‘Are you sure?’
Greer nods.
‘You’re not scared?’
She shakes her head, then smiles. ‘Well, maybe just a little. But what’s the worst that can happen? I’m already dead.’
‘Hey,’ Finn says, ‘you joke, but there’s a lot worse pain than death. Hell, death is a mercy in some cases.’
Greer regards him. ‘Are you trying to talk me out of it?’
‘Oh no,’ Finn exclaims, realising his mistake. ‘I was speaking abstractly. Not about us. This will be fine. This, I’m imagining, will be wonderful.’
Greer remembers what happened with Edward and only hopes that Finn’s right, that he won’t be about to suffer in the same way. ‘So, how’s it going to work?’
Finn only pretends to consider this question. Truthfully, he’s been thinking about it every night since the day he first suggested it. ‘Well, I figure, I’ll play and then, when you’re ready, you just step inside me. Like you did with the tree in my garden.’
‘I like the way you say that, so cavalier, so casual,’ Greer says with a smile. Then, all of a sudden, she worries that, for some reason, Finn might have an even more extreme reaction than Edward. After all, what if he has a weak heart, or something of that nature? ‘But, what if something awful happens?’
Finn frowns. ‘Like what?’
‘Like you die of a heart attack or something like that.’
Finn shrugs. ‘So, then I’ll have a heart attack and we’ll both be dead. We’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Nothing to lose? You’d be dead.’
Finn shrugs again. ‘We’d still be together, though. That’s all that matters.’
‘I’m not sure it works that way,’ Greer says. ‘I don’t think all dead people come back as ghosts. I don’t know that we’d be able to find each other. I don’t know how it works, I’m no expert on the afterlife.’
‘No expert? You’re living the afterlife. Or, not exactly “living” it, but you know …’
Greer laughs. ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t make me an expert. I don’t know how it works in the grand scheme of things, I don’t know—’
Finn holds up a hand. ‘Okay, enough! Enough procrastinating with ridiculous reasons—’
‘—hardly ridiculous,’ Greer objects.
‘I don’t care. Let’s just do it and see. You promised you would.’
Greer sighs, reasoning that he probably won’t die. ‘All right, then. But, since this is such a risky endeavour, this means you have to play in a park tomorrow too, and—’
‘Hey! No renegotiating of the terms,’ Finn protests. ‘That’s not fair.’
Greer smiles. ‘I know, but still, worth a try.’
‘You really are a cheeky minx.’
‘That reminds me,’ Greer says. ‘Did I mention, Edward invited you round for lunch on Sunday?’
‘Did you mention?’ Finn sits up straight. ‘No, you certainly did not.’
‘I know,’ Greer says. ‘But, apparently, he heard you play – see, I told you it was a brilliant idea, didn’t I? – and then—’
‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want to beat me up?’
‘No, quite the opposite, in fact. Bizarrely, he seems to be really looking forward to meeting you properly.’
‘That is bizarre. But great, I mean …’ Finn frowns. ‘Hold on a sec, is this another sneaky distraction technique designed to throw me off my game and make me forget about what we were about to do?’
‘No! Of course not. I wasn’t lying. What do you take me for?’
Finn raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve already warned me that you stop at nothing.’
‘Yes,’ Greer admits, ‘true. But I draw the line at lying. Even I have my moral standards.’
Finn eyes her. ‘Do you? But still, why are we talking about your husband when we’re about to try making love for the first time?’
Greer holds up her hands. ‘Okay, you’re right, bad timing. Chalk it up to a fear of intimacy – and death.’
‘But you’re already dead, I thought we’d established that.’
‘Not my death, silly, yours.’
‘All right, okay, well, as I’ve said, that doesn’t matter.’ Finn stands. ‘Now, I’m going to go and get my violin, before you can come up with any other cunning diversion tactics.’
‘Wait!’
Finn turns back. ‘What now?’
‘One more thing. I wasn’t totally telling the truth, at least, not the whole truth. The reason I brought it all up, the death thing, well … I sort of kissed my husband.’
Finn frowns. ‘What?’
‘Well, he kissed me. And then, sort of accidentally, sort of on purpose, he stepped inside me.’
Finn’s frown deepens. ‘He did?’
Greer gives a little nod.
‘Did you try to stop him?’
‘It was over really quickly,’ Greer says. ‘But no, I didn’t.’
Finn narrows his eyes. ‘How did it feel?’
‘How did it feel?’
Finn nods.
‘Well, he got a huge headache and I didn’t feel anything.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, not really. It was rather similar to walking through the tree.’
‘Oh,’ Finn says, then he smiles.
‘You’re not angry?’
