‘So what do you think?’
‘It’s very different.’
‘You don’t like it.’
‘No, I do like it, it’s just . . .’ I search around for the right word, but none of them seem to do it justice. ‘It’s kind of . . . outrageous.’
It’s as if I just paid her the highest compliment. Cricket’s face lights up like her Christmas tree. ‘Why thank you, Nell, that’s so very kind of you to say.’
It’s Wednesday evening and we’re standing in the doorway of her living room, surveying the newly painted walls of her new flat. A dark inky shade covers the far wall and chimney breast, highlighting the white marble fireplace and crimson velvet sofa, while the ceiling is painted a burnished copper.
It’s not how you’d expect an eighty-something to redecorate her flat, but then Cricket isn’t exactly your typical eighty-something.
‘I wanted something completely different to the old house.’
‘Well, it’s certainly that.’
‘Top up?’
‘Yes, please.’
She reaches for the bottle of champagne I brought over as a flat-warming present, and refills our glasses. I did think about prosecco; even with the extra money from the play I can’t really afford champagne, but there are certain times in your life when only champagne will do, and this is one of them. I’m so proud of my friend and the courage she’s shown in navigating this new chapter of her life, and it needs to be celebrated properly with Veuve Clicquot.
‘I think Monty would’ve approved,’ she says, as we make ourselves comfortable on the sofa.
‘Of the paint or the champagne?’
‘Both,’ she smiles, taking a sip of the ice-cold bubbles. ‘Oh, did I tell you Christopher is wildly excited about staging his new play?’
‘Only about half a dozen times,’ I grin, and she laughs.
Christopher is a revered theatre director and was one of Monty’s oldest friends and colleagues. Cricket sent him my finished script a few days ago, and within hours he was on the phone to her, ‘begging’ to cast it. I think ‘begging’ is a bit of an exaggeration on Cricket’s part, but still, it’s very exciting news. Not to mention a huge relief on my part.
Ever since Cricket asked me to edit Monty’s play, I’ve been so worried that I wasn’t up to the job. With most of the third act just a mass of scribbled notes, I’ve had visions of this being a complete disaster. Letting Cricket down would have been one thing, especially when she’s put so much faith in me, but I certainly didn’t want to damage Monty’s reputation as a playwright by not doing this play justice. Not to mention making a complete fool of myself.
But apart from a few suggested edits from Christopher, he’s been thrilled with the result. And it’s made me realize that I underestimate myself. I think so many of us do. When Dad nearly died, it made me realize I’m a lot stronger than I ever thought I was. It’s just a shame it’s taken me this long to find out.
‘He wants to secure funding so he can start casting in the New Year.’
‘Wow, that’s fantastic!’
‘Isn’t it?’ Her face is animated, and then her mind goes somewhere else and her smile slips. ‘Oh, I do wish Monty were here to see all of this.’
It comes out, loosened no doubt by the champagne, but I know she thinks this a dozen times a day. Mostly it just goes by unspoken. I knew it before, but since we came so close to losing Dad, her loss has an added resonance.
‘You know, I was worried how I was going to feel, leaving the old house,’ she admits, looking across at me now. ‘When the removal van left, I walked around all the empty rooms remembering how Monty and I had walked around those empty rooms together when we first moved in . . . and it didn’t feel like thirty or more years had passed . . . it felt like the blink of an eye . . .’
I see her fingers tighten on the stem of her glass, the light catching the bubbles that are fizzing to the surface.
‘The estate agent was waiting outside, and I gave him the keys and got in a cab . . . and as I drove away, I actually felt fine. And I kept feeling fine. Even when I spent my first night alone here in the flat. I kept expecting this wave of grief to hijack me, but . . . no . . . nothing.’ She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘I put it down to being so busy, what with my meetings with the council for the new little library scheme, and Monty’s play. I didn’t have time to feel sad—’
For a moment her words seem to hang there as she contemplates them.
‘Then a few days later I went to get a Christmas tree. I wasn’t going to bother. After all, it’s only me and it seemed a terrible fuss . . . but Monty loved Christmas, especially getting the tree.’
She smiles now. It’s one of those vague smiles of affection when you remember something amusing from the past.
‘He’d spend an entire evening carefully positioning the baubles and lights, standing back each time to check and admire his work . . .’
‘You didn’t help?’
Cricket gives a look of mock horror. ‘Goodness no, I was never allowed to touch it. Once I made the fatal mistake of adding a bit of tinsel . . .’
I laugh as she mimes Monty having a fit of panic.
‘So anyway, like I said, I got a tree.’
We both look across at the six-foot Christmas tree, heavily decorated and sparkling with lights.
‘It’s a very nice tree,’ I enthuse.
Cricket tilts her head to one side as if weighing it up. ‘I was determined I was going to make this the perfect tree. I wanted to make Monty proud . . .’ She pauses, and I notice that her eyes are glistening.
‘So I started with the lights, just like he showed me, but they were all tangled . . . and the harder I tried, the more knotted they got . . . and I couldn’t unravel them –’ and now her voice is breaking – ‘and I raged against him for leaving me with these bloody tangled Christmas tree lights . . .’
A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek.
‘And then I started crying in frustration, and once I started I couldn’t stop . . . not because of those stupid lights but because he’s gone and I’m still here, and this isn’t how it was supposed to be, this isn’t what we planned.’
She sniffs hard, rubbing her cheek, and it’s so difficult not to try and offer up some well-meaning words of comfort, but I don’t want to offend her by trying. Because nothing is going to give her comfort and nothing is going to make it better, and I’m not going to insult her by pretending otherwise.
‘It fucking sucks,’ I say.
Because that’s the truth. Because she needs her grief to be acknowledged. And because as a friend that’s all I can hope to do.
‘It fucking sucks,’ she nods.
I might not have lost my husband, but I know about loss and having to start over.
‘It’s going to be a year in January.’
Cricket is talking about Monty’s death, but at the mention of the date I’m reminded of its significance in my own life. Has it really been nearly a whole year since I moved into Edward’s flat? Since I sat on my bed, surrounded by suitcases, and swore to myself that by this time next year I’d turn my whole life around?
‘It’s true what they say: life does go on and joy does return, and often it’s in the most unexpected of places,’ she continues, ‘but you never get over losing someone; you just get better at coping with it.’
I gesture towards the tree. ‘You untangled them in the end,’ I say, thinking how symbolic this is.
‘Like hell I did,’ she snorts, and flashes me a smile. ‘I threw the bloody things away and bought new ones.’
I’m grateful for: