Helen
My wife.
The words smacked me in the temples, and my heart was racing. His wife.
He had a wife. And she was dead.
“I didn’t know…” I took a breath. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry… I’m really sorry… I shouldn’t have pushed… I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s ok, Helen. I rarely talk about it, grief often makes those around us feel uncomfortable, even with the very best intentions, so I keep it to myself. Anna was full of life, and soul, and spirit. I prefer to remember her that way rather than dwell on her death. That’s often been a lot easier in theory than in practice, of course.”
“Please don’t think I’m uncomfortable, please don’t.” A brave hand reached out for his and squeezed it tight. He curled his fingers around mine and didn’t pull away. “You can talk, if you need to. If you want to… I’m a good listener, I think. I hope.”
“You are a good listener,” he said. “You have an intuitive soul and you see more than you say. It’s a good quality, don’t ever lose it.”
“When did she… um… when did she pass?”
“Some days it feels like she was here yesterday, other days it feels like a lifetime ago. In reality, it’ll be nine years this coming January.”
“That’s so sad.” “Yes, it is.”
I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to say, trying to find the right words, words that would help me scoop his soul out of him – all the pain and the loss and the broken pieces – and lay them all out on the bench between us and love those pieces until they were better again.
But they would never be better again. How could something like that ever be better again?
I felt like a stupid teenager in stupid fake clothes, in my stupid flouncy shirt and my stupid frilly underwear, as though those stupid superficial props would have ever snared a man like Mr Roberts. They’d never snare a man like Mr Roberts.
I tried to string some questions together, wondering what questions are even acceptable to ask. I had no experience of death, or marriage, or grief. Or anything.
He solved the problem for me. “It was a car accident. She was on her way home from setting up an exhibition at the Birmingham Academy.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“So am I.”
“She was an artist?”
“A very talented artist, yes. She was twenty-eight when she died, just beginning to make real inroads in her career. It was her first solo exhibition, she was so excited. And I was so proud.”
“It’s so unfair. I don’t know how you’d even start to deal with something like that.”
“Slowly.” He smiled and it was sad and it hurt my stomach. He let go of my hand to reach for a cigarette. “You know what’s strange? What I think about sometimes?”
I shook my head.
“I was lucky enough to know Anna for ten wonderful years before she passed, and I always try to remind myself just how lucky I was. But now, every so often, I realise that soon I’ll have been without her for longer than I was with her. And that seems so strange to me.”
“That’s beautiful, that you focus on how lucky you were.” And it was beautiful. He was beautiful. Even his pain was beautiful.
He met my eyes, and he was so unguarded, so open and vulnerable, and in that one moment all the air around me seemed to disappear. “Those nights after Anna died, the sun would go down and the house would seem so lonely then, so quiet. I felt like I’d die from the pain before the sun came back up. But then one night it occurred to me that grief is the ultimate price we pay for love. And to grieve so hard means that you have loved so much, so very much. And I’d grieve all over again, die every single night without question, rather than have lost out on loving a woman like Anna. She was worth it, to love so intensely was worth it. A love like that is worth any price.” I pictured him staring out of the window at the rain, those fleeting moments I’d been watching as his guard came down, always watching. And now I knew.
I could feel the tears welling up. I tried to hide it, but a man like Mr Roberts sees everything, knows everything. “I’m sorry.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“I think I’ve made you cry more than enough just lately.” He smiled, and it made me smile through the tears. “I’m alright, Helen, really. It’s been a long time.” I felt so good there, held against his side, his arm so strong around me. I closed my eyes and listened to the river, and felt his lips press to the top of my head. “It feels nice to have a friend. Thank you.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “You’re welcome.” “Maybe it’s about time I started dreaming again.”
“What will you dream about?”
He shrugged. “That will take some thought. I’ll let you know when I know.”
