Page 14 of Starting Over in Starshine Cove
I guffaw at that one, and accidentally dribble coffee on my chin.
“None of them lasted more than a few months,” Marcy says. “And none of them were serious enough for us to meet them. I keep their pics here to remind him that he needs to up his game and find someone better, or he’s going to end up as a sad and lonely old man watching clips ofTiswason YouTube and living off multi-packs of crisps. All alone with his sense of superiority.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, darling,” he replies, sounding amused but actually looking a bit sad. Sophie and Marcy have known more grief in their young lives than most people their age have known – but they haven’t got a clue what it’s like to find your soulmate and then lose them. It is devastating, and Zack is doing better than me even if none of it has worked out. I suppose I only lost Simon five years ago as opposed to ten, but I’ve not been on a single date since.
“You’re welcome, Dad! Sophie, do you want to come up to my room?”
Of course she does. They both grab more pastries and disappear off up the stairs in a thud of feet and a gust of giggles.
Zack looks at me, and I feel the intimacy of the moment. He looks raw, exposed, waiting for me to comment. I understand that sense of vulnerability all too well.
“My husband died as well,” I blurt out. “Five years ago. I admire you for getting out there again.”
A cloud of surprise appears on his face, and it’s obvious that Marcy hasn’t told him that either. Maybe we’re just not interesting enough to talk about when you’re their age.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”
I laugh a little at that. It sounds like something my son Dan would say, not this sleek, successful man standing before me in his expensive cologne and his elf slippers.
“Yeah, it really does! I turned up last night expecting to do the widow dance, you know? That thing where everyone else is in couples and they’re a bit too awkward to ask you about anything?”
He grimaces, and it’s obviously not an alien concept to him.
“I know it well. It’s a bit like having leprosy, isn’t it? People are fascinated but also worried they might catch it. Look, they might be a while – do you want to come through to the living room where we can sit down? Then I can close the kitchen door and put poor Bear out of his misery.”
I take my coffee and a pastry on a small plate, and we head out. I’m conscious of the fact that I am back wearing my clown clothes, no make-up, and that I’ve probably got crumbs on my face. But really, I decide, what’s the point in being concerned about that? I could be at my most well-dressed and alluring and still look like a bag lady next to the beauty show of his ex-girlfriends. I’m not in the same league, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am who I am.
The lounge is as bright and airy as the rest of the house, walls lined with bookshelves, framed posters of some of his TV shows, potted plants, family pictures. I see one of a pretty dark-haired woman with two little girls, and say: “Is that her? Your wife?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Rowena. She was a food stylist. I met her on a photo shoot, where she was making everything look delectable even though it was actually cold by that stage.”
I remember those days – vaguely. The days when I was front of house, getting the shots done for our website. The strange world of food showbusiness.
Rowena is, like I say, pretty – but she is not by any means glamorous or beautiful. She looks like a mum, with a gorgeous smile.
“What was she like?” I ask – because nobody ever does. Sometimes you desperately want to talk about them, but everyone is too scared to ask in case they make you cry.
“She was surprisingly blunt. Bearing in mind my work, I was used to people saying yes, people trying to curry favour. She, to put it frankly, took no shit at all. She told me off, called me out, and didn’t care if she did it in public. She was from Dublin originally, and she swore like a trooper, which always surprised everyone because she looked so petite and meek.”
“So you were hooked?”
“I was! She loved her work, but she loved family life more. She was a great cook herself, so I’m not surprised both my girls have gone down that route – Amy works at a restaurant in Paris. She was a great mum, a great wife, a great home-maker. Just an all-round great human being. I miss her every day, but now at least I can smile when I think about her, not just grieve.”
“I get that. I’m starting to feel the same. Depends what mood I’m in, and I’m always amazed at how unpredictable it is – one day laughing at some nice memory and feeling lucky I ever had him, and the next day hysterical tears because I miss him so much. People assume after five years, I’ve moved on – but it’s not that simple, is it? I was so busy after he died, raising three teenagers on my own, that sometimes I wonder if I ever really processed it all properly myself. There was just this raw, gaping hole in my life, and all I had time to do was slap on an emotional plaster and get on with making the packed lunches. It must have been the same for you.”
“Yep,” he says, looking thoughtful. “I’ve been considering that lately. There are all these stages of grief you’re supposed to go through – you know, denial, anger, all that. Supposedlyworking your way through to acceptance. I think I stalled at anger, and went straight into sorting childcare, managing a demanding job, and trying to make it to as many school events as I could.”
“Is it still there?” I ask gently. “The anger?”
“Sometimes, yes. She was so young, and so good. It felt unfair. I still find myself sometimes watching the news, some report about some awful crime or whatever, and raging that scum like that are still walking the earth and she isn’t. Makes me sound like a psycho, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. It just makes you sound honest. It’s even worse when you have those thoughts about perfectly normal people. Like when you’re walking around the supermarket and see some happy couple, and think, why do they still have each other? Why was he taken away and not one of them? Then feel yucky about it, because of course you don’t actually want someone else to die! It’s complicated. I don’t think it’s something you can judge, and it changes every day anyway. Sounds like you’re at least trying to move on though?”
He laughs and runs his hands through his hair. I’ve noticed this is a thing he does – maybe when he’s nervous, or maybe when he’s unsure of what to say next. It’s an attractive emotional tic and doesn’t help dampen down my Zack’s Hair fascination.
“Not really. I mean, yes, I did date those women. The girls were independent, and I felt like I should at least try, you know? But as you’ll have gathered from Marcy’s little performance, I’m not exactly taking it seriously. They’re too young. They’re too different. They’re too everything, except right for me. Partly it’s just the kind of women I meet in my world – but partly, if I’m being honest, it’s deliberate. I know from the get-go that it’s not going anywhere. I’m playing a part, and I pick women who I know won’t offer me anything real. I might be ready to move onto a bit of fun, but I’m not sure I’m ready to move on to anything real.”
“Maybe you won’t ever be,” I reply, because exactly the same thought has occurred to me. “Maybe something real would feel like too much of a betrayal.”
