I sigh heavily as I push myself up from the ground and peel the damp plastic bag from the back of my jeans, then kiss my fingertips and lay them silently on his stone. ‘See you later, I hope,’ I whisper, crossing my fingers on both hands as I turn away and walk towards the car park.
I stow my bags in the boot and slam the lid, startled by the vibration of my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. Elle’s name flashes up when I click the screen.
Meet me at The Prince for an hour? I’m already there, new job jitters! I’m sure you could do with a drink too?
I look at her message curiously, no idea how to respond. I haven’t set foot in our local pub since the day of Freddie’s funeral. She knows that, of course; I’ve turned the idea down every time she’s suggested it in recent weeks. And it’s not just the pub – I’ve pushed away all suggestions of going anywhere. Then I think back over the course of this morning. Elle’s probably taken the fact that I’ve brushed my hair and put on a little make-up as a sign of my progression from red-hot-poker grief to whatever the next stage is. I don’t know the name for it: battleship-grey grief maybe? I know the stages have been given actual names by psychologists, but I think of them in terms of colours. Angry red. Endless black. And now, here, hinterland grey as far as the eye can see. I think about Elle’s suggestion. Can I face the pub? I don’t have any other plans; my Saturday is a blank sheet and I know how nervous she is about her new job. She’s given so much of her time to me since the accident – perhaps I can give a little back.
Okay
I fire it off quickly, before I can let myself say no.
See you in ten.
I feel as if everyone is staring at me as I walk into the pub, like one of those saloon bars in the Wild West where everyone pauses when the doors swing open and glares at the stranger who’s dared to enter their midst. I’m probably over-egging it; in fact, I definitely am, given that there’s fewer than twenty people in the place and half of them are pensioners nursing pints of mild and watching the snooker on the tiny TV up in the far corner.
The Prince of Wales is a proper pub, complete with ill-advised green-and-brown carpet and beer mats from the seventies. Not a gastro menu in sight: Ron behind the bar runs to crusty cheese rolls and pickled onions on match days if you’re lucky. But it’s our local, just around the corner from home, with little appeal to the hipster crowd, beloved by the patrons for exactly that reason. I’ve never once felt nervous coming in here, but I do today. Sickly nervous, in fact, and very alone as I scan the room in search of my sister.
I spy her before she sees me. She’s standing with David and a few others over by the fruit machine, her back angled towards me, wine glass in hand, as she leans in to listen to the guy next to her. I swallow hard as I recognize Freddie’s drinking mates, people we went to school with, guys who’ve been on the fringes of my life for ever. David spots me and lifts his hand, nudging Elle to let her know I’m here. She’s by my side in a flash, her hand sliding into mine.
‘Good girl,’ she says. It could come over as patronizing from someone else, but not from Elle because I know she gets how difficult this is for me, and I also know how much she misses the things we used to do together. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ She squeezes my fingers, a subtle gesture that I appreciate as we make for the bar.
I keep my eyes trained forward, not glancing towards the group by the fruit machine even though I know they must all be looking my way. Truth told, I’ve avoided going anywhere where people knew Freddie because I haven’t been able to face answering questions about how I’m coping, or hearing about their own shock and grief. Is that selfish of me? I just can’t summon the emotional wherewithal to be bothered about them.
Ron, the owner, smiles at Elle and reaches for a fresh glass. ‘Same again?’
His eyes slide to me and it takes him a few seconds to place me as Freddie’s girlfriend. Something akin to panic flashes over his face momentarily before he recovers himself.
Elle nods and turns to me. ‘Lydia?’
For a moment I feel as if this is the first time I have ever been in a pub, confused and hot under the collar, seventeen again, pretending to be old enough to drink. My eyes skate over the bottles too fast and I can feel my heart begin to race.
‘Glass of wine?’ Ron suggests, already reaching a second glass down from the overhead rack, and it’s as much as I can do to nod gratefully. He doesn’t ask what I want, just slides a large glass of something chilled and white in front of me, pats my hand briefly and gives Elle a fierce look when she tries to pay for the drinks.
‘On the house,’ he says, gruff to the point of a growl as he picks up his cloth and polishes the bar, doing his best to act disinterested. I look at Elle and I can see she’s a little choked up by the gesture. I’m getting tearful and Ron is in danger of wearing a hole in the bar, so I pick up my glass with a small, appreciative smile and head for a table in the corner. Elle detours briefly to David and the huddle by the fruit machine, and I take a gulp of wine and glance across to see who’s there. The usual suspects. Deckers and co sinking a few beers before the football; Freddie’s friends of old. Duffy the tight accountant is there, his pale-blue shirt too formal for a Saturday, and Raj, a guy we went to school with who runs his own building firm these days, I think. There’s a couple of others too: Boner – don’t ask me why they call him that because I don’t even want to know – is hammering the buttons on the fruit machine, and there’s Stu, I think, who spends most of his life at the gym. I don’t make eye contact with any of them, which I’m sure they are entirely grateful for. Death is a sure-fire way to become a complete social pariah.
‘Free drinks,’ Elle says, sliding on to the stool beside mine at the small, round table. ‘First time for everything.’
She isn’t wrong. Everything feels like a first time at the moment. First time I fry bacon without Freddie eating it straight out of the pan before I can get it on the sandwich. First time I sleep in our bed alone. First time I go to the pub as the girlfriend of that poor guy who died. None of the first times I’d envisaged or hoped for at this stage of my life.
‘Nice of Ron,’ I mumble, pulling my already half-empty glass closer to me. I should slow down.
Then the door opens and Jonah Jones walks in, head to toe in black as usual, his dark hair as unruly as always. I can’t help it, it twists me up inside to see him alone – he’s like Woody without Buzz. He stops to speak to the guys at the fruit machine, his hand on Deckers’ shoulder, then heads for the bar. He turns our way, tapping a beer mat against the edge of the bar as Ron pulls him a pint, his smile vague and then sliding right off his face when he finally registers me. Likely he feels a punch in the gut at the empty space beside me too, quickly followed by unease at the way things are between us now. I last saw him at the funeral, both of us barely holding ourselves together. He looks better today, his fingers instinctively moving to trace the healed wound above his eyebrow as his gaze holds mine. I don’t know if I should get up and say hello so I stay nailed to my stool, held there by indecision. I don’t think he knows what to do either, which is stupid because we’ve known each other since we were twelve years old. Half a lifetime of friendship, yet we’re eyeballing each other across the pub like wary lions unsure if we’re part of the same pride any more.