‘Maya told me the woman said you were a bad mother?’
Meg flares her nostrils. It was all I could do to stop her stalking Carrie on social media, going to her house and crapping on her doorstep. I don’t reply.
‘Then, in my opinion, Maya should have bit harder.’
My sister actually claps in the middle of the services. A person restacking the forks turns to look at us. Yeah, that wasn’t for you but stellar job you’re doing there.
‘That’s an insult to me, completely. I didn’t just choose anyone to mother those girls. I chose the best person. Am I allowed to come to the gate and meet this woman?’ Linh asks.
I shake my head. She responds by sticking her tongue out at me. I always love her being here. I love how she wears white lace-up plimsolls with her tracksuit and the delicate crepe-like skin stretched across her knuckles. I especially love how she’s so plugged in to the world; the way she wants a throwdown now with Carrie Cantello, how she grimaces at the man troughing down breakfast next to us but also has her ear tuned into the conversation of the couple on the next table. She’s been through the very worst and best of life and she’s still standing, still fighting; she’s always trying to find some level of human connection and exist meaningfully. And if it wasn’t for Tom, we wouldn’t be here – together, a fixture in each other’s lives.
‘Is that a WHSmith?’ she asks me.
‘It is,’ Meg says.
‘I remember that place. I’m going to the bathroom. Could you be a dear and buy me some Dairy Milk?’ she asks my sister.
‘Of course,’ Meg replies. ‘With fruit, nuts?’
‘All of them, my dear. I’m on holiday remember. Also anOK!magazine and salt and vinegar crisps if they have them,’ she says. ‘And another coffee please, Grace. I need something as strong as… what’s that phrase you sisters use? I like it.’
‘Strong as tits?’
Meg erupts with laughter.
‘Strong as tits and this time with milk. Something that’s come out of a cow please.’
10
Dear Tom,
I hate it when you write letters like that to me. You make it sound boring, like I’ve stayed behind to do exams and use insect repellent because I’m dull. Don’t wear insect repellent then. Get malaria or dengue fever. You’ll need the good drugs for both. I asked Emma, one of them is haemorrhagic, and that to me just conjures up images of your eyeballs bleeding. I know for a fact that your travel insurance won’t cover that. Make sure you wash all your fruit too, well, and be careful when you drink water. I had a friend who went to Manila and drank a drink from a roadside vendor and she got cholera. You think these things don’t exist but they do. They even called a priest to her bedside because she vomited with such velocity they thought she was possessed.
Also, what pictures of me are you using for your flash cards? You’re using bad ones, aren’t you? Where I’m gurning or drunk or not wearing a bra. I never know what to write in these letters, Tom, as I feel like some sensible conscience the other side of the world telling you to look after yourself. You put so much into the world but I sometimes think you fail to take care of yourself. I worry you imbue too much trust in others and make sure you also trim your toenails because you were never good at that and now, given that all you wear are flip-flops, I sense your nails will start to gnarl over.
Life ticks along here. I rewatchedThe West Wingthe other day. I also passed all my exams. I miss you. Send Olivier and Cam my love. She’s so beautiful. Don’t just make it a best man speech full of jokes that you’ve copied off the internet and don’t be lazy and write something which is actually lyrics of a Snow Patrol song. You are better than that.
G xx
The memorial is in a month’s time and people are starting to filter in and out of my life. Lines are blurring and my once ordered existence is now filled to the brim with decorations and me signing off chair configurations and menus and having to listen to brass band versions of a song known as ‘Tom’s Theme’. It’s very heavy on the flute, which I think Tom would have liked because he could have made multiple jokes about ‘that time in band camp’. Linh is still battling jet lag so is fast asleep. Having her here has made the girls’ year and I particularly love the culinary treats that come with her, the fragrant noodle dishes, the ways she can transform a chicken breast without drying it out, the fearlessness with which she can cook seafood. A head pops round the door.
‘Girls are asleep.’ Meg scampers in and puts her hands on my shoulders, kissing the top of my head.
‘Thanks for sitting in on this. Do I look all right? Maybe I should wear all black?’
‘So you look more widow-y? No. You look great. You make this sound like an interview, it really isn’t. If anything, you should be quizzing her. You could wear your Huggly,’ she says, rearranging my hair. I didn’t realise that was an option.
Tonight, I’m having a Zoom meeting with Delphine Le Marre. If that name sounds posh, well, she is. She’s a literary agent based in London and after several emails from both her and Joyce about this book they’re hoping I write, I agreed to at least hear them talk about it. Their excitement is rooted in the fact there definitely will be a film made about Joyce’s book. Rights have been optioned, meetings have been had. I need to ask if they’ve got Jason Momoa. Tom will be upset if you get anyone else. What about me? If I get a say, I’m going to tell them to go down the Meryl route. Meryl would give me some proper gravitas. That would have Oscar written all over it.
However, they also hang onto the idea of my story being weaved through the narrative. The problem is I’ve read through all our letters and postcards and, while our story is no doubt imbued with sadness, it doesn’t cast either of us in the best light. Early Tom letters treated my heart and person badly. They were selfish and cast me aside. My later letters were dull. There’s one when I took two paragraphs to speak to him about mortgage rates and my relief that I’d managed to save a deposit by putting my savings into a high-yield interest account. If you were reading that book, later Tom would become the hero, playing football with kids in the dirt and building them schools while I sat like queen geek at home trying to bag myself the best gas and electricity deals. To know how this would be of interest to anyone is confusing to me.
‘Gracie!’ Joyce’s face is the first to appear on the screen. She sits in her front room, which is a wild menagerie of ornaments and books piled high. Meg dodges out of view. ‘Lovely, how are you? I’m so glad you agreed to do this.’
‘I’m good.’
Joyce’s internet connection is scrappy so she jolts in and out of view. ‘So memorial stuff, I’ve done what I can from here. I’m sorry that a lot of that got given to you. Did you get the new T-shirts?’
She got more tees printed with Tom’s face on. If this event is anything to go by then at least we won’t forget what he looked like.
