He rolled his eyes and laughed. ‘No, I’m saying she was more trouble. More work.’
I shouldn’t be thrilled by this; it’s verging on the misogynistic view that all women are mad if they are deep, that they are trouble if they feel. But this confession – this total honesty – was a relief. The thing is, dating Matthew is wonderful, but negotiating the presence of a dead ex is a new experience for me, and oddly a little tricker than negotiating the presence of a live one. A dead wife can do no wrong. I’ve learnt to live with the fact that dating at my age means there is usually a significant ex lurking in the background; often there are children and even ex-in-laws to contend with. Normally I can rationalise, accommodate, understand. If they were happy with the ex, they’d still be with the ex; as they are not, they can’t have been happy. In this way, even a divorcee can be viewed as a clean slate. A fair chance. However, it’s not the same if the spouse died. In Matthew and Becky’s case, they’d still be together if they could be. I’m second choice, not a second chance. I’m make do and mend. I’m cross with myself for having these thoughts, which are self-indulgent, absurd. But I have them all the same.
I was glad I’d kept them to myself when he added with a grin, ‘I’m much more of an actions-speak-louder-than-words sort of person too.’ Then he slipped his hand up my skirt and his fingers quickly edged my knickers to the side. I felt things for sure at that point, real and physical things. I don’t know if she ever felt the same things. For a few minutes, I just didn’t care.
It’s been a while since I’ve dated and longer still since either of my friends have, so it would be mean to stint on the details. I tell them how we met, and all about the fun and varied dates. I show them his website. They’re impressed by his work and the photograph of him.
‘Oh, very nice,’ says Heidi. She says ‘nice’ in a way that sounds dirty. We all laugh loudly, drawing the eyes and attention of others in the bar as we’re so joyful and raucous.
Gina adds, ‘He looks gorgeous.’ She rolls the word playfully around her mouth. I tell them that he not only looks gorgeous, he is gorgeous.
‘How so?’ asks Heidi, her interest pricked. I’ve never been the sort to wax lyrical about relationships. I’m normally cautious, not especially optimistic. Matthew has got under my skin in an unusual way. In a good way.
‘He’s thoughtful. Reliable,’ I reply happily. ‘He texts when he says he will, and he calls more often than texting anyway.’
The calls are sometimes long and rambling getting-to-know-you chats. Charged with glee that it is going so well and fear that it might go wrong. Other calls are more prosaic, centred around who is picking up supper. We’ve catapulted at a rate of knots into a steady relationship. No games. No miscommunication. No second-guessing.
‘He’s so straightforward,’ I tell my friends. ‘So wonderfully uncomplicated.’ I’m grinning broadly. I perhaps do too good a job of making him sound brilliant, because Gina and Heidi look for the catch. Gina asks, ‘Is he married?’
‘No.’
‘Really, though?’ probes Heidi. ‘You can tell us.’
‘We won’t judge,’ Gina assures me.
‘We will, but with a level of compassion, keeping in mind your previous good character,’ clarifies Heidi.
‘He is not married.’
‘So divorced then, with kids. A Kardashian-size family, and each and every one of them a nightmare?’
‘No.’
‘How old did you say he was?’
I hadn’t. ‘Thirty-six,’ I admit.
‘So this is a non-exclusive thing, then? Considering his age, he must have a harem of hopefuls,’ says Heidi.
‘No, he’s all in. He’s explicitly said as much.’ I can’t help grinning.
Heidi narrows her eyes, suspicious. ‘Solvent?’
‘Not wealthy, but doing fine.’
‘His own hair and teeth?’
I laugh and nod but feel a throb in the back of my head. Of course, they’re right, there is a catch.
‘He’s a widower,’ I announce.
‘His wife’s dead?’
‘Yeah, that’s what it means, Gina.’
She blushes and looks uncomfortable. ‘No, I know. Obviously. I’m just saying, you don’t expect it, do you?’
I shake my head. No, we don’t expect it here in the buzzy, busy pub. We’re a generation brought up on a constant stream of affirmations that insist happiness is within our grasp, that it will be ours if we are simply kind or focused or drink enough oat milk lattes, but the truth is, life can be horrible. Sad. Obviously, I’ve known this longer than most. It always surprises me when other people expect life to be forever fair and fun. It seems so naive.
‘How long were they married?’ asks Heidi.
‘Ten years. They were together six before that.’
‘Wow, that’s a long time, and since they were young.’
‘Yes.’
‘That takes some getting over,’ chips in Gina.
‘If you ever get over it,’ points out Heidi.
They both look at me with concern. I know what they’re thinking. They’re worried for me now. They’re already making assumptions, judgements, drawing the conclusion that I’ll never be the love of his life. The dead wife, the first wife, will always hold that position.
‘I think he’s focused on getting on with it. That’s the most he can do,’ I say, determined to fill my usual space, that of being sensible.
‘When did he lose her?’ asks Gina.
I inwardly roll my eyes at the expression. Matthew didn’t mislay Becky, like a pair of reading glasses or a wallet. She died. I am not a fan of the euphemisms that people sink into around death. I try not to show any prickliness when I answer. ‘Ten months ago.’ I know what’s coming.
