A pair of red shoes.
Size-seven stilettos, to be precise.
That’s all it takes to derail my morning routine, which was starting to fall apart at the seams anyway. In the seconds before it happens, I’m in the kitchen, throwing a haphazard packed lunch together and keeping one eye on the clock.
Twenty minutes before we absolutely have to leave the house.
There’s still a lot to do. I have to brush Violet’s hair into as neat a ponytail as I can manage. We have to locate her pencil case, jumper and shoes, which have all gone missing in the three days since we bought them. I have to make sure I don’t leave the house wearing my pyjamas and hair like a scarecrow.
A word to the wise: try to get more than two hours of sleep the night before your child’s first day at school.
I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. Everything will be fine. I repeat it in my head like a mantra and let the beat of the words wash over me. Violet will have a lovely day, and nothing will go wrong.
Then, as if fate is determined to prove me wrong, she stomps into the kitchen wearing the red stilettos.
‘Look what I found, Daddy! Can I wear them today?’
When I look up and see her standing in the doorway, her tiny feet barely filling a quarter of the shoes, my heart stops. My hand hovers in mid-air as jam drips off the knife I’m holding, landing in sticky splodges on the kitchen counter.
How the hell did she find those?
‘Can I, Daddy? I like the colour and look how tall I am!’
A lump rises in my throat and for a second, I think I might cry. I step out from behind the island counter and crouch down in front of her, hoping my sadness doesn’t show on my face.
My voice cracks. ‘No, baby, you can’t wear these today.’
Her brow creases and she folds her arms. ‘Why not?’
What is it with kids and the word why? It seems like one day, they latch on to it for dear life and won’t let go, much to their parents’ dismay. When they realise that one simple word can unlock the answers to a whole world of questions, that’s it.
‘Look at them – they’re far too big.’ I gesture to her tiny fairy feet. ‘Did you find the shoes we bought a few days ago, the ones with the butterflies on the front?’
She shakes her head and I let out a frustrated groan. We’re definitely going to be late now, which will earn me a telling-off from Violet’s teacher. At the school’s New Parents’ Day, Miss Thompson made it clear that she wouldn’t tolerate lateness or what she called ‘sloppy standards’. Anything less than military precision wouldn’t wash with her.
‘Go and have another look. I’ll be up to help you in a minute.’
‘But I want to wear these ones!’
I press my hands to my eyes as a headache brews. I sense an almighty tantrum coming, but I hope to God I’m wrong.
‘You’ll fall over in them. So please just go and try to find your proper shoes. Have a look for your jumper and pencil case while you’re at it as well. And try to be quick – we’re running really late.’
‘No! The butterfly ones are too small and make my feet sore.’
Great, now she tells me. This had better just be an excuse not to go and find them; if they’re really too small and she didn’t say anything in the shop, we’re screwed.
‘Are they really too small or are you just kidding? Because remember, the lady in the shop asked you if they fit OK and you said they were fine. She asked you quite a few times before she put them in the box.’
Please God, tell me the shoes are fine and I didn’t spend two hours and thirty-five quid in a stuffy shoe shop on the hottest day of the year for nothing.
Mercifully, she decides to admit defeat. ‘They’re fine, but I like these better because they’re a nice colour. Whose shoes are these? Are they yours?’
I look down at them and a lump forms in my throat. They’ve been languishing at the back of my wardrobe for a long time, yet I can remember the last time their owner wore them as if it were yesterday. I can picture the bright, sunny smile on her face as she danced in loops around the kitchen, tugging at my hands and inviting me to join in. With all my might, I push the memory away. If I let it consume me, we’ll never get out the door.
‘No, they’re not mine.’ I sneak a quick glance at the clock. Time is running out, like it always seems to be, and I still have a jam sandwich to make.
‘Then whose shoes are they, Daddy? “Whose shoes!” That sounds funny.’
She starts giggling and stomping around the kitchen, seemingly forgetting about her lost school shoes. My already fraying nerves become even more strained as potential hazards jump out at me. She could hit her head on the hardwood floor, bang into one of the granite counters, or pick up the jam-covered knife I’ve stupidly left within reach…
‘Dance, Daddy!’
Violet staggers over to me and makes a clumsy, ill-timed grab for my hands, almost slipping over when she lurches forward too quickly, but I manage to save her in time.
‘Watch yourself – you could’ve banged your head!’
‘I know all the planets in the solar system,’ she says, smiling up at me with pride as if nothing happened. ‘Can I tell you them? There’s Earth, Venus, Mars—’
My patience snaps like an overstretched thin piece of elastic.
‘Violet, please! We don’t have time to talk about planets right now. Take those shoes off and go and find the ones with the butterflies on them.’
She looks startled. I didn’t mean to speak so loudly or to sound so on edge. She absolutely loves space and enjoys telling me facts she’s learned from all the documentaries she watches. Normally I let her carry on until she runs out of steam, but today I’m too tired and stressed for a fact marathon.
‘Violet, I—’
I heave a sigh of frustration as she runs off towards the stairs without letting me finish my apology. It’s not even nine yet and everything’s going to shit. This has to be some sort of Evan Harper personal best.
I turn to look at the discarded stilettos and my breath hitches in my chest. Invisible fingers curl round my heart and begin to squeeze. While it’s silent, I close my eyes and picture her. She’s walking towards me, slightly unsteady after too many glasses of wine, with her arms outstretched. Even now, after all this time, she still makes my heart leap. Her honey-blonde waves are falling over her shoulders and her large green eyes are crinkled at the corners from smiling so much.
‘Come on, you,’ she says, lacing her fingers with mine. ‘Stick some music on and dance with me.’
It takes everything I have to open my eyes again. My heart aches and my bones are heavy with grief. That was the last good day before everything changed. Remembering it is always hard.
