smiled at him, took one and blew my nose. I was aware that I was making a most unladylike honking sound, but what else could I do?
“Sorry,” I said.
He gave me a feeble smile.
“I know,” he said. “It’s really hard, isn’t it?”
I took a moment to process everything that he’d told me.
“How’s Laura? What about Keith and Gary?”
“They’re in bits, as you’d expect.”
“I’m going to attend the funeral,” I said, decisively.
“Me too,” he said. He slurped on his cola. “He was a funny old bloke, wasn’t he?”
I smiled, swallowed down the lump in my throat. “He was nice,” I said. “You could tell that straightaway, even when he was unconscious on the pavement.”
Raymond nodded. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “At least he had a few weeks with his family after the accident, eh? Good weeks—his wee party, Keith’s fortieth. He got a chance to spend time with all the people he loved.”
I nodded. “Can I ask you something, Raymond?” I said.
He looked at me.
“What’s the etiquette for funerals? Are mourners still required to wear black, and are hats de rigueur?”
He shrugged. “No idea . . . just wear whatever you want, I guess. Sammy’s not the kind of guy who’d be bothered about that sort of thing, is he?”
I pondered this. “I’ll wear black,” I said, “to be on the safe side. No hat, though.”
“No, I’m not wearing a hat either,” said Raymond, and we actually laughed. We laughed far longer than his feeble witticism merited, just because it felt good.
We didn’t speak on the walk back to the office. The weak sun was in our faces, and I held mine up to it for a moment, like a cat. Raymond was scuffing through the light carpet of fallen leaves, his red training shoes flashing through all the bronze. A gray squirrel bounded in fluid semicircles across our path, and there was that almost autumnal smell in the air, apples and wool. We didn’t even speak when we got inside. Raymond took both my hands in his and squeezed them, just for a second, and then released them at my sides. He went upstairs and I walked around the corner to my office.
I felt like a newly laid egg, all swishy and gloopy inside, and so fragile that the slightest pressure could break me. There was already an e-mail waiting for me by the time I sat down at my desk.
C U Friday Rx
Was a response required? I suspected it was, so I just sent this:
X
23
I was getting the hang of this shopping business. I had returned to the same department store and, after seeking advice from a different shop assistant, had purchased a black dress, black tights and black shoes. This was my first dress since childhood, and it felt strange to have my legs on public display. She had tried to steer me toward vertiginous heels again—why are these people so incredibly keen on crippling their female customers? I began to wonder if cobblers and chiropractors had established some fiendish cartel. On reflection, though, she was correct in stating that the fitted black dress did not really “go” with either my new boots (too informal, apparently) or my Velcro work shoes (it appeared that nothing did, much to my surprise; I had thought that they were the very definition of versatility).
We compromised with some improbably named “kitten heels,” which, contrary to what one might think, had nothing to do with cats. They were heels which were easy to walk in, but which were, nonetheless “very feminine.” On what basis was this decided, and by whom? Did it matter? I made a mental note to research gender politics and gender identity at some point. There would be a book about it—there were books about everything.
On this trip, I’d even bought a handbag, judging that my shopper probably wouldn’t be appropriate for a funeral. The fabric was imprinted with a very jaunty pattern, and I felt it might stand out at a graveside. The wheels could also be a bit squeaky.
The bag I finally settled on was impractical, being far too small to carry, for example, either a hardback book or a bottle of Glen’s. I examined it when I got home, stroking its glossy leather outer and silky fabric lining. It had a long gold chain which you simply placed over your shoulder, leaving your hands free.
At further horrendous expense, I’d also bought a black wool coat, single-breasted, knee-length, fitted. It was warm and plain,