A Vintage Friendship

Chapter Nine

Ally

Present day, November

Philippa had stayed over with me in the week following Michael’s death. ‘I can stay longer,’ she said as she made coffee one morning. ‘John can bring me some more clean things over.’

‘Look, I have to get used to it some time, plus he must be missing you.’

‘It’s your call, but I am happy to be here longer. We don’t need to talk if you don’t feel like it. I can get on with things, make a list of what needs to be done and not be in your way.’

I went into the hall and opened the travel case I’d brought back from the hospital. I’d been putting off looking at it and it had been sitting there untouched since the day Michael died. I retrieved the plastic bag that the ward nurse had given me. It contained Michael’s wedding ring, his watch, his mobile and his wallet. There was also a copy of Private Eye, a few clothes, clean pyjamas and the jeans and jumper I’d taken in for him ready for his return. He wouldn’t be needing those now.

I wondered what he was wearing now in the funeral home and who, which of the nurses, had been with him when he died? Who was it? Yaz? Or someone else? Was he aware of what was happening? Did Yaz or the consultant tell me? They had but I hadn’t taken it in, only that he’d gone. I think the consultant said it was sudden, I think he did. Michael hadn’t suffered. Could I go back and ask them to go over it all again? I decided not to. It wouldn’t bring him back.

A fresh wave of grief erupted. When alone, I’d cried until there were no more tears and I felt physically sick, but then something would catch me, a reminder of the man I’d spent so many years with – his shaving kit in the bathroom, a jumper over the back of a chair, the brand of tea he liked, his coffee mug – and I’d be off again, unable to contain the torrent deep inside.

In the past, Michael and I had shared everything – books, TV shows, newspaper articles, new recipes, new restaurants; any new experience we had was told to the other. We’d even talked about how death was a taboo subject in our society although it was going to happen to all of us. We joked that we’d send each other signs from the beyond. If Michael could, he would want to tell me how it was. How’s he going to do that now then? I wondered. And how could it be that my husband went to the hospital but all that came back was a plastic bag containing a few personal items? It felt unspeakingly cruel, so final. He had been a big man in every respect, a larger-than-life character with a hundred interests and opinions, my best friend and lover. How could someone so vibrant, so present, be now in the past?

I went back into the kitchen. ‘Do you believe in life after death, Pip?’

She shrugged. ‘I’d like to think that the soul lives on, but I guess we’ll never know for definite until it happens to us.’

‘My friend Jo, the one who had a heart attack, she was on about having a near-death experience, leaving her body and watching everyone down below attending to her physical body while she floated about on the hospital ceiling.’

‘Sounds a bit wild.’

‘Does, doesn’t it? I’m not sure what to think of it. But if the spirit does live on, people should be allowed to send one text after they die, don’t you think?’

‘Except you don’t get to take your mobile, or anything else for that matter. And what would you say? Arrived safely, then an emoji with angel wings? But I agree, it would be good to get some sort of message.’

‘Jo’s experience sounds like wishful thinking to me.’

‘That’s what I thought … OK, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone and you must promise not to laugh.’

‘I won’t.’

‘After my father died, I was very distressed that I wasn’t there to say one last goodbye, plus I wished there was some way of knowing that he was OK. I remember confiding all this to a friend. Ask for a feather, she advised me, and told me about the white feather theory.’

‘The white feather theory?’

‘Is that people who have died send them to let you know that they’re OK.’

I burst out laughing. ‘A feather? Sorry but … you believed her?’

‘Not at the time. We were on a beach in Dorset and, just to appease her, I opened my arms up to the sky and said, “OK Dad, send me a feather to let me know you’re all right.” I thought the idea was crazy, we see so many feathers every day, on the pavement, in the garden, they can’t always be signs from the spirit world. Anyway, John and I had a laugh about it as we drove home, but when we got back to the house, there – lying on the mat inside the porch at the front door – was a large white feather with a black marking in the shape of a W at the lower end of it. I took it inside and wept. My father’s name was William, and in all the thirty years we had lived there, I can’t recall ever having picked up a feather from inside the porch, never mind such a large one. Since then, often when I am upset about something, white feathers appear in the strangest places. Before a job interview that I was stressing about, I found one in the glove compartment of my car. Another time, I was worried about a medical test that John was having and I found a feather in the fruit bowl. It was reassuring finding them, like Dad saying: hey, I’m still looking out for you. And now you will think I am mad, grasping at straws … or, rather, feathers.’ Philippa shook her head and sighed. ‘You definitely think I’m mad, I can tell. Apart from John, you’re the first person I’ve told that story about my father.’

