Flights of Angels (20 page)

They’d been a particularly dodgy moment in the ladies. She’d been about to blurt it all out when Angela had come prancing in.

‘Were you going to say something?’ Claudie had asked.

‘No. What makes you think that?’

‘You’ve got that look about you. As if a hundred words are going to tumble out of your mouth at once. Like when we were at school - after you’d been on a date and couldn’t wait to tell me.’

‘Do I?’ Kristen had shrugged.

‘Yes, you do,’ Claudie had said. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?’

Kristen had nodded, and had tried to move away from talking altogether by applying a thick layer of lipgloss.

Still, she had great motivation for imparting her news soon because, if she didn’t, she’d end up going to Paris with Simon herself and getting into terrible trouble with Jimmy.

Claudie had had the feeling that there was something on Kristen’s mind. Perhaps it was that whole business with Jimmy and the boat display that was still bothering her. It certainly hadn’t helped when Angela had come swanning into the office on Monday morning sporting a diamond solitaire.

‘Look! Look!’ she’d cried, flashing the obscene rock around the office like a lighthouse beam. ‘He proposed! Can you believe it? My little Mikey finally proposed!’ And she’d hopped between departments the whole morning, flexing her fingers and smiling like a Marx Brother.

Kristen had been in a foul mood ever since. Claudie was sure that she was happy for Angela really, after all, Angela had been waiting much longer for her boyfriend to pop the question than Kristen had. But happiness in one often highlights misery in another, Claudie mused.

Poor Kristen. Ever since her own parents had separated when she was thirteen, she’d craved the security of marriage herself. It was funny. It had worked the opposite way with Claudie: her parents’ split had put her off the idea of marriage altogether. Until she’d met Luke, of course.

But she’d let Kristen talk about things in her own time. At the moment, she had her own problems to think about.

‘I do wish you could all come with me,’ she said again to Jalisa a little after eleven o’clock.

‘To York?’ Jalisa asked. Claudie nodded. ‘We’d have to get special dispensation for that. It’s out of bounds, you see.’

‘But it could be done? If you asked in advance?’

Jalisa looked thoughtful. ‘I think it could, but I don’t see why you want us there. Wouldn’t we just be a distraction?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I mean, you’re meant to be in therapy, and that means concentrating.’ Jalisa nodded towards the back of the desk where Bert and Mr Woo were arm-wrestling and Lily and Mary were cheering them on. ‘I rather think that we’d just be a big distraction.’

Claudie nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘Then why do you want us there?’

Claudie paused for thought. She was nervous even talking about it, but had really grown to trust Jalisa. She sometimes felt as if she’d known her all her life. ‘Recently,’ she began, ‘I feel that Dr Lynton’s pushing me towards something I’m not ready for.’

‘What’s that?’ Jalisa’s voice was gently probing, but Claudie still felt distinctly uncomfortable. ‘ANGELS!’ Jalisa suddenly bellowed. ‘Will you
please
keep the noise down? I can’t hear Claudie think.’

Claudie bit her lip anxiously.

‘Claudie?’ Jalisa said hesitantly. ‘What is it you don’t feel ready for?’

Claudie looked down at her, suddenly feeling quite exhausted by it all. ‘Love,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t feel ready for love.’

Kristen walked as quickly as was polite towards the ladies toilet. It had been a terrible morning. Not only had she been unable to impart her news to Claudie, but Angela had started talking about wedding dresses, even though her dearest, darling Mikey hadn’t discussed a date as yet. But still she went on and on about scooped necklines, flaring waists and trains to rival Virgin.

It had all become too much for Kristen. She’d wanted to share in Angela’s joy, she really had, but it was hard to smile when your heart was wearing a great fat scowl.

In the relative privacy of the ladies, Kristen stood over the sink and stared at her reflection. She looked as mean as a dog. God, Kristen chided herself, what was the matter with her? Could she really not be happy in someone else’s happiness? Was she that selfish? No, she thought, just miserable: miserable that she was seeing Angela’s whole future unfurl in a way she’d longed for for herself.

