Читать книгу How to Say Goodbye - Katy Colins, Katy Colins - Страница 18

Chapter 9

I got changed into the thickest and comfiest pyjamas I owned, feeling exhausted, and climbed into bed. The cool sheets were like a hug. I opened my laptop and decided to keep my head focussed on things I could control: namely, Abbie Anderson’s funeral.

I thought about Frank’s warning to keep her service simple. But I didn’t want to give anyone I cared for a traditional, impersonal send-off. I felt like I’d gotten to know Abbie during the past few evenings spent lost in her world. I didn’t need proof of just how important the perfect goodbye was. The personal services mattered; I tried not to worry about what the repercussions with my boss may be.

Abbie’s Facebook feed had filled up since I’d first found her page. Messages of remembrance, photos and inspirational quotes – usually involving angels – had been posted onto her timeline. As I looked at the photos, many including Callum, I felt this strange, deep ache in the pit of my stomach, thinking of their marriage cut short. Their future plans dissolved in a split second. But it was also a kind of envy; a resentment for what he and his beautiful wife had shared, and anger that Henry had robbed me of our future too. He’d cruelly promised me the world, and then left me clinging onto his empty words; a destiny that would never materialise, just like Callum and Abbie’s future.

I couldn’t help myself. I was soon lost in Abbie’s perfect life. A place where there was only sunshine, big smiles and happiness. No drama, no painful former relationships and no angry thoughts. Maybe if I had a life more like Abbie’s, I would feel happier? Things would be different. Better.

My Facebook feed brought up the local newspaper’s page. I clicked to read more. Abbie’s beautiful face was shown, alongside an image of a mangled car wreck. It was a short article about her death and upcoming funeral, asking for witnesses to the crash to come forward. Underneath the main picture was one hundred and seventy-two likes.

Layla Kent had written: ‘Gone too soon my sweet angel.’

Someone called Tessa Haynes had commented: ‘Still feels so unreal.’

Another person called Mark McKinney had typed a crying emoji then gone on to rant about how that road had always been a death trap. ‘The council need to do sumfin about it.’

Below that was a comment from someone whose name looked familiar. The handsome man who’d been tagged in her modelling photos, Owen Driscoll. ‘Miss you, Abbie Anderson.’

I clicked on his name, which opened up his profile page. It was set to private so all I could see was his profile picture and very basic information. His cover photo was a hand holding a bottle of lager in front of a tropical beach. He was a model, like I’d suspected, working at the same agency as Abbie.

I found myself back on Abbie’s page once more. You meet people in life who just seem to sparkle; I just happened to meet her in death. I was like a fan-girl, wanting to soak it all up. Three of Abbie’s photo albums were from fashion shoots or ‘Modelling lols’, in her words. Her beautiful face, long slim legs and petite frame were perfectly suited to the flamboyant dresses covering her. Her body curved away from the camera slightly to maximise the cut of the gown and shape of her figure.

Abbie is feeling fabulous at – Serenity Hair. A selfie in a hairdresser’s chair with freshly blow-dried blonde locks. ‘Huge thanks to the talented Andre for his serious skills! Bring on girls night tonight!’ Seventy-two likes. Fifteen comments, all massaging her ego.

From childhood to teens to thirty-three years old, I’d sported the same mid-length mousy brown hair. I stuck religiously to the recommended regular trim every six to eight weeks with Chatty Claire. One of my proudest moments was when Chatty Claire told me she’d been telling another client about how few split ends I had. That hollow praise seemed nothing looking at the glowing comments Abbie got. Her hair was so shiny. Her life was so shiny. I blew a strand of hair from my face, suddenly feeling frumpy and old. If I needed any more proof of how unadventurous I had become, it was staring back at me every time I glanced in a mirror.

Abbie had recently shared a photo of a slate spherical ball in a snowy field that linked to a page: Daniel Sterling, Artisan Artist. In amongst the many five-star reviews on his page was one from Abbie: ‘Just received the most amazing piece of art from Dan. It now has pride of place in our home. So impressed with the service and already planning my next piece with him!’

Imagine being a person who could commission their own piece of art. The thought blew my mind. I kept scrolling. The minutes ticked by as I clicked through photo after photo of Abbie. There weren’t that many photos or posts with Callum in; since he wasn’t on Facebook, maybe there was no point in tagging him. I was quickly learning that social media only mattered if others were going to see and comment.

I hated myself for thinking it, but I wanted to have just a touch of what this woman had had. The only flaw in Abbie’s perfect life seemed to be her inability to differentiate between there and their.

I’d tried my hardest to keep my ideas for personalising her service as low key as possible. Frank had been breathing down my neck, knowing that the media could now be attending, but I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anything crucial.

I pulled open her Instagram page. I’d already skimmed through this; a lot of the filtered photographs involved food, fitness or fashion shoots. Nothing that gave me any in-depth scope into the world behind her day job. I scrolled right back to her first-ever post from almost three years ago. No long list of hashtags, no fashion brands tagged in, instead the shot was taken of Abbie, half reclining on the floor under a lit Christmas tree. The tree was a little wonky, the decorations not matching, and her outfit of patterned leggings and bad knitted jumper with an elf on it added to the natural charm of the shot. She had her head tilted back, laughing at something, her long wavy blonde hair tumbling down her back. She looked the prettiest I’d seen her. The photo was so natural, a side to her that she’d edited out in her later posts, a side I imagined she only shared with her closest friends and husband, a side to her that I felt almost voyeuristic in seeing.

Seeing this candid shot, I couldn’t help but wonder about the sort of laid-back style she and Callum had embraced at home. Their neutrally decorated bedroom, I decided, would be spacious but full of textures, with cushions and faux fur throws over their king-sized bed. Their bathroom would have a roll-top, claw-footed bath, which sat in the centre of a large, black and white tiled floor. The room included a modern waterfall shower, with shiny silver pipes running up the wall. You would feel relaxed the moment you set foot in their house, welcomed in by a stylish log burner and maybe even an AGA stove.

Their kitchen would be modern but lived in. I imagined a fridge cluttered with magnets, worn oak work surfaces where they cooked together, dancing around each other with that ease that certain couples had. In my mind Abbie was a great cook, adventurous with her dishes, inspired by the places she’d been. Callum would be a willing guinea pig, maybe even complementing the food she prepared with his knowledge of wine. He looked like a man who would prefer wine to lager. I caught myself and shook my head with a funny sort of laugh.

What was I doing? Daydreaming about the life of a couple I could never meet? I knew that things weren’t always what they seemed behind closed doors, but for some reason I believed that the Andersons were different; they did lead the perfect life. A life that had been tragically snatched away from them. It certainly put my world into perspective. I sighed and closed down the laptop and headed to bed.