‘Why not? You never know.’ I gave her a hug. I didn’t think she was mad but to me, the idea was highly unlikely. I thought it was coincidence, that’s all, but I wasn’t going to pour water on something that had obviously comforted her.

*

For the following days, it felt as though someone had pressed fast-forward on the film of my life. The house was full of people: my daughter Alice, who was pale with grief (she’d been close to her father); my son Anthony; my elder sister Susan who took over running the household from Philippa. She was a control freak and normally I objected to her barging in and rearranging things, but this time, I was grateful. She made a list of family, friends, ex-colleagues who hadn’t already been contacted, got death certificates printed, booked the church for the funeral, organized the service – though Michael had specified in his will what he wanted. We searched for photos for the order of service, sourced the music he wanted, readings I knew he liked. I kept busy alongside her but felt removed from it all, hollow, as people came and went.

Alice’s husband Ethan arrived from Sheffield the day before the funeral. My younger sister Jess came from London, as well as one of my authors, Katie Brookfield. I was touched by her effort and glad she’d come. She was now in her eighties and as sprightly and sharp as ever. I’d become extremely fond of her over the years I’d represented her books.

I was grateful for the distraction of guests staying, beds to make, linen to wash, food to prepare, endless cups of tea to make; anything to take my mind off the reality of what had happened. Philippa was over most days with other close friends who lived locally, and my old school friend Sara arrived from London on the morning of the funeral, as did Lawrence Carmichael, Michael’s oldest and dearest friend. His presence was a comfort because he’d known Michael so well and had been a big part of our lives together. Before his wife died two years ago, we’d holidayed with them most years and had always got on well. I felt he understood what I was feeling more than anyone.

The day of the funeral was a dark day, with black clouds that lashed down rain, as if the sky was angry. It felt like a manifestation of my feelings.

‘Couldn’t have staged this better,’ I said to Philippa when there was a loud rumble in the sky as we dashed from the car into the church. ‘Michael appreciated a bit of drama.’

Philippa squeezed my arm as we went inside. ‘Yes, a mild summer day wouldn’t have been right for him at all.’

The service took an hour. I knew that because I’d been told when we booked the church, but it felt like two minutes. Adagio played as the coffin came in. The priest said something about Michael, which struck me as odd because he’d never even met him. Michael’s younger brother Neill read from The Prophet. Lawrence read a poem that I barely heard. Alice wept quietly all the way through. I kept my arm around her but no tears came from me. I was numb, sore, sad and – for the time being – cried out. There would be time for more tears later when Alice and Anthony had gone. As people filed out, the Liverpool football anthem, Michael’s team, played; there was a smile as everyone remembered Michael’s humour and the man.

Next it was over to the Horse and Jockey pub for drinks and ham and mustard sandwiches. There were hands to shake, people hugged me, commiserated, told me what a lovely service it had been and that was it. Done. Over.

I sorely missed Michael to lean on, to gossip with, about who was there and how they looked; how the men had been checking out Sara, the women too, a celebrity in our midst. I noticed that she’d made a beeline for Katie Brookfield and they seemed deep in conversation with each other for a while, and then Lawrence Carmichael, who was Katie’s editor as well as Michael’s, joined them.