“Please do.” I wanted to say so much more, ask him about life, the universe and everything that made up Mark Roberts. What he liked to eat, where he went on holiday, how he knew Anna was the one for him. If he’d ever had a pet and what its name was. Whether he had an innie or an outie belly button. If he could ever love me. Things any real friend should know.
The bleeping from my pocket put paid to all of that. I pulled out my phone to read the message.
Dad: Are you taking the piss? Five o’clock finish you said. Your dinner is going cold.
I tapped out a reply.
Sorry. We ran over time. Put dinner in oven, I’ll have it later.
Dad: Get home, Helen.
“Everything ok?” Mr Roberts wasn’t looking at my handset, he was looking at me. “Only my dad. I have to go.”
And just like that he freed me from his grasp and pushed himself from the bench, then reached for my hand to help me down.
I stood, awkward and mute, wishing he’d kiss me again, or hold me again, or anything. He did nothing of the sort, just smiled and held up his keys. “I’ll drop you home.”
***
“How can you be grounded at eighteen years old?” I could hear the scorn in Lizzie’s voice down the line. I could hear Ray’s voice in the background, too. Shouting about something, shouting about someone. I heard Lizzie slam her bedroom door and let out a groan.
“I’m not grounded… Dad’s just… pissed. Says I need to knuckle down and study rather than treating life like one big party.”
“As if you ever party.”
“I just don’t want him to get arsy… it might make it awkward for me to go every day. And it’s my last time… and…” “And I get it.” I could almost hear the eye roll. “So, that’s it? I’m banned am I?”
“No!” I said. “Of course not. It’s just… difficult this week. Just for a few days, while I’m painting the set. I need to be seen to be taking my exams seriously in the evenings.” I felt shit about it, but Dad had looked grumpy as hell when I’d rolled in late. Grumpy enough to relieve Brittainy’s mum of babysitting duties if I didn’t pull my arse back into line. “More time with Scottie, hey? Surely that’s a good thing…”
“Just as well, isn’t it?” “Sorry, Lizzie.”
She tutted at me. “You’d better be. You’ll have to make it up, I’m thinking sleepovers galore over Christmas, just the two of us, hanging out like old times.”
“Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” I smiled. “You’re the best.” “So, was it worth it? Did Rampant Roberts touch your tits again?”
I slumped onto my bed, keeping an ear out for movement outside. “No, he didn’t.” “You wore the turquoise, right?”
“Yes, I wore the turquoise. And the stupid frilly undies.”
“Shit, maybe he is gay,” she laughed. “Maybe the grope really was a one-off.” “You think so?” My stomach lurched.
“Of course not. There’s no way it was a one-off.” More voices sounded in the background. Her mum this time, yelling, and then more doors slamming. “What are you wearing tomorrow? You’ll have to up your game, I told you heels were the way.”
My throat turned dry, and I didn’t know why. It was just Lizzie, hardly a judging panel. “I’m, um… I’m just going to wear my normal clothes tomorrow.”
“Your normal clothes? Why would you do that?” she said. “Have you lost your mind?” “No, I just…” I sighed. “I just want to be me.”
“You are you. Just you in hotter clothes.”
“But maybe I don’t want to be hotter. Maybe I want to be real, I want him to want me for me, not because I’m dressed up all fancy.”
“He will! They’re just props, Hels!”
“No, he won’t, you don’t understand.” I took a breath. “His wife died.” I heard the bed springs creak under her. “Whoa… what?”
“He had a wife and he loved her and she died. And he’s so broken, Lizzie. It’s so tragic, and beautiful. A slutty skirt isn’t going to make any impression whatsoever… he’s… he’s deeper than that…”
“No wonder he didn’t grope your titties. What a passion killer…” she giggled, but it wasn’t funny. “But what’s all that got to do with your little thing? Was it an excuse? That’s the ultimate get out of jail card… ultimate heartbreak, I’m just not ready…”
“It wasn’t anything like that. It was real, and sad, and beautiful, and I touched his hand and he called me his friend…” “But no titty touching? Not even a bit?”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “No.”