‘No. Hell, he’s your husband. I don’t blame the man for wanting to try. But, at least this way, he won’t try again. And, anyway, it’s a good sign. A sign that you’re not meant to be.’
‘You don’t worry that it might be the same for us too?’
Finn shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t. Not in a million years.’
He chooses Mozart. The Marriage of Figaro. He builds slowly, drawing Greer in, winding long silky ribbons of music around her as she listens, pulling her towards him. When she stands and steps forward, Finn plunges into the greatest aria ever written. The notes soar high and strong above their heads, the strength of the music tugging at their hearts and pulling them towards each other. When she steps into him, for a split second Finn stops. It’s as if he has plunged into a waterfall on a blistering day, cool rivulets running down his scorching skin, as if he’s breathing in the softest, sweetest scent he’s ever smelt and it’s seeping into every cell of his body, as if he’s free-falling through the air with all the beauty of the world beneath him … And then, Finn doesn’t know what he plays. It’s a wonder, in fact, that he manages to keep playing at all, since the sensation of having Greer within him is so intense, so extraordinary, that he might forget to breathe. It’s quite unlike any physical pleasure he’s ever felt before while, at the same time, being an infinite magnification of every orgasm he’s ever experienced – as if he’s standing in the centre of a firework display, as if he is every firework, exploding with joy, over and over again.
Finn finally drops his violin, just as Greer steps out of his body. She shakes herself off and floats above the floor, bathed in a beatific smile.
‘So,’ Greer says, ‘was it wonderful for you? Because it was pretty bloody wonderful for me.’
Finn collapses on the sofa and gives a slight shake of his head.
‘No headache?’
‘No,’ he says, his voice barely a whisper. ‘And, I mean, it wasn’t wonderful for me. It was the most magnificent, most glorious, most sublime experience of my life.’
Greer smiles.
‘In that case,’ she says. ‘Shall we do it again?’
Finn manages a slight nod.
‘And, perhaps,’ she suggests, ‘like physical sex, it gets even better with practice.’
Finn closes his eyes and sighs.
The day after she received Ross’s letter, Ava signs up to take an introductory course in grief counselling. Five days after that, she attends his funeral. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it had been a rather uplifting affair, considering. Ross’s friends, all the people who knew him – of whom there were, also unsurprisingly, a very large number – were keen to celebrate his life with great gusto and cheer. Eulogies were filled with jokes and loving anecdotes. Swing music was played. Pop songs were sung.
And yet, underneath all the cheer ran an undeniable river of grief. Ava inhaled the breath of over five hundred hearts heavy with sorrow and, by the time she’s shuffling home, she feels so heavy with mourning that she can barely put one foot in front of the other. On her doorstep, she fumbles with the key and drops it into the rose bush next to her door.
‘Oh, hello.’
Ava turns to see a man she vaguely recognises, wearing a very smart suit and carrying a briefcase. It comes to her, through the fog of her sorrow, that he lives on her street.
‘Hello,’ she says, beginning to scrabble about among the leaves, trying not to get pricked by the thorns, hoping the man won’t linger.
‘Can I help?’ he asks.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’
Not seeming to hear, Edward walks over, puts his briefcase down on her doorstep and starts to help Ava search.
‘Ouch!’ Edward sucks his thumb. Then he laughs.
Ava looks up at him. Her sight is still hazy through the fog of sorrow, but even she can’t deny that her neighbour is really rather handsome. Something stirs inside Ava and, all of a sudden, she desires nothing more, nothing else, but sex. With this stranger. A fling. She wants to be flung. Preferably, with great gusto and passion onto her own bed. The desire is so sudden and so surprising that Ava is rather caught off guard. She’s read somewhere that people often want to have sex after (and even during) funerals. Something to do with death and the reaffirmation of life. But, whatever the reasoning, she wonders if, by any chance, he might want the same thing. The way he looks back at her, she thinks she might just be in luck.
‘I don’t suppose …’
‘What?’
‘You might, you fancy coming in for a drink?’
Edward gazes at her. ‘I, um, I know we only live a few doors away but I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.’
She reaches out her hand. ‘Ava.’
‘Edward.’
‘Nice to meet you. Now, how about that drink?’
‘Well, um, I was … Yes, of course, I’d love to.’
‘Great.’ Ava looks down into the rose bush once more and there is the key, caught by the fading summer sunlight, glinting up at her. She picks it up and unlocks the door. And then, she laughs. A pure, sweet, lovely sound that catches the breeze and lifts them both up.
‘What?’ Edward asks.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Ava says. ‘I just realised something. I can say: This is what Ross would have wanted.’ She giggles again.
‘Who’s Ross? He’s not your husband, is he?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ava says. ‘Just a very dear friend.’