It was strange to see Sara after so long; it must have been a few years since we’d met up. She was as glamorous as ever, looking ten years younger than our sixty-four years, and I was touched that she’d come and by her offer to stay over if needed. Her presence reminded me that we had been close at various points in our lives. When first married, we’d spent many happy weekends together. Things had cooled off a bit when we’d had our kids. It should have been a bonding time, but we had different ways of bringing them up, Jo and I working from home when we could so that we could spend as much time with them as possible; Sara with a nanny and a home help. Even on the times we met up and Jo and I brought our children, Sara came on her own and left her son with a babysitter. Our relationship had particularly faded in the last decade. After her divorce, by her own admission, she’d gone into a frenzy of work. It was her way of dealing with things, and I’d tried to respect that, even though it meant she barely had time to see Michael and me. I also wondered if part of the reason we hadn’t seen her was that we were a painful reminder of the early days with Charles when we’d all hang out. Once upon a time, we’d have talked about what happened with him, had a proper heart to heart about it but she’d appeared to want to move on from all that reminded her of him, us included.

She broke off from her conversation and came over to me. ‘Can I do anything? I could stay as long as you like if you need company after today.’

‘I … thank you, but I have Philippa and my family here for the moment. I appreciate the offer, though, really I do. We’ll catch up properly once things are more settled.’

‘Of course, whenever,’ she said. ‘I … I can’t imagine—’

Lawrence interrupted our conversation and handed me a drink. ‘This too shall pass,’ he said as he put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head. I hugged him. With so many of our mutual friends present at the funeral, I knew it would be bringing back memories of his own loss. Sara hovered for a moment as if she wanted to say more, but then drifted away and I lost sight of her.

Back at the house later, Alice and Ethan absented themselves and went up to Alice’s old room. Anthony got caught up with relatives he hadn’t seen in a while. Katie and Susan poured more wine.

At last they were all gone away to their beds, apart from Lawrence who helped with the clearing up. Before heading off to the B & B he was staying in nearby, he gave me a sleeping tablet. I took it with gratitude, welcoming the temporary oblivion that it brought.

*

The next stage followed swiftly on as house guests left and Lawrence and Philippa helped with shopping, feeding, washing, cancelling bank cards, subscriptions, Michael’s gym membership, letting his dentist, doctor, pension people know, the DVLA, tax office, passport office … The list seemed endless and, at the back of my mind, there was always the feeling that Michael would be back soon. I’d hear his keys in the door, my name called and then there he’d be. But no. His absence had a presence all of its own and it filled the house. The phone calls stopped. The bereavement cards ceased. Silence.

No one prepares you for this, I thought as I looked through his wardrobes, buried my face in an old jacket, breathed in his scent. Susan advised me I’d have to clear his clothes out but not yet … not yet.

Chapter Ten

Sara

Present day, November

I’d researched every reality show I could find, in this country, in the States, around the world. I wrote down words that I thought were relevant to the over-fifties.

Health.

Mortality.

Finances.

Support tights.

Whatever this original idea was that was going to save my career, it wouldn’t come. I was getting desperate.

My mind drifted to Ally and Jo. Ally was understandably quiet at Michael’s funeral and I knew it wasn’t the time to reconnect, but she had sounded so subdued when I spoke to her on the phone afterwards too. Also understandable, but I wished that there was something I could do to let her know I was there for her and help her through her grief, if that’s possible. There’d been a great turnout of people at the church and I’d met Katie Brookfield when I was there. She was the author of my favourite books and TV series, The Bonnets of Bath, and I couldn’t help but be a little starstruck, despite the circumstances.

Jo, on the other hand, sounded as high as a kite when I called her. Probably from the post-cardiac medication. She didn’t make the funeral because she was still recovering from her heart scare. She kept on about seeing a light and floating down a tunnel and how it had changed everything. One thing that struck me when I spoke to both of them was that they had a good network of friends who had been there through their troubled times. It made me realize all the more that friends were what was really missing from my life, how rare and precious the old ones were. I wanted to be there for mine, if they’d let me, as much as renew our closeness.

I headed out to the shops to find another gift or something to send to them both. I was aware that I couldn’t expect either Jo or Ally to just pick up on our friendship and that we’d be back with the ease we used to have, especially at a traumatic time like this for both of them, but I could make inroads. While I was at the shop, I flicked through the racks to find a Get Well Soon card to send to Jo. I opened one with a picture of a cake on the front. Inside it said, ‘Friends are the fruitcakes of our lives. Some contain nuts, some are soaked in alcohol, some firm, some sweet but altogether, they make a great cake and are good to have in your life.’ I smiled. That summed our old gang up. Mitch was nuts, I was soaked in alcohol, least I was these days, Ally was firm and Jo was sweet.