She should be here on her daughter’s first day of school, but she isn’t.
She should be here telling me not to panic and helping Violet look for her shoes, but she isn’t.
She should be here, wishing her good luck, showering her with kisses and making today seem like a big adventure.
But she isn’t, and I miss her like hell.
Ten minutes later, we still aren’t out the door and my stress levels have reached their peak. The kitchen looks like a bomb has struck it, I’m still not dressed and Violet’s jumper is still missing. We’ve located her shoes and pencil case though, so that’s progress. My sanity has got lost somewhere along the way, but we’re not likely to find that anytime soon. She’s decided now is the perfect time to start a game with her toys and has told me I can’t play because I’m ‘shouty and angry’. Nothing makes you feel like a shitbag quite like being excluded from a child’s game.
To make matters worse, my phone is ringing, and I don’t know where it is.
‘Violet, come on! We have to leave in a few minutes,’ I yell as I head down the hall, trying to follow the noise. No wonder she called me ‘shouty and angry’ – I’ve done nothing but shout since I found out I’d slept through my alarm. Actually, it was two alarms, set fifteen minutes apart.
I hear movements upstairs and hope she’s putting her toys away rather than starting a new game. If I can get us out the door without spontaneously combusting, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.
My phone rings again and this time, I figure out where it’s coming from: it’s wedged between the sofa cushions in the living room.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Harper? This is Jean from the Fraser Robertson Funeral Parlour. Sorry to call so early, but as you’re a previous customer of ours, I’m phoning to ask if we could conduct a short feedback survey. We’re updating our website and if you could give us a couple of sentences to add to our testimonials section, that would be great.’
I take the phone away from my ear and frown at it. Have I just heard this woman correctly? She wants to do the whole ‘how was it for you’ thing about my wife’s bloody funeral, two years after it happened?
‘I’m sorry, but now really isn’t a good time. I have to get my daughter ready for school.’
Jean isn’t about to give up that easily though. ‘Just a couple of quick questions, Mr Harper, please. It would help us to improve our service. First of all, were you satisfied with the service we provided?’
I sigh and roll my eyes. Bugger it, I’ll play along for a couple of minutes. We’re going to be late anyway.
‘To be honest, I was too busy grieving for my wife to notice what the service was like. The flowers were nice, but there was a bit of a mix-up with the song choices. We ended up listening to “Good Riddance” by Green Day instead of “You Send Me” by Sam Cooke, and a lot of people thought it was in poor taste.’
Jean is silent for a moment as she digests what I’ve just said. There are various attempts at an apology, but they all seem to die on her tongue. Appropriate really, since this is the most bizarre conversation about death I’ve ever had.
‘Don’t worry, it was totally my fault,’ I assure her. ‘The sound system at the church blew a fuse, so I tried to play the song off my phone and messed the whole thing up. It was the only laugh we got all day, actually. Claire would’ve loved it.’
Another couple of questions follow – How supported did I feel during the planning process? Were Claire’s wishes carried out as I wanted? – and I answer them as best I can without actually thinking about the day of the funeral.
Once Jean has everything she needs, she thanks me for my time and hangs up. Just as I’m about to call Violet downstairs, my phone rings again. Without thinking, I accept the call, assuming Jean forgot to ask an important question about the sausage rolls we had at the buffet or the stern expression on the chief mourner’s face.
‘Look, Jean, I know you’re trying to improve your website, but I really don’t know what more I can tell you.’
‘Guess who?’
My back straightens and I only just manage to resist the urge to hang up immediately. It’s been a while since I heard that voice.
It belongs to my best friend in the whole world. At least she used to be.
‘Hannah.’
‘Got it in one.’ She either hasn’t picked up on the fact that I’m not pleased she called, or she doesn’t care. Both are equally likely. ‘Guess where I am right now?’
‘Well the last time you remembered to get in touch, it was Sri Lanka. But since that was, what, four months ago you could be anywhere. I’m going to go with somewhere in the Arctic Circle.’
‘Indonesia, actually. And it was amazing, but I decided to come home for a while. Got into Edinburgh Airport about an hour and a half ago. Are you free later? We need to talk.’
Typical Hannah: she breezes in from wherever she’s been on her travels and expects everyone’s plans to fit in with her. I’d give her a piece of my mind if I weren’t so bloody exhausted.
‘Let me guess, some guy’s followed you home and you need me to get rid of him again. Who is it this time? Has Beau, the over-privileged yoga instructor, made a comeback? Or is it Julio, the language student?’
The last thing I need is another showdown with one of Hannah’s boyfriends. She falls hook, line and sinker for them before realising too late that they’re absolute arseholes who aren’t worth her time.
‘No, not this time, smartarse.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but I can’t see you today. I’ve got to take Violet to school, then I’m going to work. It’ll have to be another day.’
A silence stretches between us and discomfort sets in. Hannah’s never quiet; she’s always a bundle of fun, excitement and noise. That’s why Violet loves her so much. People are drawn into her one-woman carnival and want to be part of her world.
‘Look Evan, I’m trying to be nice here so let’s park the bullshit for a minute. I won’t take up a lot of your time and I’m not looking for an argument. Let’s just have a coffee and catch-up. It’s been too long and there are things I need to say.’
I close my eyes in resignation. She won’t take no for an answer.
‘Fine. I’ve got a tour right after I drop Violet off, but I can be free after that.’
‘Great. Text me when you’re finished, and I’ll meet you at Costa on George Street,’ Hannah says before hurrying through a goodbye.
I stare at the phone for a few seconds, frowning. As far as I knew, Hannah was having the time of her life travelling. So why is she coming back to the city she was so desperate to get away from?