Julian couldn’t quite believe that Mary was sitting in his cottage, next to the fire, drinking tea. He scrunched his eyes up really small, to make his vision go blurry, and it was just like they were back in the nineties, before everything had gone wrong. Keith wasn’t quite as happy about the situation, though; Mary was sitting in his chair.
Mary had come round to collect some of her things. She’d taken very little, saying it wasn’t good to immerse yourself too much in the past. This was a new concept for Julian. He steeled himself to have the conversation he knew was necessary. If he didn’t do it now, she’d be gone, and he might never find the right moment again.
“I’m sorry about the whole death thing, Mary,” he said, not sure if that had come out quite right. “I honestly didn’t see it as lying. I’d spent so many years imagining you dead that I’d started to think it was actually true.”
“I believe you, Julian. But why? Why kill me off in the first place?”
“It was easier than facing up to the truth, I suppose. What I should have done, obviously, is spend every hour of the day trying to track you down and make amends. But that would have meant facing up to how awful I’d been, and risking more rejection, so I . . . didn’t,” he said, staring into his cup of tea.
“Out of interest,” said Mary, with a slight smile, “how did I die?”
“Oh, I toyed with a few different versions over the years. For a while, you’d been hit by the number 14 bus on your way home from buying groceries at the market on the North End Road. The road outside the studios had been strewn with apricots and cherries.”
“Dramatic!” said Mary. “Although not terribly fair on the bus driver. What else?”
“A particularly rare, but aggressive, form of cancer. I nursed you heroically through your final months, but there’d been nothing I could do to save you,” he said.
“Mmm. Unlikely. You’d make the most terrible nurse. You’ve never been good with illness.”
“Fair point. I’m quite proud of my latest version, actually. You were caught up in a shootout between rival drug gangs. You’d been trying to help a young man who’d been stabbed and was bleeding out on the pavement, but you had been killed for your kindness.”
“Ooh, I like that one best. It makes me sound like a real heroine. Just make sure I was shot right through the heart. I don’t want a slow, painful end,” she said. “By the way, Julian.” Julian didn’t like it when Mary started sentences with by the way. Whatever followed was never casual. “On my way here I bumped into one of your neighbors. Patricia, I think she was called. She told me about the freehold, about wanting to sell up.”
Julian sighed. He felt like he used to in the old days, when Mary caught him out doing something unsavory.
“Oh God, they’ve been badgering me about that for months, Mary. But how can I sell? Where would I go? What about all this?” He gestured expansively at all the possessions crowded into his living room.
“It’s just stuff, Julian. You might find that, without it, you’ll feel liberated! It’d be a new start, a new life. That’s how it felt for me, leaving all this behind.” Julian tried not to bristle at the thought of Mary feeling “liberated” from him.
“But there are so many memories, Mary. My old friends are all here. You’re here,” he said.
“But I’m not here, Julian. I’m in Lewes. And I’m very happy. And you’re welcome to come and visit us, any time you like. All these things, all these memories, they’re just suffocating you, keeping you stuck in the past. You have new friends now, and home is wherever they are. You could buy a new apartment and start afresh. Imagine that,” she said, staring at him intently.
Julian pictured himself in an apartment like the one Hazard lived in, where he’d gone for tea the week before. All those big windows, clean lines, and clear surfaces. Underfloor heating. Pots filled with white orchids. Dimmer switches. The thought of himself somewhere like that was totally bizarre yet also strangely thrilling. Did he have the courage to clamber out of his rut at the age of seventy-nine? Or eighty-four. Whatever.
“Anyhow,” Mary continued, “selling would be the right thing to do. It’s not fair to your neighbors to hold out. You’re messing up a lot of lives. Isn’t it time you thought about other people, Julian, and did the honorable thing?”
Julian knew she was right. Mary was always right.
“Listen, I have someone else I need to see, so I’m going to leave you to think about it. Promise me you’ll do that?” said Mary as she leaned forward to give him a hug and planted a dry kiss on his cheek.
“OK, Mary,” he said. And he meant it.
JULIAN KNOCKED ON the door of number 4. The door swung open to reveal an imposing woman with her hands on her hips and an inquisitive, but not friendly, expression.
They both waited for someone else to speak. Julian cracked first. He loathed an unfilled silence.
“Mrs. Arbuckle,” he said, “I believe you’ve been wanting to speak to me.”
“Well, yes,” she replied, “for the last eight months. Why are you here now?” She spanned the word now out for several beats.
“I’ve decided to sell,” he said. Patricia Arbuckle unfolded her arms and let out a long breath, like an airbag deflating.
“Well, I never,” she said. “You’d better come in. What changed your mind?”
“Well, it’s important to do the right thing,” said Julian, thinking that saying his new mantra aloud might help him to stick with his resolutions, “and selling is doing the right thing. The rest of you have years ahead of you, and I can’t be the one to rob you of your nest eggs. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to accept it.”
“It’s never too late, Mr. Jessop. Julian,” said Patricia, looking positively cheerful.
“You’re not the first person to say that to me recently,” said Julian.