads off down the street and disappears amongst the crowds. It took him a while to ask to see me again but we got there in the end. I nudged and hinted, gently pushed him into a corner until he relented and we agreed to meet next week after the session at church. Same time, same place. This café is hardly the height of sophistication and elegance with its vinyl seats and Formica tables, but it’s a start.

Behind me, the coffee machine whirrs and sizzles, chairs scrape across the tiled floor, people chatter. A myriad of everyday noises that help soothe me. For all I have waited for this moment, for Peter to finally notice me, now it has happened, I am both nervous and excited in equal measure, my stomach clenching and unclenching, my skin rippling with delight and dread. I take a deep breath to steady myself, repeating over and over that this is my chance to start again, to claw back some of my life. The life I had before it was cruelly and thoughtlessly torn apart. I think back to the devastation, to the unending heartache that was almost the undoing of me. I bite at my lip, knowing that I deserve some semblance of normality as much as the next person. I deserve to be happy. And I was for a while. I had Tom, and then I didn’t. Now there’s just me. And Peter. A dart of something resembling happiness bolts through me. Not yet, though. I don’t want to push things too quickly or too far.

I stand, feeling as if the watching world can read my thoughts, and leave the café, enjoying the breeze outside as it passes over me, caressing my hot skin. Crowds bustle past, the street remarkably busy for a Sunday morning. I suppose most places open on a Sunday now. No difference between a religious day and any other day of the week. Life has changed – the pace faster, people busier. Too busy to notice the likes of me. I prefer that. I like the anonymity that busyness brings. My life is my life and nobody else’s. Heartache, loss and death have taught me how to be private, how to lose myself in a crowd of one.

People pass by me as I make my way home, their eyes glued to their phones. They weave through the crowds, deftly and rapidly, never looking up, never noticing me. I am a ghost in their presence, a wandering soul, searching for the things I lost. Constantly scanning and scratching around for the things that have been taken from me.

The house is cool as I let myself in. The blinds remain closed, everything a wash of light grey. I prefer it this way. It helps clear my head, allows me to breathe properly, the air clean and pure, not sullied by sunlight and warmth. Just me and my thoughts. Me and my loneliness.

I stare at the bare walls, at the plain furniture and wonder where it all went wrong. I am living a half-life, a watered-down version of myself. But not for much longer. Things are ripe for change. No more diluting my existence. I can start again, focus on Peter, focus on me. Become once again, the person I used to be.

The walls are cool as I trail my fingers over them, thinking about the past and how it almost robbed me of my future. Being on my own has been miserable. I’ve survived but it hasn’t been easy. I used to have a family, a life, until things turned sour that is, like curdled milk: the scent of it never leaving me, a foul stench trailing in its wake. The unshakeable odour of death and loneliness. Of grief and anger.

And then there’s this house. So many memories, a combination of good and bad, delightful and dire. I should have moved, done the right thing. Learned to start again. But I didn’t. I’m still here and he is everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere. The bricks and mortar, and furniture holding onto his memory, his soul embedded in them. And yet I’m still very much alone. For now.

My job is menial and mind numbing, but it pays the bills – bills that were automatically taken care of by my husband when he was here. I’m now employed as a nanny for a wealthy couple. It sounds easy but being a nanny for people who have high expectations for their children is exhausting. As well as caring for their children, I’m also left lists of tasks to do such as doing the laundry and tidying the children’s bedrooms. My employers rarely speak to me, leaving instead notes for me on the sideboard, directing me to the required tasks. Only once did the lady of the house stop to talk to me, commenting on my hair, something that made me flinch.

‘Is that your natural colour, Alice?’ she had said in her usual dispassionate way. ‘I think a darker shade would look better on you. That blonde looks too forced and doesn’t sit well against your pale skin.’

I had bristled at her words, my hackles rising in defence. It is both rude and insulting to say such things to people. I don’t suppose she thinks of me as a person, certainly not a real one, the type that she socialises with. I’m the paid help, somebody who happens to occupy the same space as her, somebody who takes care of her children because she, it appears, cannot be bothered to do it herself. They’re easy enough to handle, the youngsters, and she certainly has lots of time on her hands but seems incapable of or, rather, unwilling to spend time with them, preferring for me to take charge and interact with her offspring. But then, she pays my wages so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Without that income, I don’t know where I would be. It’s the chores that get to me, chores that I didn’t expect to have to do when I signed the contract. They are demeaning. Insulting. However, the money she pays me allows me to have a roof over my head and a steady income and I suppose that’s what matters. I no longer have my husband of course, but that is something I have had to learn to live with. Jack and Elizabeth Downey giving me heaps of housework to do pales into insignificance compared to what I have endured in the past year.

I think of Tom, the only relationship I have had in the past year until meeting Peter, and my stomach shrivels. Batting those thoughts away, I slump down, the chair sighing under my weight as I settle into it and curl my feet up under my backside, my back arched against the softness of the cushion. Today has been a successful day. Peter spoke to me. We have a future date, albeit in a coffee shop that serves stale biscuits on chipped plates, but a date is a date and I should be thankful for that small fact. The future starts here. I just hope it’s everything I ever hoped it would be: a chance to restore some balance in my life.

