Читать книгу When Bad Things Happen in Good Bikinis - Helen Bailey - Страница 12

At seven and a bit months, I found myself trying to garden last week and just having to sit on the lawn and sob my heart out loudly to the daisies, who just nodded knowingly. It just creeps up on me sometimes, and I have no idea when it will strike. He should be here and he isn’t and it’s wrong. ~ Lauren

In the early nineties, my husband joined a gym. Because he loved me and was a generous soul, he gave me a year’s membership. It was a swanky gym with a big pool and an indoor running track, and whilst JS did his thing, I did mine – a quick sprint round the track whilst holding my tummy in then off to the bar for wine and crisps. Eventually I gave up this rigorous workout regime to stay home and watch Coronation Street.

The following year saw JS still in love, but not so generous on the gym membership front. As he pointed out, my cost per visit had actually gone up if you factored in the bar bill. ‘I’ll show you!’ I thought. ‘I’ll pay for my own gym membership!’ the logic being that I was quite prepared to waste his money, but not my own. Of course all that happened was that when I didn’t want to go, or I did go but didn’t want to stay, I’d think, ‘It’s my money! I’ll do what I like!’

Year three and JS is still keeping fit, whilst I am blobbing at home watching the Holy Quadruple of Soaps: Corrie, EastEnders, Emmerdale and Brookside. It’s not that I don’t want to keep fit, I just don’t want to leave our flat to do it.

But then I see an advert for a NordicTrack Ski Machine, a contraption that promises to not only tone and trim my bod, its silent glide mechanism means I can watch telly and keep fit. It’s made for small spaces too: the foxy chick in the advert demonstrates that with just one finger it will fold up to store neatly against a wall or under the bed. My husband is sceptical and refuses to pay. I am enthusiastic and happy to. It’s the perfect solution! Whilst he is schlepping to the gym in all weathers, I will be at home, gliding along, toning my abs whilst keeping abreast of Ken and Deirdre’s shenanigans.

I hated it.

It wasn’t silent, and instead of folding up with one finger, I had to beat and kick it into submission. Invariably I left it up, resulting in one or other of us tripping over it so it still got a kicking.

My dear friend and colleague, Karen, mentioned that her boyfriend (later husband) wanted a ski machine, but couldn’t afford one. I begged her to take it away. I didn’t want money; I just wanted it gone. In exchange, they gave us a bottle of champagne: 1989 Bollinger, an extraordinarily generous gesture given the state of their finances at the time.

Years passed and the champagne remained unopened. JS would sometimes slide it from the wine rack and I’d shake my head. ‘Let’s wait,’ I’d say. ‘For a special occasion.’

Then, tragically, Karen died within days of being admitted to hospital with excruciating back pains and uncontrollable vomiting following a miscarriage. It was undiagnosed cancer, a malignant melanoma that had spread like wildfire from a mole on her shoulder through her body to her brain. She was 33 and had worked with JS and me since she was 19. We were devastated.

Karen’s champagne became even more symbolic. For me, no occasion was ever special enough to pop its cork.

And then JS died.

After my husband’s death, I wept buckets over that unopened bottle of Bolly. JS was the type of man who would have opened it because it was Friday or sunny or because Arsenal had won. Why couldn’t I have seen that just being alive and with JS was the only reason I ever needed to open it? I had been waiting for some big flashy occasion to come along, when in fact life with him was the big occasion. And now we would never be able to drink Karen’s champagne together; that opportunity had been lost forever.

A couple of weeks ago saw a significant family birthday. I decided to take the champagne. It seemed right that it would be opened amongst people he loved and loved him. I also hoped it would chase the Regret Monster away.

Wrapped in a tea towel and with great ceremony, the bottle was opened, the contents poured.

Instead of straw-coloured fizz, it looked dark and cloudy, like urine from someone with a kidney infection. It smelt rank and tasted foul. We poured it down the sink.

Karen would laugh and say we should have opened it just because we could.

JS would be annoyed that it was a waste of what was once an excellent bottle of champagne.

But they are both gone. I hope that they are together, somewhere, looking out for each other.

I’m the one left weeping over the empty bottle as the Regret Monster digs its claws in ever deeper.