Mum

P.S. What could it be about? As you know, I am not a woman who has enemies. Could it be Helen’s fault?

P.P.S. We had the postholiday blues anyway, especially since your father’s sunburn became infected, and because of this dog business, we are now very “low.” Don’t take this up the “wrong” way but I hope you haven’t got “closure” yet because there would be little enough point in you coming home, we can hardly cheer ourselves up, never mind the likes of you.

And an e-mail had come from Helen.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Burned parent

Mum and Dad back from Algarve. Dad badly sunburned. Looks like Singing Detective. Vay vay funny.

32

My shooting electricity pains woke me up at their usual time—about 5 A.M. Automatically, I popped a couple of painkillers, then lay very still, squeezed my eyes shut, and pretended that I was in bed and Aidan was lying beside me. All I have to do is stretch out my hand and I’ll be able to touch you. You’ll be all warm and sleepy and semitumescent and you’ll wrap your arms and legs around me without fully waking up. My fantasy was so detailed and convincing that I could smell him and almost believed I could hear him breathing. So when I opened my eyes and saw that I wasn’t in bed and the place where Aidan should be was just empty air, a howl escaped me. I sounded like an animal. Curling into myself, I clutched Dogly to my stomach and tried to rock the pain away. When that didn’t work, I turned on the telly. Dallas. Two episodes back-to-back. Who knew?

It ended just after seven. Late enough to get ready for work. I tried not to get there before eight most mornings, but some days I just couldn’t bear lying awake in the apartment and was at my desk by six-thirty.

Staying busy, working hard, trying to stack up the days, that was the key.

Occasionally I could even lose myself in work, I could go into another place where imagination took over and I stopped being me. For a while.

Having said that, it wasn’t all fun and games: there were The Lunches. Even before Aidan had died, I’d dreaded The Lunches. Taking beauty editors out to fancy restaurants was a regular part of my job, I had to do two or three a week and it had always been tricky because of the competitive undereating issue. Sometimes the journalists brought a colleague, so there were even more of us to not eat the one dessert we’d ordered between us. It was like a prizefight: Who would throw the first punch? Who would eat the first forkful? We’d circle one another warily, but as I was the hostess, protocol dictated that it was my job. However, I had to go very easy because if you ate too much, they’d disrespect you.

For the first month of my return I’d been spared The Lunches—not out of any compassion but because my scar was so bad, Ariella didn’t want me out and about. However, thanks to vitamin-E capsules and a heavy-duty concealer, it was now a lot more discreet, so lunches were back on the menu.

The only way I coped was by bringing Brooke with me, at least whenever she was available. She was an absolute bloody godsend, she was. Her incredible talent for graciously putting people at ease managed to obscure my jerky, marionette-like attempts at playing the hostess. She’d dazzle the journo with details of her superglam life, without ever sounding like she was boasting, and I’d try to smile and force clods of food down my reluctant throat. Sometimes—and it happened a bit too often for my liking—I’d forget to eat the first forkful of dessert; the chocolate-cream pie, or whatever we’d ordered, would sit throbbing in the center of the table and eventually Brooke would say, “Well, I don’t know about you girls, but I’m just going to have to try this delicious-looking thing,” thereby letting loose the forks of war.

I forced myself to have a shower, then picked up the phone to ring Aidan’s cell phone and that’s when it happened. I was curled on the chair, preparing for the balm of his voice—but instead of his message, there was a funny beeping noise. Had I called the wrong number? Already I had a presentiment of doom; my hands were shaking so much I could hardly hit the buttons. Holding my breath, praying for everything to be okay, I waited for his voice but all I got was the funny beeping noise again: his cell phone had been cut off.

Because I hadn’t paid the bill.

Until now I’d thought his phone had remained operational as some act of cosmic kindness. But it was simply because he’d paid for his line rental in advance. And now it had been disconnected because I hadn’t paid the bill.

With the exception of the rent on the apartment, I hadn’t paid any bills. Leon and I were meant to talk about my financial situation but Leon hadn’t been able to stop crying long enough for us to do it.

In a breathless panic, I tried Aidan’s office number but someone else—someone who wasn’t him, naturally—answered, “Andrew Russell’s phone.” I hung up. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I felt so dizzy that I thought I might faint. “Now how am I meant to get in touch with you?” I asked the room.

I’d depended on that twice-daily chat, on the twice-daily sound of his voice. Obviously, he hadn’t chatted back to me. But it had helped. It had made me half believe that we were still in regular contact.

The urge to talk to him was suddenly so huge that my body couldn’t contain it. In the space of a second I was drenched in sweat and I had to run to the bathroom to vomit.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed, with me resting my head against the cool porcelain, still too light-headed to get up.

I needed to talk to him. I would have given everything I possessed, I would have been prepared to die myself, just to talk to him for five minutes.

33

I had a second shower, got dressed—in a swirly patterned Pucci dress and jacket from Goodwill—and was so late for work that I called and told Lauryn that I would go straight to my ten-o’clock appointment.

I was sourcing promo items for You Glow Girl! (A highlighter. Nothing more to be said about it. A “soft” launch, i.e., not too much money to spend on it.) With the limited funds available, I was thinking of buying the beauty editors lamps (thereby cleverly picking up on the “glow” theme).

My ten o’clock was with a wholesaler on West Forty-first Street who imported unusual lamps; ones that looked like halos—you clip them onto your mirror and your reflection looks like a saint; wings that go behind your couch, so you look like an angel—if you can position yourself correctly, or red neon ones that say Select Bar, if you wished you lived in Williamsburg.