Page 21 of Postscript

Not quite, but that’s the point, isn’t it. People who don’t fit together suddenly do and then you can’t imagine anyone else fitting at all. Circumstance and happenstance collide to synchronise two people who until then repelled each other, so they find themselves pulled into a net electric field. Love; as natural as shifting tectonic plates with seismic results.

‘No.’

She seems uncomfortable at having asked, starts to backtrack. ‘I suppose there’s only one real true love. You’re lucky you had him at all,’ she blurts. ‘At least, that’s what my sister says. OK, so I’ll get this in motion, and I’ll call you as soon as I have viewings arranged.’

It may seem like a lie, that I’m a Judas to my Gabriel, but I didn’t mean to tell her that I haven’t found love again. It was her paraphrasing of Gerry’s final letter that I took issue with. I did not receive nor did I need Gerry’s consent or permission to fall in love again; that human right to choose who I love and when I love has always lain with me. What Gerry did was provide a blessing, and it was this blessing that boomed the loudest in the scared, excited Greek chorus of my mind when I began dating again. His blessing fed a desire that already lived within me. Humans possess insatiable longings for wealth, status, and power, but are hungry, most of all, for love.

‘Which room did it happen in?’ she asks.

‘His death?’ I ask, in surprise.

‘No!’ she says, aghast. ‘Where were they written, or discovered, or read? I thought that might help with the tour of the house. It’s always nice to have a little story. The room where the wonderful PS, I Love You letters were written,’ she says, grinning, her salesperson head on full blast.

‘It was the dining room,’ I say, making it up. I don’t know where Gerry wrote the letters, I’ll never know, and I read them in every room, all the time, over and over again. ‘The same room he died in. You can tell them that too.’

His breath, hot, against my face. His sunken cheeks, his pale skin. His body is dying, his soul is still here.

‘See you on the other side,’ he whispers. ‘Sixty years. Be there or be square.’

He’s still trying to be funny, the only way he can cope. My fingers on his lips, my lips on his. Inhale his breath, inhale his words. Words mean he’s alive.

Not yet, not yet. Don’t go yet.

‘I’ll see you everywhere.’ My reply.

We never speak again.

10

I study Denise for a hint of what to expect. She seems calm, but impossible to read, and that’s always how Denise announces these things. I recall her face when she announced her engagement, her apartment, her promotion, coveted shoes bagged in a sale: any announcement of good news has been preceded by this solemn expression, to trick us into thinking she’s going to deliver bad news.

‘No.’ She shakes her head and her face crumples.

‘Oh sweetie,’ Sharon says, reaching for her and embracing her.

I haven’t seen the old bubbly Denise for a few years. She is tamer, quieter, distracted. I see her less often. She’s exhausted, constantly putting her body under stress. This is the third course of IVF that has failed in six years.

‘That’s it, we can’t do it any more.’

‘You can keep trying,’ Sharon says, in soothing tones. ‘I know somebody who went through seven courses.’

Denise cries harder. ‘I can’t do this four more times.’ There is pain in her voice. ‘We can’t afford one more time. This has wiped us out.’ She wipes her eyes roughly, sadness turned to anger. ‘I need a drink.’ She stands. ‘Wine?’

‘Let me get it,’ I say, standing.

‘No,’ she snaps. ‘I’m getting it.’

I hurriedly sit.

‘You’ll have one too, Sharon,’ I say in a tone that I hope she can decipher. I want her to order the wine, sit with it, pretend to drink it, anything to draw attention away from the fact Sharon currently has something growing inside her that is the only thing Denise wants. But Sharon isn’t getting it. She thinks that I’ve forgotten. She’s making ridiculous wide-open eyes in an attempt to secretly remind me, but Denise watches this pantomime act and knows at once that something is up.

‘Sparkling water is fine,’ Sharon says to Denise finally.

I sigh and sit back. All she had to do was order the damn thing. Denise wouldn’t have noticed. Denise’s eyes run over Sharon’s body, as if she’s carrying out her own ultrasound.

‘Congratulations,’ Denise says flatly, before continuing to the bar.

‘Fuck,’ Sharon says, breathing out.