85. IV

Morphine suits me. I’m dopey, happy, sleepy. I thought I’d be more grumpy from lack of food, but after eight hours, I’d gone past wanting it. I was definitely not bashful. A dozen strangers saw me naked, bleeding onto clean sheets.

Tea. Toast. Jam. Water. Co-codamol. Ibuprofen. Sofa. Film. Bed. Repeat every six hours for three days. Jet lag. Nausea. Period pains. Hangover.

Room number four. My nurse is called Ivy Rose and she’s my kind Irish mother for the day. I think she knows she has a beautiful name and pretends I’ve never said it before, every time I tell her. I thank everyone in a uniform for looking after me. I’ll be on my own soon. Independent. Just me and Siri. She can remind me to take my meds, ring people for me, and change the channel on the TV, but she can’t loosen bottle tops, or lift a kettle.

70. Hitch

“I don’t know how they had the nerve. I really don’t.” Louise takes a big sip of her wine, almost a gulp. “And to think of all that effort we went to. It cost us nearly £800. What a fucking cheek.”

I take the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the metal bucket, wipe the drips from the bottom of it with the white cloth that’s loosely tied around the neck, and top up our glasses.

Our waitress arrives with a small bowl of fat, bright green olives, a basket of sourdough, and a shallow saucer of olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“Thank you.” I say to the waitress, smiling at her. I offer Louise a briny olive, and she prods at one with a little wooden toothpick then pops it into her mouth.

“And they never said anything?

Louise shakes her head, chewing in that peculiar way people do when they’re negotiating a fruit stone with their tongue.

“We wouldn’t have even known until the actual day if Pete’s brother hadn’t phoned us. He thought we were invited to the actual wedding. Apparently there was about 50 people there. It was a proper sit-down meal with wedding cake and champagne toasts and everything. I mean, I know people have a rehearsal dinner with close family the night before, but it’s not on is it? To actually get married and then have another wedding the day after but not tell the second wedding people? It’s like they had a fake wedding just for the photos and presents.”

“I bet Pete wasn’t best pleased.” I say.

“No he fucking wasn’t. When he found out he was livid. Two days we booked off work for that, plus hotel, and a new suit. I didn’t get a new dress, but I got some new shoes and a bag. This one actually. ”

She hold up a baby blue, butter-soft Coach hobo bag.

“That’s gorgeous.” I say, reaching for it to feel the leather.

“The actual wedding had a free bar. The fake wedding had one glass of prosecco each and the buffet ran out of food. Pete says he went over to the table where the glasses of prosecco were to get us one, and there was a bloke already there, who…”  she raises and pushes her palm into a stop signal for emphasis, “get this, Pete says he saw this bloke neck two glasses down then carry off another four with him.”

“Classy.” I say, disdainfully. “What is it with free booze that makes people so bloody greedy and selfish?”

“Dunno” she says. “Cos it’s free I s’pose.”

“Did they give a reason why they did it?”

“Well, apparently, the person from their church who they wanted to do the ceremony wasn’t ordained, so they decided to have the registry office one the day before, then their friend could still “marry them” the day after. That’s their excuse anyway.” She does air quotes when she says “marry them.”

“That’s fair enough I guess.” I say, “But it still doesn’t explain why they weren’t upfront about it. Why not just tell people? They could have made up their own minds then about whether they wanted to go or not.”

Louise sighs. “It just made us feel like we were worse than second-best. Like leftovers. If they had just told us that they were getting married, and only having a dinner for close friends and family, then it might have been ok. But I don’t get their logic of not telling us at all though. It’s not like were weren’t gonna find out.”

I dabble a piece of bread into the oil and vinegar mixture and chew it.

“I’m not gonna say anything to them though. No point.” She says. ” It’s done now. Bloody annoying though. I wouldn’t dare. Cheeky bastards.”

Louise glances at her phone for a second, taps the screen and swipes it. “They didn’t have a wedding list. It was one of those ‘your presence is present enough, but we really want you to give us some money so we can go travelling’ invitations. So, we were going to give them £100 and a bottle of champagne, but when Pete found out, he took £50 out of the envelope and put the champagne in our fridge.”

“Good for him.” I said emphatically. “What was the cake like?”

The atmosphere immediately changes, like it does just before a thunderstorm. I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing and started a chain reaction.

“No cake. Just one of those stupid ‘candy buffets’ with the jars of sweets and little scoops with the stripy paper bags. So, all we’d had all day was crisps, some sausage rolls and haribos. So not only was there not enough food, we didn’t even get a cup of tea or any wedding cake. You know what I’m like when I don’t have any food. Especially when I’ve had a drink. Well, we didn’t hang around for long. We left at about three and told Pete’s brother that we were going to check into the hotel and get some food, and that we would be back later. So we went to the hotel, got changed, had a burger and chips and a couple of beers. I had a nap, Pete had a shower and we watched a bit of telly, but we didn’t actually go back to the wedding do until about eight o’clock, in our jeans, just to show our faces and have a bit of a dance.”

“I can’t fault you.” I said.

“Oh did I tell you, we’re going to Copenhagen next weekend.” She says, excitedly.

“No I didn’t know. It’s Letitia’s wedding next Saturday. You’re not going then? To be honest, I’d rather be in Copenhagen. I love it there.” I reply.

“Oh yeah, I remember you saying. We got an invite but I think it was just out of politeness really. We can’t go because Pete’s brother used to go out with Letitia and what with them looking so similar, he thought it might be awkward. Some of the old dears might get them muddled up and you don’t want to see the face of your ex on your wedding day. So we said we were on holiday. I’ll send them a card with a twenty quid Markses voucher inside.”

“Yeah, we won’t stay long at the evening do. It’s my 5k on Sunday.”

“Oh, that breast cancer run for your auntie. I miss her I do, she was so nice.”

We raise our glasses in a silent toast to absent friends and the conversation takes a natural pause whilst we process.

61. When Under Ether

pexels-photo-404153.jpegI’m a lark, one of those annoying early birds, including Sundays. I’ve usually had second breakfast before “Match of the Day” has even begun, and a lazy brunch is far too late to make it the first food that passes my lips that day. It is practically lunch. I have often eaten my sandwiches at work well before noon, and I’m ready for bed at the time most ten-year olds are.

My reason for this extreme body clock is simple. Whenever I try to sleep-in, I lucid dream. They’re not always pleasant. Sometimes they are extremely, satisfyingly enjoyable. Yes, that is what I mean. If I’m in the mood, my imagination can conjure the perfect nocturnal delights that wake me at the precise moment of bliss. However, if I’m processing some difficult emotions, I can have a nightmare, that I try desperately to escape from, and often wake with sleep paralysis.

Do I want to live for something or die for it?

Even after all this time, I still sleep, if you can call it that, on my side of the bed. I’m used to going to bed alone, but when that wave of realisation crashes over me as I reach out for him, I still have to fight to breathe. His t-shirt no longer has his scent, and they stopped making his body spray ages ago. Even his junk mail has ceased.

I sometimes consciously plan to lucid dream, so we can spend time together, and he does occasionally find me.

I know he will never fully leave me and I recognise him in the faces of strangers in crowds or on the tube. Touched by proxy, I keep the train ticket as a bookmark because the conductor’s manner reminded me of him. I saw the same play three times because an actor’s character had the same gait. A million British men have his exact lack of hair. A colleague’s husband hugged me goodbye and I gasped as it was so familiar. They understood. Our son looks just like his dad did when I met first him. He has his own life now, so he’s around less and less, but I still often cry after I see him. I’m not alone.