When we arrive at the church, our car stops at the bottom of the steps. Hilltop Manor’s chapel, the one Bex used to cut across to staff meetings she hated, sits just inside the huge iron gates.
The towering stained-glass windows depict images of religious scenes, and a tall bell tower stands like a watchman. Bex will be laid to rest in a small cemetery at the rear of the building. It cost Ben a small fortune to secure a plot, but this is one of the places Bex felt most content. He wanted her final resting place to be a happy one.
I take my wife’s hand, and we step out of the car onto the white gravel. She tucks her face under the brim of her hat as if it will keep the day away. Ben climbs out of the car in front, his four children lining up beside him.
We all walk in together, past the lilies in huge planters by the door, and make our way to the family benches at the front.
The pews are packed, latecomers stand three deep at the back. The organist plays “Fields of Gold” as the congregation stands for the entrance of the coffin. Ben holds his kids as if they’re his life source, his arms wrapped around trembling shoulders.
Halfway through the service, Savannah stands and moves to the front. The room takes a breath. She clears her throat before she speaks, a single tear gliding down her cheek, leaving a trail of pain.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming. I felt it was important for one of us kids to stand up and speak today. And as the oldest, it was my duty to talk for us all. Bex was an incredible mum and step-mum. Our family is certainly not conventional. She hadn’t been in my life for long, but she brought joy to all of us. I loved her, and my brother and sister loved her. When we discovered we had another brother, Liam, we were frightened he would steal our dad. But we not only gained a brother but also a mother.”
She directs her gaze at her young brother. “Liam, we’re all here for you. Time will pass, and life will become more bearable. But we will always want to remember your mum with you.”
My nephew keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes as his sister speaks. Rose threads her fingers through the unsteady ones resting on his lap. He doesn’t answer, just grips her hand tighter, shoulders tense as if bracing against a blow.
As I look around the congregation, there’s hardly a dry eye to be seen. Ben is watching his daughter, a mixture of pain andpride in his eyes. Amy’s face is a canvas of smudged makeup and grief. “I’m so proud of my niece right now,” she whispers.
We watch the coffin pass and follow it out like a tide. The rest of the day passes in torrents of tears wiped away with hugs and alcohol.
Finally, in bed with my wife, relief and guilt curl around my spine. It feels as though the door has finally closed on Bex’s tragedy.
Now, our lives can restart. We can move on.
I can breathe again even though she can’t.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and think about the future, or lunch, or something ordinary, while Bex’s story ends here, years too soon. And that truth burns deep because even after craving this peace for months, part of me hates it’s finally here.
Chapter four
Terry
Three months later…
1st June
Amy bounces from foot to foot in the kitchen. “Can you believe it?” she squeals. “Today I’m officially a gym owner!”
I laugh as her high ponytail swings from side to side. Her deep brown eyes are wild with excitement. She’s wearing her new uniform: pink and blue checked leggings and a matching cropped top. Her toned abs are a billboard of her career. She gives me a megawatt smile and bats her eyelashes. “Do I look the part?”
Walking over to her, I take her in my arms and kiss her fiercely, claiming her mouth with mine. “I’d fuck you,” I whisper in her ear.
She giggles the way she does when she’s turned on.
“Time for a quickie?” I suggest.
She slaps my arm away and sashays over to the front door, then bends from the waist to pick up her huge gym bag, giving me a full view of her luscious behind. My palm twitches, my body answering before my brain does. I rearrange myself in my sweats. “I’ll pop past later, after my shift,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she sings as she skips out the door and blows me a kiss over her shoulder. “Love you.”
My current job is another one in a long line of failed careers. When I moved to the city in my twenties, I had big plans to work in theater and television. Over the years, I’ve worked in both porn and drag shows, but never broken into mainstream entertainment.
There was a short spell behind the scenes in a local theater, but they fired me for trying on the costumes. Now, I’m back to flipping burgers at a local café. At over fifty years old, there’s little chance I will progress further than this.
Sometimes I scroll through social media and see their faces. The ones who made it. The old friends who stand under spotlights, while I tend to the fryer. I try to convince myself I’m happy for them, but every post is a reminder of what I failed at.
Thirty years ran away, and I’m stuck where I was at twenty: low paid, head down, and pretending there was no dream.
