One
When I thinkback, I see chairs arranged in a circle. Small, hard, and plastic, they come in a range of primary colors, blotches of forced brightness in the otherwise drab, depressing space. Linoleum floors with chewing gum trodden into nondescript disks, a battered corkboard bearing peeling posters. The room has only two windows. The view through the streaked, dirty glass is of the car park.
This room has an assortment of uses. Knitting clubs, the local playgroup, dodgeball. More often than not, the chairs remain stacked against the wall. Towers of clashing reds and blues packed away to create more space for these joyful activities.
As far as I know, the circular formation is unique to Tuesday evenings. Unique to our particular group. The circle, you see, is a symbol of many things. It represents beginnings; it represents endings. Our group, obviously, is more concerned with the latter.
I would have liked some ambient noise to mask my entry: the rustle of a coat perhaps, or the low rumble of voices. Instead, there is only the whump of the swinging door settling behind me, the squeak of myrubber soles against the floor. Here, “silent as the grave” is not just an expression; it’s a mantra.
Fiona purses her lips as I take my seat. I sense, rather than see, that she’s glaring at me, so I take my time to shrug out of my coat and settle myself on the chair. I don’t make a habit of being late, but we’ve played this game a few times. It’s important, I’ve discovered, to keep Fiona on her toes.
Only when I have finished rubbing sanitizer into my hands does Fiona clear her throat and shuffle her papers with a self-importance that is astonishing for a woman whose greatest achievement is the death of her husband. The smell of rubbing alcohol is sharp in the air.
“Now that we’reallhere, let’s make a start, shall we?”
I don’t dislike Fiona. I admire her tenacity. Not many people have the stomach to profit from other people’s despair, yet she does it with an enthusiasm that borders on relish. She’s got a strong nose for business, and the personality to boot. If it weren’t antifeminist, you’d likely describe her as a battle-ax, but it is, so I won’t. Thereisa whisper of Miss Trunchbull about her, though. All of which is why, today, I’m alarmed to see her ample bosom inflating in a way that might almost be described as flirtatious, an unseemly pink flush spreading into those already ruddy cheeks.
“You might notice,” she says in a sugary voice I’ve never heard before, “that we have a new member joining us today.”
She gestures to a man on the other side of the circle. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him before. We don’t often get new members, and it’s always an exciting diversion from the usual order of play: tears and long, meandering monologues that most of us have heard fifteen times before. Personally, I like to mix it up a bit when I speak. Critical to keep your audience engaged.
The reason for Fiona’s sickening personality shift is instantly obvious. He’sveryattractive. Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’stall. There’s a nice symmetry to his face, too, and he has a full head of hair (which, when a man has suffered a loss, is not a guarantee). If I weren’t here under such tragic circumstances, I might even be tempted myself.
The man seems unbothered by our scrutiny, which is not always the case. I like to think we can be quite intimidating as a pack, and there have been occasions when new members have crumbled under the weight of our unsmiling stares. We don’t mess around here. This is a serious group for serious loss.
This man, however, raises his hand in an almost lazy acknowledgment of our attention. Bereavement suits him. The three-day-old stubble gives him a rugged, unruly quality, and his suit hangs from him in a way that only emphasizes his lithe frame. I bet he’s pure muscle underneath—
I stop myself there. It’s easy to become carried away in these sorts of situations, and I must keep my mind on the matter at hand: Freddie.
“This is Jack,” Fiona says, and simpers. Christ, even her cleavage is flushed now.
“Hi, Jack,” we chorus back in a monotone, to show how sad and solemn we are. Fiona looks as though she’d quite like to ask us to do it once more,with feeling.
“Do you feel comfortable sharing who you’ve lost, Jack?”
He clears his throat: a gruff, deep rumble. God, he’s good-looking. Rita’s clocked it, too, now. She’s staring at him, sucking in her cheeks in a way that makes her look not unlike an odd, inverted hamster, but at least she had the foresight to put makeup on. I look like shit. I have, admittedly, let myself go somewhat in the last few months.
“Sure,” Jack says, and as a collective we sit up a little straighter. There’s a certain presence to him that even the men in our group—Charlie and Matt—have picked up on. With a single word, he’s commanded our attention in a way that’s almost enviable. I study his bodylanguage. He’s leaning forward slightly, as though he’s drawing us into his confidence. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap for sincerity, his brows pulled together for seriousness. It’s good. Very good. “I’m here,” he continues, “because I lost my wife, Alice. She died of cancer earlier this year. Sixth of June.”
It takes me a moment to compute what he’s said. I’m so focused on the clarity of his delivery, the projection of his voice, that the date does not immediately register. But when it does, my heart gives a little leap of excitement.
“Did you say sixth of June?” The eagerness has leached into my voice—not a good look—and I tone it down instantly. “Sorry.” I clear my throat. That’s better. Duller, deader. “It’s just, that’s the date I lost my partner, Freddie. Sixth of June, this year.”
Jack looks at me for the first time, and I experience a lurch of intense desire. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says. Then he looks away again, and it feels like the sun has slipped behind a cloud.
“Thank you,Iris.” Fiona’s dropped all pretense now. To be fair, I have broken a cardinal rule: We do not, under any circumstances, interrupt another member when they’re speaking. I glance at Jack. He’s new. He won’t know the difference.
Fiona tries to claw back her composure and fails miserably. “That was very brave, Jack. Well done,” she says, with a chip of ice in her tone.
“I’m just going to do a little rundown of the way this particular bereavement group works, and then we’ll go round in a circle and introduce ourselves. I’m Fiona and I’m the group leader. Any concerns, come straight to me, yes?” She’s hitting her stride now. She loves new members almost as much as I do.
Fiona lost her own husband ten years ago and, in the wake of his death, wrote a nearly successful self-help book, which she flogs to all new members like it’s the much-anticipated new chapter of the Bible. She now turns a profit by giving talks about her healing process, and Iam beginning to wonder if losing her husband isn’t the best thing that ever happened to her.
“This is a safe space. I want you to be able to share your feelings, whatever they may be, in a nonjudgmental way. It’s important to note that we are a social bereavement group; this is not group therapy, nor is it purporting to be. The aim is to bring people who have suffered a loss together—but bear in mind that not everyone will have experienced the same type of loss as you. We just ask that you are patient: Others’ experience may differ from your own, but that doesn’t make their feelings any less valid. Understood?” She says all of this very fast, as though she is the voice-over for a radio jingle and is trying to fit the terms and conditions into the designated eight-second time slot at the end.
Jack nods, and Fiona turns to me.
“Iris, since you were so keen to interject, you can start.”
