Page 33 of The Art of Loving You

I could almost hear his soft voice saying, I love you, Elizabeth Emersonbut now I wouldn’t hear him whisperI love you, Elizabeth Gilbert,would I?

It’s not as though you were married.

And now we never would be. I thought it was impossible for my heart to hurt even more, but somehow it did.

Alice and I arrived before Rhonda and Bryan.

The vicar opened the door and told us to call her Elaine as she ushered us into a cosy living room with white walls and oak furniture, logs piled next to a fireplace. Bronze bowls brimming with potpourri were scattered over side tables, the smell of lavender lingering in the air. I sat on the pale pink sofa, Elaine one side of me, Alice the other.

On the wall was a large framed photo of two young girls flying a kite on a beach.

‘Your children?’ Alice asked.

‘My sister and me,’ Elaine said. ‘I’m not married.’

I wasn’t sure whether being single was through choice or a stipulation of her job.

‘We don’t know much about the Church.’ I fidgeted in my seat. ‘I don’t believe in the Bible.’

‘Libby!’ Alice gasped.

‘That’s okay.’ Elaine placed her hand on my knee, heavy and warm. I wished she wasn’t being so nice. An angry debate about religion I could cope with, I’d already rehearsed my questions in my head. My scathing responses to her justification of a God who was so cruel. Her kindness, her lack of judgement was unsettling.

‘When somebody as young as Jack is taken—’

I cut her off. ‘Taken?Don’t make it sound like he was purposefully chosen for something. He wasstabbedbecause the world is awful and people make terrible choices. The sutures broke open on his wound and there was blood seepage under his dressing – something the district nurse might have picked up on if she’d come but she didn’t becausepeople make terrible choices. Jack died because of acute sepsis secondary to his infected stab wound.’ I trotted out the words from the coroner. ‘Jack might have seen his dressing was stained. He might have known something was wrong, but not wanting to worry me on our anniversary, brushed it aside thinking Maggie would sort it out when she came. If he’d told me … if he’d just said …’ I clenched my hands into fists. ‘But he didn’t say anything because … People. Make. Terrible. Choices. People … not … Not God.’ I was shaking. My nails carving crescents into my palms. If she told me I was wrong, if she ran through the different stages of grief the way that Mum had, reassuring me it was natural and normal to feel angry, sad, lost, everything, I would scream.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘They do.’ A beat. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’

‘I don’t want tea. I want—’

‘Jack,’ she said simply.

His name took my breath away. I nodded.

Jack.

I just wanted Jack.

While Elaine clattered around the kitchen the doorbell rang. I crossed to the living-room window and scooped back the net curtains. There was a shiny BMW outside.

‘Sorry we’re late.’ Rhonda’s shrill voice reached me in the lounge. ‘Bryan was supposed to meet me at the services an hour ago but he was late and—’

‘It’s not my fault there was bloody traffic.’

‘Don’t swear in front of the vicar, Bryan.’

Even now they couldn’t be united.

I sat back down and didn’t get up as they entered the lounge.

Alice shot me a look as she crossed the room and introduced herself, shaking their hands.

Elaine clattered a silver tray back into the room. ‘Apologies for the lack of tea cups. I’ve broken the last saucer – I’m so clumsy.’ On the tray was a selection of mugs, one with ‘Need an ark? I Noah guy’ and another with ‘How does Jesus make his tea? Hebrews it.’ Instead of a bowl, the sugar was still in its bag. Ginger nut biscuits cocooned in their wrapper. It made her more human somehow, this stranger I had directed my rage at.

Suddenly my stomach clenched into a fist of shame.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered as Rhonda and Bryan took an armchair each, as far away from each other as possible.

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