What to Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page B

death.
    ‘You were friendly with Greg.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Christine. ‘I was devastated when I heard.’
    ‘Would you say you were close to him?’
    ‘It depends what you mean by close.’ Her tone was cautious now.
    ‘I read your emails to each other.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘He thought blue suited you.’ Her expression had changed: no longer eager but embarrassed. I pressed on. ‘How close?’
    ‘You mean…’ She stopped.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You poor thing,’ she said softly.
    I stared at her. Shame flushed through me, leaving me clammy. I gripped the table with both hands. ‘You’re telling me there was nothing between you, then?’
    ‘We were friends.’
    ‘Even though you told him he was a very nice man and complimented him on his tan and asked him how things were at home, and he said you looked radiant?’
    There was a nasty little silence, and then she said, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’
    ‘He never tried to make it go further?’ I felt abject, and also disgusted by myself.
    She gazed at me with a pity that made me want to crawl under a stone.
    ‘I heard he was with another woman,’ she said.
    ‘Who from?’
    ‘People. I didn’t know who she was. Greg and I were just friends.’
    I thought of Christine and nameless other people talking about Greg and the other woman in the car. A wave of nausea assailed me. ‘I ought to go. I shouldn’t have come.’
    ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m sorry. About everything.’
    It was dark outside, with rain still falling and a stiff wind, so I flagged down a cab and sat with my arms wrapped round myself, feeling wretched. When I reached my front door I discovered I didn’t have enough money to pay the driver so I ran inside, then came back out to pay the driver with odd bits of money I’d discovered in various drawers and pockets. I’d found a five-pound note in Greg’s old leather jacket, which was still hanging in the hall. When was I going to sort out his things? A list of tasks streamed through my mind: contact the lawyer, the bank, the building society, find out about our financial affairs, our mortgage, any life policies, ring up the insurance broker, organize the funeral, answer all the messages I’d received over the past days, learn how to operate the video-recorder, cancel the appointment we’d made together at the fertility clinic, change the message on the answering-machine, which still had Greg’s voice saying hello and please call back later because Greg and Ellie weren’t around just now. Ellie was around, but Greg wasn’t and Greg would never be. Greg with his dark eyes and his wide smile and his strong, warm hands. He used to rub my neck at the end of a long day. He used to wash my hair for me, easing out the tangles. He used to bite his lower lip when he read. He used to walk around the house naked, singing loudly and tunelessly. He used to tell me about his days, or so I had thought. He used to watch me as I got undressed, his arms behind his head and a grave look on his face, waiting. He used to lie on his back in bed and snore gently. He used to wake up and turn to me, smiling in welcome as I struggled out of sleep.
    Who else’s neck had he rubbed, hair had he washed? Who else had undressed for him, taking off garments one by one while he looked at them with the gaze I had thought was for me alone? Who had he lain beside in bed, putting out his hand to touch and comfort? All at once, a jealousy so pure and visceral it felt almost like intense physical desire swept through me, leaving me breathless and shaken. I had to sit on the stairs for a few seconds, trying to breathe normally, before I could make it to the bedroom.
    I’d been going to have a bath but I’d forgotten to turn on the hot water. I peeled off my wet clothes and put on a pair of jogging pants and a thick sweatshirt that had belonged to Greg and was vast on me. One of its sleeves was frayed and I put it into my mouth and