that image with a long, measured breath, but as I inhale, the image of her hands grabs me: strong hands that used to grasp her partners’ when she competed in national figure-skating championships. I breathe out again.
I brace myself for what comes next, because it always comes: The Montage. The Montage filled with Kerry’s achievements, her body jumping and swirling across the ice, first as a four-year-old then, year after year, the outfits changing as she grows, as her jumps become higher and more elaborate, the film rolling as it pans to her at school, always surrounded by popular friends, always laughing. Then to her first dates with Nessa, their beautiful faces smiling at each other with hidden secrets, their love pure, exciting: solid. The four of us together on the beach, sunburnt shoulders, lukewarm wine, sandy toes, Erica and Oscar making sandcastles together, Hailey hunting for shells.
And then, as it always does, The Montage rewinds, the crystal clear high definition of Kerry’s life switching to a grainy camcorder recording: me on the sidelines watching her skate, clapping and cheering as the medals were placed around her neck; making excuses not to join her bunch of school friends because I knew they just tolerated me. But then . . . there is Ed, he reaches his hand towards me and I step out of the grainy picture into the real world.
My feet take me into the bathroom, my reflection beckoning me towards the mirror. I take in the first hint of a tan, the splatter of freckles over the bridge of my nose; the blue of my eyes have life behind them for the first time in months; there is a sheen to my skin that has been smothered beneath grief and is only now starting to breathe.
I turn my head towards the bedroom, where I can hear Ed mumbling in his sleep. I replay our frantic lovemaking last night, thinking of all the things that I can do to make it better for him, to make it even more exciting.
Then I have an idea.
‘What? I thought it would be helpful,’ I reply, but Ed looks really mad. He’s not the type of man who gets mad. But, all the same . . . he is mad. I start to feel the seeds of doubt about my notes on how to improve our sex life.
‘You thought that by giving me a manual of do’s and don’ts when we are at it I would be pleased?’
‘But I thought that—’
He storms out of the bedroom and onto the landing, slamming the door behind him.
I scurry off the bed and follow Ed as he charges down the stairs.
‘What is going on, Jen?’ He throws the notebook onto the desk by the front door and runs his fingers through his hair.
‘Nothing is going on.’ I step towards him, reaching for his hand, pulling him towards me. Reluctantly, he follows, but when I guide his hand towards my bra he snatches it back.
‘Nothing going on, Jen? Really?!’
‘What? Just because I want my husband means there is something going on?’
‘It’s not that and you know it.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re upset. You’re always moaning that our sex life has taken a nose-dive since the kids were born.’
‘This isn’t just about the sex. I know how difficult it’s been . . . losing Kerry.’
‘Me wanting to have sex – good sex – is nothing to do with my dead sister!’
Kerry raises her eyebrows at me from over Ed’s shoulder. I ignore her.
‘If anything about Kerry’s death has taught me anything, it’s to make the most out of the life we’ve got. And life is too short for—’
‘For what? Bad sex?’
‘I’m not saying the sex was bad before—’
‘No, you’d rather give me a list of Improvements.’ He reaches over, picking up the notepad and waving it above his head, making the glass teardrops of the fake chandelier murmur gently against each other, with voices that chime. Ed scratches the back of his head. ‘I’m going to pick up the kids.’
‘Ed—’
But my voice is swallowed by the slam of the door, the whisper of the chandelier gossiping in aghast tones at Ed’s dramatic exit.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #3
Death by Chandelier
Jennifer Jones stands beneath the chandelier that catches the sunlight inside its delicate hands. She is tucking her green T-shirt into her jeans when a small sound niggling her senses draws her eyes up. Above the light fitting is the attic, filled with cobwebs and Christmas decorations,