Ping. A light-bulb moment. I had it. An idea for the TV series. Friends. Programmes about friends. That’s it. It had been staring me in the face the whole time.

I dashed back to the house where I spent the next couple of hours scribbling like a madwoman. By the end of it, I had a format worked out for six programmes.

I FaceTimed Nicholas. ‘I think I’ve got it – the idea for a programme.’

On the screen on my phone, Nicholas looked expectant. ‘OK, what’s the pitch?’

‘You know that programme Lost Lost Family?’

‘The one where people hunt down family members, find sisters and brothers they have never known?’

‘That’s the one. Well my series wouldn’t be looking for family, it would be looking for friends. Most people have that one friend in their life, maybe two or three, who they have lost touch with, in my case Mitch, Ally and Jo. People you grew up with, shared experiences with, loved, swore eternal friendship with, but then somehow lost along the way. So … a series about finding these friends. Partners will come and go, leave you, die, move on, children fly the nest, so the programme will focus on the importance of enduring and lasting friendships to see you through. It will also look at those friendships that haven’t worked, or that have let you down.’

‘I’m getting interested now. I would imagine some reconnections would be good, heart-warming; others would bring up all sorts of buried resentments and open old wounds.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Could make great TV.’

‘Each programme, we take someone—’

‘A celebrity,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly, they would bring in more viewers. Each week there’d be a sports person, an actor, musician, rock star, maybe a politician or an author. We can see who’s out there who might like to take part. Get some researchers on it.’

‘And of course you’d front it.’

‘I’d love to, and Gary seemed keen if I had the right idea. The more I thought about it, the more I realized there’s so much material. Friends can heal but also hurt, men’s friendships can be different to women’s, plus the series could look at advice from counsellors on the importance of friendships, how to make them, where to find them.’

‘Sounds good. Keep it varied.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘Sara, I love it, and I can tell you’re fired up. I think you have something here. Write it up as a proposal, a few pages, and I’ll look it over then we can send it to Gary. Well done, I knew you could do it. And, on a more personal note, where are you up to with your search for your friend? I assume that you’re going to ask the two friends you are in touch with about the programme—’

‘Jo and Ally.’

‘Yes, see if they’d be up for taking part.’

‘Taking part?’

‘Of course. As well as fronting, you could be one of the celebrities looking for an old friend.’

‘Mitch?’

‘Mitch. Rope the other two in and see if they might be game.’

I shook my head. ‘I doubt it. I’ve been in touch with them recently and both are going through difficult times. Ally has just lost her husband, so it’s maybe not the time to broach it but … I do wonder what she’s going to do now.’

‘Maybe this could be just the thing – a distraction, an adventure. And Jo?’

‘Jo’s recovering from a heart procedure, so she may be reluctant too.’

‘You can always ask them. Nothing ventured and all that. Sometimes losing a partner or something like a hospital stay can be one hell of a wake-up call. Was for me when I came close to losing James when he had his scare, and the same for him when I was unwell. It might be perfect timing for both of them. They can always say no. Where are you up to in looking for Mitch?’

‘Still no further forward. I looked on Facebook and Twitter and couldn’t find her, at least not with the surname I knew, but I’m sure there are other ways. If Gary does go for the programme idea, then no doubt he’ll get top researchers in and Jo, Ally and I can do what we can to try and find her in our own way.’

‘Get on it, Sara. And it’s made me think too. Some of my old friends, where are they now? Probably in rehab or in their graves.’

‘Cheerful.’

‘My middle name.’

*

I did what Nicholas advised and spent the next week working on the proposal. It went off to Gary and he loved it, put it to his committee who gave it the thumbs up and assigned a budget to put it into development. He asked me to front it and potentially have my search for Mitch as part of one of the programmes.

Next on the agenda was to go and see Jo and Ally, see how they were and, if it felt appropriate, maybe try and persuade them to take part.

Happy days. I was back in employment. Back in the game.

Chapter Eleven

Jo

Present day, November

A prophet has no honour in his own country, so the Bible says. Yeah, tell me about it. I told my nearest and dearest about my out-of-body experience at the hospital, seeing the light, my astral pal. Hah! The looks on their faces.

