Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘Yes.’

‘And on the other is my trust.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m keeping faith. I’m not abandoning him.’

I waited for Fergus to say that he was dead, but he didn’t. He said, ‘I see,’ and picked up his mug again, staring at me over the rim. ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Good, I mean, if it lets you come to terms with what’s happened.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Because what has happened?’

Fergus frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, so it stood on end, giving him the look of a sad clown. He dipped his finger into his coffee and licked it. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking, Ellie?’ he said eventually.

‘When you were doing work for him, in the office, did you see any sign that he was… you know – involved?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. That doesn’t mean -’

I interrupted what I knew he was going to say. ‘Look, Fergus, Greg died with another woman. But he wasn’t having an affair with her. He wasn’t. OK? So, what were they doing together? That’s the question, isn’t it? For a start there are other possibilities.’ Fergus looked at me and didn’t speak. ‘Just off the top of my head she might have been a hitchhiker.’

Fergus thought for a moment. ‘Not wanting to be a devil’s advocate, but this woman -’

‘Milena Livingstone.’

‘She was some sort of businesswoman, no?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Do they tend to hitchhike? In London?’

‘Or just some business contact.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That he was giving a lift to.’

‘All right.’

‘So you believe him?’

‘Ellie, he’s not here to believe. Your husband – my best friend, the man we both loved and miss like hell – is dead. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? It’s as if by somehow persuading yourself that he wasn’t fucking another woman, he won’t be dead after all. You’ll go mad if you keep on like this.’

‘You only think that because you believe I’m wrong, deluding myself, and that Greg was unfaithful to me.’

‘You’re never going to find out what happened,’ he said wearily.

I should have kept a tally of how many times that had been said to me. ‘I trust him,’ I said. ‘That’s enough for me. The toast is burning, by the way.’

At Sunday lunch with Joe, Alison and one of their three children, Becky, who had her father’s blue stare, her mother’s pallor and reticence, I repeated what I’d said to Fergus. It was harder in front of three people. I sounded forced and over-insistent. I saw Joe’s shoulders sag, and I saw him throw a helpless glance at Alison before he turned to me, a lettuce leaf dangling from his fork. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said.

‘I know what that means,’ I said. ‘Sweetheart. It means you’re going to tell me very patiently why you think I’m behaving in a wrong-headed and self-destructive way. You’re going to tell me I’ll never find out the truth and must learn to live with that uncertainty and move on. And probably you’ll tell me this is a form of grieving.’

‘That’s pretty much it, yes. And that we love you and want to help in any way we can.’

‘Do you want to put the kettle on, Becky?’ Alison said, in a mild tone. ‘I’ll get the cheese.’

‘You don’t need to be tactful, Alison.’ I smiled at her. ‘We’ve known each other too long and too well for that. It’s fine. I’m fine. Really. I just thought you should know that Greg wasn’t being unfaithful.’

‘Good.’

‘It would be better if someone believed me.’

The man stood on my doorstep, barely visible behind the battered wooden rocking-chair he was holding.

‘Terry Long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the chair for you.’ He looked at me expectantly.

‘I don’t -’ I began.

‘For my wife. It’s her Christmas present. You said you’d repair it for us. It’s a bit of a mess, as you see. It was her grandfather’s, though, so it has sentimental value.’

‘There’s been a mistake.’

‘I called you at the beginning of September. You said it would be fine.’

‘Things have changed,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking on new work.’

‘But you said…’ His face had hardened. He put the chair on the ground, and it rocked gently between us, making a clicking sound. One of its runners was badly damaged. ‘You can’t just let people down like that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s it? You’re sorry?’

‘I’m very sorry. I just can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry.’ I kept repeating the word: sorry, sorry, sorry. In the end he went, leaving the broken chair behind. Even his back looked angry.

I picked up the rocking-chair, shut the door, and went through the house and into the garden where I unlocked my shed; the door was reinforced and there had been three padlocks on it since the time a year ago when a gang of youths had broken into it and stolen some of my tools. Inside, there were several ladder-backed chairs, a corner cupboard in dark oak, a lovely little ash cabinet without a back, a carved chest with an ugly gash along its lid and scars where some of its raised designs had been, and a Georgian desk. They were waiting for my attention. I went in, without turning on the light, and ran my finger across the wooden surfaces. Even though I hadn’t been in there for days and days, there was still the wonderful smell of sawdust and wax. Curls of planed wood lay on the floor. I squatted, picked up a pale rind and fingered it for a while, wondering if I’d ever come back to work here again.

Greg and I had argued about stupid things. Whose turn it was to empty the rubbish bin. Why he didn’t rinse the basin after he’d shaved. Why I didn’t know how irritating it was when I cleaned up around him, huffing just loudly enough so that he’d hear me. When he interrupted me in the middle of a sentence. When I’d used up all the hot water. We argued about clothes that shrank in the wash, botched arrangements, overcooked pasta and burnt toast, careless words, trivial matters of mess and mismanagement. We never fell out over the big things, like God or war, deceit or jealousy. We hadn’t had long enough together for that.

‘So you don’t believe me?’

Mary and I were walking on the Heath. It was cool and grey, the wind carrying a hint of rain. Our feet shuffled through drifts of damp leaves. Robin, her one-year-old, was in a carrier on her back; he was asleep and his bald, smooth head bobbed and lolled on her neck as we walked. His pouchy body swung with each step Mary took.

‘I didn’t say that. Not exactly. I said…’

‘You said, “Men are such bastards.”’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that men are such bastards. Look, Ellie, Greg was lovely.’

‘But?’

‘But he wasn’t a saint. Most men stray if they get the chance.’

‘Stray?’ I said. I was beginning to feel angry and rattled. ‘Like a sheep that’s got out of its field?’

‘It’s all about opportunity and temptation. This Milena probably made the first move.’

‘This Milena didn’t have anything to do with him. Or him with her.’

Suddenly Mary stopped. Her cheeks were blotchy in the cold. Over her shoulder Robin’s eyes opened blearily, then closed again. A thread of saliva worked its way down his chin.

‘You don’t believe what you’re saying, do you?’ she said. ‘Not really.’

‘Yes, I do. Though you clearly don’t.’

‘Because I don’t agree with you, it doesn’t mean I’m not on your side. Are you trying to push us all away? It’s rotten, what’s happened. Really horrible. I have no idea how I’d be dealing with it in your situation. Listen, though.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘I do have a bit of an understanding of what you’re going through. You know Eric? Well, obviously you know Eric. You know what happened just after Robin was born – and when I say “just after”, that’s what I mean. Three and a half weeks, to be precise.’