Mimi has her eyes closed, leaning back against the pillows, hands folded on her lap. I move the bowl of oranges gently aside, so as not to disturb her, and let the silence spool out. I wonder how she would react to the real story of William and me meeting: the smell of white spirit, the dingy studio flat, the word Whore in bold letters that would only fade and not disappear, not even beneath three coats of paint, my pupils inky-black pools, white spittle collecting at the corners of my mouth because I’m still high. Even when we got together years down the line, it wasn’t simple, our jerky, stop-start relationship characterised by reluctance and hysterical bonding, punctuated by my abrupt disappearances, sometimes for whole weekends. All the times he came to help me, all the comedowns he nursed me through, all those nights he carried me to bed after too much wine, too many cocktails. The states he found me in. My white knight.
‘Your white knight,’ Mimi says quietly, the way she always does when I reach the part of the fictional story where William catches me at the ticket barriers. ‘Just think of all the ways it could have been different. If one of you had sat in a different seat, if you hadn’t left your purse behind, if William hadn’t jumped off the train in time – all these little things we don’t know are actually cogs in the engine.’ She leans forward, smiling tightly as if imparting a great secret. ‘You know how Edward and I met?’
I’ve heard this one before. Sunday. At the bandstand, listening to jazz. Eighteen years old. He asked her to dance and showed her all the flowers in bloom on the village green. They never spent another night apart. Since his death, whenever she tells this story her eyes fill with tears and she has to dab at them with a hanky, even now.
‘I do, Mimi. I remember.’
‘Do you know how he died, Frances?’
I stiffen. In all the years I’ve known her, Mimi has never spoken about his death with me. Not in real detail, and certainly not without dressing it up in euphemism. Despite my interest I try to look nonchalant, reaching for the bottle of nail polish on her bedside table beside the phone. My heart skitters, my mouth dry. This man, this man. He’s everywhere, still.
‘I don’t think so, Mimi. Shall I do your nails while you tell me? It’s such a pretty colour.’
She extends a thin pale hand over the coverlet and I lift it into my own, surprised at the lightness of it. Bird bones.
‘It was a car accident. Something on the road, they said. An animal maybe. He skidded off the bridge. It was autumn, and it was dark and maybe he was going too fast. That doesn’t sound right, though, does it? He was always so careful. Such a careful man.’
‘He was,’ I say, although I never met him. I don’t want to interrupt her flow. Her eyes have misted over with recollection.
‘I had a knock at the door about four o’clock. When I answered, it was the police. They both removed their hats. That’s when I knew something bad had happened. They said, “Are you Mrs Thorn?” Of course I said yes. I had an apron on and my fingers were shaking too much to untie it. They said, “There’s been an accident, Mrs Thorn”, and I said, “Not my boys, please. Not my boys.” There’s no worse feeling in the world.’
I think of Samantha, still searching. All these years doing it alone. No worse feeling in the world.
‘He said, “It’s your husband, Mrs Thorn. It’s Edward.” And then do you know what happened?’
I shake my head, still stroking the brush over her short square fingernails.
‘Edward walked past the doorway. Right there, clear as day. He looked in at me, but he didn’t say a word. I think it was his ghost just coming to say goodbye to the house and his garden. It sounds silly now, of course, but at the time it was the most normal thing in the world. It gave me strength to keep going, Frances.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Mimi.’
She falls silent and after a moment I’m starting to wonder if she’s fallen asleep; then when I lift my head I see her eyes are open, but heavy. Her voice is starting to slur.
‘I wonder where he is now.’
I finish her nails, blow on them gently before asking, ‘How long were you together?’
‘We met when I was eighteen but didn’t wed until I was closer to thirty. I