‘Not out of your body, you were out of your mind,’ said my daughter Kirsty.

‘Must have been the drugs,’ said her husband Will.

‘But I wasn’t on any then,’ I replied.

‘Whatever you were on, can you get me some?’ said Jason, my sixteen-year-old grandson as he checked out my medication. ‘Hey, this looks interesting.’ I had to grab the Glyceryl Trinitrate out of his hand before he sprayed some on his tongue.

‘You weren’t well. Clearly whatever you experienced was a result of your medical condition,’ said my son Graham.

Apart from Jason, they looked at me with the same expression, as if I’d lost my marbles. It was very frustrating. What I’d experienced had been real, not imagined, not drug induced, not a hallucination.

As well as having seen the light, I am now bionic or robo-woman, as Jason called me. I had a couple of stents put in during my hospital stay. Amazing things, tiny metal mesh tubes that open up any blockages in the arteries. Angioplasty. ‘Saved your life,’ said the nurse in charge. ‘Ten years ago, you wouldn’t have made it.’

So, all good, apart from my family and friends thinking I am away with the fairies. Six to twelve weeks recovery time, that will be nice, and apparently I’ll be fit to go for another thirty years. And I’ve shed seven pounds already. It’s the new ‘have a heart attack diet’. I might market it and write a book. A radical if not extreme method to lose weight – chest pain, hospital food and no appetite.

While I’d been lying in my bed, I thought a lot about my old school friend Mitch Blake. She’d talked about seeing the inner light, and the need to find calm, when she joined a commune back when we were in our early twenties. I thought she’d lost the plot but she was talking about what they now call ‘mindfulness’. It’s everywhere – in books, magazines, classes springing up all over the place; the hospital even recommended it to reduce stress – as if it’s all new, but Mitch was on about it a long time ago. She was always ahead of the rest of us. I’d give anything to talk to her about it now.

Curiously, another of my old friends from back then, Sara Meyers, called out of the blue recently. She’d lost her job, a big blow to someone like her who lived to work. She certainly hadn’t had much time for me in the last few years, but she sounded different when we spoke on the phone. On the few occasions that we’d been in touch over the last years, she’d always sounded in a rush, distracted, impatient to be off to some place more glamorous, with more interesting people, and when we met up either on our own or with Ally, she was notoriously late. It drove Ally and me mad, especially in our younger days. She could act a bit ‘I’m so fucking fabulous’ when things took off for her in our thirties and forties, like she’d started to believe her own publicity, but Ally and I had known her too long and could usually tease her back to earth when we saw her. One time, when she was flying high in her career and I was still struggling, we’d gone out for lunch with Ally. Sara ordered two bottles of Cristal champagne to celebrate some promotion. When the bill came, Sara suggested we split it as we had always done, but that champagne would have wiped out my budget for the rest of that month. She hadn’t stopped to think that we weren’t all earning the big bucks that she was. Ally took one look at my face and got it straight away, and to be fair Sara cottoned on pretty fast, insisting on picking up the whole bill as her treat. ‘In that case, let’s get another bottle,’ I joked, but I felt bad about not being able to pay my way. Since then life has dealt Sara some knocks – her mum’s illness, losing Charles, her son Elliott going abroad to work, one of her good friends dying and now she’s lost her job. I got the feeling that behind her cheerful act she was rather unhappy, a bit lonely too. I tried to let her know I was here for her, invited her to stay numerous times. She came less and less in recent years, always too involved with her job to venture down to Wiltshire, though part of me suspected that the busy, busy lifestyle was an escape for her from what was really going on. The other day, when we spoke, she was like the old Sara; she listened to what I had to say and seemed genuinely concerned about me. It was nice, reminded me of what close friends we used to be. She had been a good person to have as a mate, despite her occasional thoughtlessness, and her intentions had always been well meaning. She was a sunny, open soul who wore her heart on her sleeve and liked to chat, chat, chat. I liked that because I always knew where I was with her and she laughed at all my jokes, even the rubbish ones. She said she’d been thinking about Mitch too.