Even though Simon now had enough work to fill his days two-fold, he still found that he was wandering round the house like a lost thing. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that it was one of the occupational hazards of working at home. There was nobody to tick you off when you were slacking, or to keep you in check when you were rooting in the biscuit tin. You were your own boss, and that sometimes became too great a responsibility because it was so much harder to discipline yourself than anyone else.

Still, it had been a relief to leave his office days behind him - again. And an even greater relief to find that Mandy the man-eater hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed about it. Perhaps the perpetrator of the love bite necklace had something to do with that, Simon mused, as his fingers reached into the tin for the final broken custard cream.

It was eleven o’clock, and he still hadn’t got further than booting his computer up and making three cups of tea. Friday, he thought. Just one week since he was in York. One week since he’d seen Claudie at the station. Would she be going there today, he wondered, screwing his face up as his teeth sunk, rather than crunched, into the biscuit?

He could do with going into Swanlea Insurance, couldn’t he? And wouldn’t it be brilliant if he could make the same train from Scarborough to York as last week - the train that Claudie had caught. It would be a complete coincidence, of course. It wasn’t as if Claudie had actually seen him in York before, and he did have legitimate business there, didn’t he?

He shook his head. He really must stop all this with Claudie. He didn’t really know her at all. She might just be another Felicity but with a prettier face.

It had been a strange experience to finally meet her, and she’d been nothing like the half-crazed, half-French woman Kristen had been fretting about for the last half-year. She looked like a little angel who had peeped out from the clouds one day and quite liked the look of Whitby.

A bit of goldfish consulting was what was in order. He walked across the room towards the small tank he’d bought them. Nothing fancy, but it was a mansion compared to the one-up, one-down bowl they’d previously occupied.

Pumpkin and his still unnamed companion were swimming about, which didn’t really surprise Simon. He watched for a moment, wondering if they’d go under the lurid green bridge he’d spent ten minutes choosing in the pet shop. They didn’t.

Calm and collected, they regarded him with their glassy black eyes.

‘What would you do, guys?’ he asked. ‘Would you follow the woman of your dreams?’

They barely moved in response.

‘Or would you knuckle down to some graft?’

Neither batted an eyelid. But maybe that was because they didn’t have any.

‘Come on, it’s an easy enough question,’ he said, starting to get ridiculously irritated. ‘Stalk or work?’ He watched closely for any response or movement that might help him make a decision.

‘You’re right.’ Simon stood back up to full height and went through to the kitchen to make his fourth cup of tea before settling down to work.

Dr Lynton leaned over the corner table and measured an imperceptible amount of milk into Claudie’s cup.

‘You don’t take sugar, do you?’ he asked.

‘Just one, please,’ Claudie all but laughed at his shocking memory. Surely he should write her tea-needs into that little notebook of his, instead of all the incidental stuff like her dreams and feelings.

He handed her the appalling cup of tea and then sat down heavily in his chair.

‘Is there anything you want to talk about today, Claudie?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

‘Shall we continue to examine where you think you are in your life, then?’

Claudie felt a volcanic-sized sigh building up. It was like being back at school again, an experience surely no sane person would want to repeat. If only the angels had got their special dispensation to accompany her, she might have enjoyed her visit to Dr Lynton’s.

She could just see it now: his little room peopled by her flight. Jalisa would just love dancing across the corner table and sliding down the great Swiss Cheese plant, and she felt sure that Mr Woo would find something of interest in Dr Lynton’s ever-expanding library. Bert would probably be kept adequately entertained by observing and mimicking Dr Lynton, whilst Lily and Mary, well, since Claudie had given them some travel-size make-up, they’d barely said a word to anyone.

‘We’ve been examining the four tasks of mourning, haven’t we? Claudie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you remember what they are?’

She nodded. ‘To be able to accept the reality of the loss.’

‘Good.’

‘To experience the pain of grief.’

‘That’s right.’

‘To adjust to an environment in which the deceased is missing,’ she rolled off, as if she’d been jamming for an exam.

‘Splendid. And the last?’

Claudie bit her lip, wishing that her flight was to hand.