Despite it being mid-morning, I am overcome with a bout of weariness that digs into my bones. Being sociable is exhausting. Keeping up the pretence is draining. I’ve never been much of an actress. I have had to practise and hone my skills to get thus far.

I close my eyes and sleep carries me away to another world where my husband is still here and our relationship isn’t unspooling and coming apart at the seams, our marriage, our family disintegrating before my eyes while I stand by and watch helplessly, unable or perhaps unwilling, to try to save it.

5PETER

He can’t explain it, the lure of the sessions in church. They were recommended by a well-meaning colleague who knew little of Peter’s life except that he had lost his wife in the most tragic way imaginable. And so, at a loose end one weekend, he went along, sceptical, fully expecting to leave the place feeling far worse than when he entered. But he was surprised to find that talking and listening to others about their personal experiences and grieving processes actually helped. He had spent that last year full of anger, convinced a greater power somewhere was punishing him, wreaking havoc with his life. The sessions have helped him quash those thoughts, helped him calm his nerves and extinguish the fire that has raged deep in his belly for the past twelve months.

Making friends at the sessions was never his intention but it appears he has bonded with Alice, who lost her partner at around the same time he lost Sophia. He decided to escape the crowds that had gathered outside the entrance by taking a wander around the graveyard behind the church, and bumped into her. She’s attractive enough. He never noticed it before and thinks that perhaps he has been blind to everybody and everything in the past twelve months, grief and guilt smothering him, obliterating everything. Meeting somebody there had never been his intention but they chatted, had coffee and have death of a close one as a common bond. Hardly your average, run-of-the-mill shared interest but it is what it is. Something about her drew him in and as a result, they are meeting for coffee again next week. She’s a friend. That’s all she is. Just a friend.

Lauren is upstairs when he arrives home. They need to speak. Not about anything in particular. They just need to speak more often, to dig themselves out of the rut they have become entrenched in. It’s not healthy living like this and it’s especially not good for Lauren. She’s a young girl. Actually, she is no longer a girl and is rapidly turning into a young woman. At seventeen years of age, she has more nous, common sense and integrity than he could ever hope to have. Considering her age and situation, he thinks she is pretty damn amazing.

‘Dad?’ She leans over the banister, her hair hanging loosely around her face in chunky ringlets.

‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he says, trying and failing to inject some joviality into his voice. Sometimes, even greeting people is an uphill struggle. But this is Lauren, his daughter and none of this is her fault. None of it. She deserves better. ‘Listen, honey. How about we go out somewhere for lunch for a change?’ The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He doesn’t regret it. Sometimes, it’s better to let things take their own course, not put too much effort into forethought and planning. It clouds things.

There is a brief hiatus, a second or two that feels much longer than that before she replies, her voice almost a squeak. ‘That sounds great! Where were you thinking of going? Have you booked anywhere?’

She’s right. It’s Sunday. Most places will be full to bursting. Being spontaneous does have its downfalls. This is the first time he has ever suggested such a thing and now he runs the possibility of letting her down. Again. That happened a lot when Sophia was alive. He swallows down those thoughts, blots them all out. A fresh start, that’s what they need. And if not now, then when?

‘Just a minute. Let me have a look.’ He scrolls through his phone, checking all the local restaurants and pubs, checking reservations and stops at the one that has a table available. The Half Moon Inn. Sophia’s favourite. His heart hammers out a small beat in his chest. He clamps his jaw together, telling himself to stop it. Lauren needs to get out of the house for a while. They both do. They need to talk, be normal again. Be a proper father and daughter. A father without a wife, a daughter without a mother. He punches in the number, speaks to the person on the other end, and reserves a table for 1 p.m.

‘Right,’ Lauren says, her voice lighter than he has heard for many months when he tells her that they’re good to go. ‘I just need to get showered and changed. I’ll be twenty minutes.’ She pounds her way around her room right above him. He smiles, unfamiliar feelings of normality slowly returning. The sounds above his head take him back to a time when things seemed brighter, a time when Sophia was still alive.

He checks his watch and glances in the mirror. It feels like such a long time since he took any interest in his appearance. There seemed little point but now is the right time to do something about it. If Lauren can make an effort, then so should he. He stands there, his own reflection staring back at him, his features coming sharply into focus. He sees things there that make him ashamed, things nobody else can see. He blinks and looks away.

Twenty minutes later, they’re both showered and dressed and standing at the front door, ready to go.

‘Dad. You look…’ She steps around him, eyeing him up and down as if he is a lab rat about to undergo some sort of experiment. ‘You look great. I mean, really healthy.’