“You want titty touching you have to put them in their best light, that’s all I’m saying…” “I’ll take the risk.”
“Fine, Hels, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She covered the handset while she yelled at someone, then came back on the line. “It’s like a pissing war zone in here tonight.”
“Sorry, I feel bad you’re not here.”
“I’ll survive,” she sighed. “Anyway, I’m all ears. I think it’s about time you told me all about the deceased Mrs Roberts, Helen Palmer. Don’t hold back on the detail, I want everything.”
I felt so much better the next day. Boring flat pumps sat so much more comfortably on my feet, and I’d opted for my art shirt; loose, soft, faded pink cotton with hippy-style thread work. I wore it with my faded jeans and a crocheted cream cardigan, and I looked like me. Weird, geeky Helen and her slightly eccentric clothes. I didn’t bother with makeup, and what would have been the point, anyway?
Mr Roberts wanted to talk to me, not grope me. We shared art, not sex. And although it pained to think there was a chance he would never touch me again, I’d have given anything just to sit with him some more and talk the hours away. Maybe that would be enough.
I was kidding myself and I knew it the moment I set foot in the hall. He took my breath away.
His smile was warm, and his eyes were bright, and we painted and we talked and we laughed, and the kids laughed, too. And it was fun. It was loads of fun. I fluttered, and prickled, and had butterflies whenever he’d walk close to me. My face would burn, all the time, whenever I caught his eyes, and that would be often since I’d catch him looking all the time. Even more than me. Maybe even more than good friends looked at each other, but I didn’t want to hope too much.
It was good, and happy, and fun. So much fun my stomach fell through the floor when it was time to leave. “Do you have somewhere to be?” he asked, and today it sounded like the most natural thing in the world.
“Unfortunately, yes.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Dad thinks I need to study. I’ve exceeded my fun quota already for this holiday.”
He smiled a little. “Already? That’s a real shame.”
I gathered up my bag. “Got exams, he says, got to get my head out of the clouds, he says.” “I’m sure he just cares.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a baby.”
“You’re his baby.” His tone was deep and calm and so mature. “He wants to see you do well, that’s only natural, Helen.
It’s a big year for you.”
“It doesn’t mean he has to put me on an evening curfew just so I’m allowed to paint some scenery in the holidays.” He led the way out and got the lights as we passed. I waited while he locked up and tried the doors behind us.
“If you can’t paint, I understand. Don’t put yourself under pressure.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I want to be here…” I wrapped my scarf around my neck for the walk home, and suddenly he was right beside me, he pulled a tangle of hair free from my collar, and smoothed it flat with his fingertips. And I couldn’t breathe. He stole my air. Breathed me in until I was just a wisp on the wind. “…with you. I want to help…” I’d checked out the canvases before we’d left, and for all our best intentions we were way behind schedule. This was the job of ten people, not a handful of kids.
“I appreciate that.” He was standing so close to me, blocking my view of the way home, like a barricade, as though every part of his body wanted me to stay, even if his mind didn’t know it. He looked through me, like he could see the boring white bra through my clothes, and I felt self-conscious, like a little kid again.
“I… um… I have to go.”
He smiled and sidestepped. “Sorry, Helen, I was a million miles away. Of course.” “Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”
“Yes, Helen, I hope so. Enjoy your studying.” He reached for my arm as I passed by, and it startled me enough that I gasped. “I enjoyed yesterday. I haven’t talked, not for a long time. It felt good.”
“That’s ok…” I said. “I enjoyed it, too…” “I just wanted to say thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I didn’t move and he didn’t let go, and if my phone hadn’t bleeped with another Dad prompter we’d have probably stayed there forever.
But my phone did bleep, and I was already late again.
He let go of me, and I hurried away before I lost every tenuous scrap of willpower I had left in my body.
***