‘Do you remember the last one, Claudie?’ he asked again.

‘No,’ she said.

‘It was to withdraw emotional energy from the deceased, and to reinvest it in another relationship.’

She remembered.

‘And where do you feel yourself to be?’ His eyes looked up from his notebook, his great flat hands neatly crossed over his scribblings. ‘How far do you think you’ve come?’

Claudie shifted her weight again, and turned her teacup round in its saucer.

‘Do you think you’ve adjusted to your environment?’ Dr Lynton probed.

Claudie stared into the brown depths of the tea, but there were no answers there. And, even if the flight had been with her, nobody could really answer the question but herself.

‘Yes,’ she finally said, in a little voice that didn’t seem to belong to her.

‘I think you have,’ he said. ‘From the things you’ve told me.’

‘Didn’t you say something about it taking three months?’ Claudie asked without looking up.

‘That’s right. But that’s only an average. Everybody is different.’

She nodded again.

‘So,’ he said, breathing the word out slowly, ‘what about stage four? Have you had any thoughts about that?’

Claudie looked down into her lap. She’d had thoughts about it, of course she had, but she didn’t want to voice them.

‘I sometimes feel I’m changing. But I’m still not the person I was, and I don’t think I ever will be.’

Dr Lynton nodded. ‘It’s true that fewer than half of widows are themselves again at the end of the first year. And you mustn’t think I’m pushing you into anything.’

She looked up at him. Was he a mind reader? It was scary sometimes how he was able to reach inside her head and pull her thoughts out for dissection.

‘But it can almost be a comfort to move on. Would you agree?’

Please, she thought, don’t ask me to do that. How can I be expected to withdraw from my own husband? I’m still wearing the ring he gave me. She gave it a little twist round her finger. Surely, she thought, I’m not married any more? Does that mean I should take it off? Is that what this is all about? Can I really be moving forward when I’m still wearing his ring?

Dr Lynton got up from his chair. ‘I want you to take this home,’ he said, stretching up to his shelves. ‘Now, I know you didn’t want any more books, but I do believe you’ll find this one of help.’

He handed it to Claudie. ‘Page sixty-three,’ he said. ‘Have a look at Freud’s quotation.’

She nodded politely and no more was said on the subject.

When Claudie got home, she slumped into a chair and stared at her boots for about half an hour. She hated Friday evenings. Her trips to York always left her feeling depleted even if she’d had a good session with Dr Lynton. The fact remained that she needed to see him. She wouldn’t even have known of his existence if Luke had still been alive, and that thought depressed her beyond words. She didn’t want to be in counselling; she wanted to be a newly-wed, doing what newly-weds did best.

She closed her eyes for a moment. The cottage was so quiet; too quiet to be that of a twenty-six year old. She should be laughing, kissing, making love, arguing, shouting - the usual things a young adult would be doing - not slumped in her front room, alone and unloved with the weekend stretching ahead of her like a vast desert.

Emptying her handbag, she took out the latest book Dr Lynton had given her and placed it on the coffee table. She wasn’t going to look at it. In fact, shaking herself out of her slump, she did everything she could to distract herself from the book. She prepared tea, did her washing, had a bath, vacuumed the front room, and then watched the final half of
Invitation to the Dance
. She didn’t want to read Freud. What possible use could she have for a dead sex maniac? And how could he possibly say anything as eloquent as a Gene Kelly dance?

Nevertheless, the book sat there on the coffee table, making its presence felt.
Page sixty-three, page sixty-three
, it seemed to chant, and, by a quarter past ten, Claudie could ignore it no longer.

She picked it up and bent it open somewhere in the middle. Page one hundred and four.
No! This isn’t the right page
, the book almost shouted.
Turn back! Turn back!

Claudie turned back. Ninety-eight. The pages flicked. Her eyes caught strange charts and tables. Seventy-one.

Page sixty-three.

Her eyes scanned the page quickly, looking for Freud, and, when she found it, she read.

“
We find a place for what we lose. Although we know that after such a loss the acute state of mourning will subside, we also know that we shall remain inconsolable and will never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else.
”