‘For a change, eh?’ He gives her a wink and she smiles. His stomach flips. She resembles her mother so much. He realises then that that is one of the reasons why he’s been avoiding her, keeping his eyes lowered every time she passes him in the hallway, or getting up and heading into the kitchen whenever she enters the living room. Guilt travels through him, swirling in his gut like acid. He hasn’t been a terrible dad but he hasn’t been a good one either. Lauren is still young. He is a grown man. They need each other. It isn’t her fault she bears such a striking resemblance to the woman who used to be his wife. The woman who made him feel complete and yet utterly empty at the same time. He thinks back to the arguments, the suspicions. The furtive glances she gave to her phone when she thought he wasn’t looking.

‘Right,’ he says, grabbing his keys from the console table that has been there since they moved into this place over twenty years ago. ‘Your carriage awaits, young lady. And my stomach is empty. Let’s go.’

6LAUREN

‘I went for coffee with somebody today.’

I feel as if I’m falling, the floor coming away beneath me. Dad had coffee with somebody? ‘Oh my God! Really?’ My voice is croaky, gravel filling my throat. I sound like one of those lads at college whose voice is in the process of breaking: half man, half boy. ‘Who? And where?’ I’m in shock. Dad going out for a coffee with somebody is a good thing. It’s just unexpected, that’s all. And well overdue. That much I do know. It’s been a long and lonely year.

‘Just a friend from the church.’ He fiddles with the menu, straightening it, rearranging the condiments, twirling his fingers around the rim of his glass.

It’s a female, I just know it. It has to be. He can’t bring himself to look at me. ‘A friend, eh?’ I smile, picturing a tweed-wearing librarian type or a middle-aged woman in Victorian-style, lace-up boots and a high-necked, frilly blouse, wearing a stern expression and clutching a bible in one hand and her pearls in another, permanent outrage etched into her expression.

‘Yes,’ he says with a knowing grin, ‘a friend.’

‘So, is this friend a man?’ I glance down at the menu then back at Dad, who is now watching me intently, ‘or a woman?’

His voice is soft when he replies. Gone is the desperate, hard-edged tone that he has used since Mum’s death. This is something gentler, more appealing than the brusque growl that has been his way for the past twelve months.

‘A woman. And before you say anything, she is just a friend.’ His hand is outstretched, his palm in front of his chest. ‘I met her at church and she also lost her partner at the same time as…’

Even now, he can’t bring himself to speak about it, to broach the subject of Mum’s death. I wish he would. I really do. I want him to mention her and just get it over with. It feels as if we can never move on from this point until he accepts what happened. I mean, what the hell does he talk about at those grief sessions anyway? If he can talk about it there, why can’t he talk about it to me, his daughter, his only child? Mum is dead and we need to accept that fact. He needs to accept it. We have our lives to live. Does that make me sound cold and unfeeling? Perhaps it does, but life when Mum was alive was far from perfect. This is our chance to start again.

A familiar itching takes hold on my skin, flames burning just beneath the surface. ‘At the same time that Mum died. Is that what you were going to say?’ There, I’ve said it, got it out in the open.

He nods, his mouth a thin line. I feel guilty for being so blunt with him but one of us had to say something. I’m sick of tip-toeing around the subject. I reach over and take hold of his hand. It feels big and hot against my own skin, his fingers long and slender. ‘Look, Dad. I think it’s great that you went out for coffee. It’s time for us to start living our lives again. In fact, I think you should take lots of people out for coffee. Hundreds, even. And I hope they’re all glamour pusses who wear short skirts and boob tubes, not some doddery old frump that wears long, grey dresses and has their glasses perched on the end of their noses like some judgemental old bint.’

He laughs and looks away. I swallow and clear my throat. Saying all of that about him dating some other woman was never going to be easy, none of this was, but it had to be said. And now the words are out there, now we’ve broken through that invisible barrier, we can start living again. Not before time.

‘Now then, Peter, good to see you here. Are you ready to order yet?’ Norah, the middle-aged waitress who has worked here for as long as I can remember, is standing by our table, her smile warm. She is genuinely pleased to see us and that helps me to relax. In her hands, she holds a notepad and a pencil. She looks at us both, her eyes flicking back and forth as if she is watching a particularly frenetic game of tennis.

‘Norah, it’s lovely to see you too. Tell you what, I think I’ll have the chicken. What about you, sweetheart? You know what’s safe and what isn’t by now, don’t you?’

I look at the menu, searching for the things that I know are nut-free, thinking how much I would love a vodka and lime but knowing also that Dad wouldn’t approve and also knowing that they wouldn’t serve me. ‘I’ll have the same, thank you.’

Norah smiles and nods, giving us both a sly wink. She continues to stand beside me, her smile now a rictus grin. ‘Any more drinks?’

‘Not for me,’ I say through gritted teeth, thinking of the night I spent in this place trying to get served and being refused because they knew I was underage, Norah continually shaking her head and smiling at me while I pleaded with her like a desperate schoolkid, which is what I actually was. How embarrassing. And I’m still underage. The humiliation is never-ending. Roll on my eighteenth birthday.

‘I’ll have another lemonade, please.’

She eventually leaves, shuffling away to the other side of the restaurant. I let out a sigh and take a swig of my drink, hoping we can now start being more open with one another.