He died instantly.
And so do I.
That evening, lying in bed, I look over to the side Jamie slept in last night. My sense of not being able to live without him steals my breath from me. I sit up, gasping for air, as I say, repeatedly, ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.’ I hug my knees, my body shaking. ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ I say, broken and scared.
Milla rushes into my bedroom. She was one of the first people I called to tell the news. She left work immediately, before packing her bags to spend the night with me, saying she’d stay for as long as I needed. She hands me some water, encourages me to take sips, until finally my breathing returns. I am so exhausted there is no voice left inside me. It’s as if my whole world has stopped and I feel scared, and so alone. Milla sleeps on Jamie’s side of the bed. She places an arm around my waist, finds my hand. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she whispers in the darkness.
I wish I believed her.
2
Eighteen months later
Nina hands me a mug of coffee. It’s half past seven, far too early to be up on a Saturday morning, but Nina told me to come to her café before mayhem kicks in. When I say café, it’s Soul Food, a community café at the Pastoral Centre, next door to my local church in Hammersmith. Her dark hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a chocolate-brown apron withFood for the Soulembroidered on to the front, over a white T-shirt and pair of dungarees. Her aqua-blue nose stud matches the colour of her eyes. Everything about her exudes youth and energy. The only things that give away that she’s in her forties are the fine lines around her eyes, the reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and the fact that I know, from all my Googling about how Soul Food began, she has teenage children that she juggles with her career.
‘So, Holly,’ she says, taking a seat next to me, but the moment she sits down her mobile rings. She glances at the screen. Hesitates.
‘Take it,’ I insist.
‘Won’t be long,’ she says, leaving the table.
The longer I wait, the more I lose my nerve. I steady my breathing. Keep calm, I urge myself. Don’t go and have another panic attack. I look at the door. I could leave. Do I want to give up every Saturday to work in a kitchen? Breathe in, and out, in, and out. I take a sip of water. And another. I can do this. Gradually I feel my breathing returning to normal. I tell myself to stay. I have nothing to lose anymore. I think back to a few nights ago, home alone, Googling ‘how to cure loneliness’. I have never experienced loneliness before, not the kind that keeps me awake at night, that stops me from wanting to go out, that makes me feel empty. Not the kind that steals my life from me. It’s a loneliness that hurts my mind and heart. I didn’t know loneliness like this existed until Jamie died.
One bereavement site described the simple act of sowing seeds or planting bulbs in anticipation of a more beautiful future, a future filled with hope. Another self-help page described the importance of exercise and self-care, sleep and looking after my skin. One warned against the adverse effects of alcohol and social media; another suggested getting back out there and signing up to online dating. It all made sense, but I didn’t want to do any of it, especially not quitting alcohol. Often the thought of a glass of wine after work is the only thing that helps me get through the day. A glass of wine, or let’s be honest, half a bottle, helps me park my problems for the night. It numbs the pain of missing Jamie. Why would I want to give that up for better skin or a healthier liver? Who cares? I realised I didn’t want to endlessly think about me. I saw a therapist, Susan, for a year after Jamie died. While it was a relief not to keep burdening friends and family, I couldn’t help thinking Susan must be so bored of me saying the same old thing every week.I’mbored of me. Yawn. I’ve had far too much me time, that was the whole point. As I was about to quit, I came across a website that suggested the benefits of voluntary work, quoting Winston Churchill:We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.
Choose something you are passionate about, the journalist suggested. People often assume voluntary work is rattling a rusty old tin outside a shop but it can help individuals find meaning in their life again. Volunteering can help us feel a deeper sense of gratitude for what we dohave. Now this did make sense, so I began to think about what I used to feel passionate about and the first thing that entered my mind was cooking. I proceeded to Google voluntary work in cafés and restaurants, Hammersmith, west London, and that’s when I came across the website for Soul Food, only half a mile down the road from me. Nina set this place up eighteen months ago. It’s open once a week, on a Saturday. In her short biography she mentioned she’d read a book about the harsh facts on food waste, and became intent on doing something about it. ‘All my life I’ve hated throwing anything away, let alone good food,’ she wrote. ‘As a child, I’d rummage in bins for bread crusts to feed the ducks. But my café isn’t just about food. It’s about connection. Meeting people. Food nourishes not only the body but the soul.’ She mentioned she was always looking for decent cooks to help volunteer, adding she was hopeless in the kitchen herself. ‘My mother was wonderful at making our clothes and toys, and she grew her own fruit and veg, but she loathed cooking. I was brought up on soggy fishfingers and carrots, I’m surprised I didn’t turn orange.’ This hatred of throwing anything away came from both parents, but particularly her father, who would even unbend nails so he could reuse them. After a near breakdown working in a law firm for fifteen years, she began a voluntary job for a charity that collected surplus food– food that was fresh and in-date, food that would otherwise be destined for landfill due to mislabelling, damaged packaging or over-ordering. And they distributed it to schools, homeless shelters, community lunch clubs– basically all those who were vulnerable and in need. And it was this work that gave her the idea to set up her own communal café, that offered heavily subsidised meals for anyone who wanted to come along and enjoy a bowl of nourishing soup and some conversation. She was awarded a grant and all the food she receives is donated to her by charities and supermarkets, and she has a few local friends who give food regularly. She has been overwhelmed by the support.
Instantly I wanted to find out more, so located her email address on the website’s contact page and sent her a message. She responded immediately, saying it must be serendipity. One of her volunteers was about to go on maternity leave, so did I want to meet up this weekend for an interview?
After five minutes I’m still waiting. Come on, Nina, I know you do all this admirable work, but I’m getting bored now. If I have to wait any longer, I might do a runner.
A stranger plonks himself next to me.
He reeks of tobacco.
I should have made my escape.
‘Hello, how are you?’ he asks, drinking out of a giant mug with ‘World’s Best Dad’ on the front.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, in fact nursing a hangover, as Harriet and I had gone out for drinks last night. Harriet is my boss. She runs her own PR and Communications company from home. I’d told myself not to order another glass of wine, that I needed to be sharp as a pin for my interview. Instead, I knocked it back, with a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
He looks as if he’s nursing an equally bad hangover and hasn’t had any sleep for weeks. ‘Good, thanks. You waiting for Nina? She talks for England.’
I get the sense he does too. ‘I’m here for an interview.’
‘You must be insane. Get the hell out of here.’
‘I was thinking about it.’
‘There’s still time. My brother, Scottie, he’s the head chef here and if you think Gordon Ramsay is a diva, think again. I tell you, saucepans fly, especially with new volunteers who get in his way or don’t follow his instructions.’ He treats me to a generous smile, though something tells me he has little to smile about right now. ‘Always feel better once I’ve had my pint of caffeine, don’t you?’ I notice the deep lines around his brown eyes. ‘I’m Angus by the way. How d’you do?’ He shakes my hand. I notice a crumpled cigarette packet in the front pocket of his equally crumpled denim shirt. Another thing I discovered after Googling voluntary work was how many people had met their partners through voluntary organisations. ‘Belting out Mozart’sRequiemcured not only my stress but my sex life,’ one said. ‘To anyone out there feeling lonely, you may even meet your Mr Right.’
Angus burps.
Luckily, I’m not looking for my Mr Right.
‘I can burp the entire alphabet if you like?’ he boasts. ‘My children love it. Did you tell me your name?’
