Free The Dead Wife's Handbook by Hannah Beckerman Page B

listening to that conversation last night. It was one of those rare times I wished my access haddone me the favour of maintaining my ignorance. There are some things a dead wife is definitely better off not knowing, and right at the top of that list is undoubtedly the stomach-churning thought of your husband on a date with another woman. I honestly think Max isn’t ready. I think he knows he’s not ready. But I suppose if there’s one predictable aspect of grief, it’s the promise to make people behave unpredictably.
    During my protracted weeks of absence – weeks that feel so much longer now than when I lived and breathed them – I’ve assumed that if Max did at some point in the distant, unimaginable future decide to start dating again, my feelings about it would be unambiguous. I expected there to be simple, unadulterated jealousy and a possessive desire for nothing short of social disaster. But watching Max now, witnessing his profound level of discomfort, remembering – just about – what it’s like to be meeting a stranger for the first time with all the accompanying hopes, desires, fantasies and fears, my overriding feeling is the simple wish that Max wasn’t putting himself through this. That I wasn’t putting him through it. That none of this – for either of our sakes – was happening.
    I know frustratingly little about the woman Max is about to meet. I know that she’s a vet and that Max thinks her photo makes her look ‘friendly’. I know that her name is Dodie, which seems strangely fitting for a vet and yet equally inappropriate for anyone living in the twenty-first century. I know that she’s thirty-four, which is younger than me but thankfully not quite young enough to be threatening.

    I also know that the woman who eventually walks through the door that Max can now barely take his eyes off for more than a few seconds may bring with her the best or the worst of evenings. That she may be the woman with whom Max spends the rest of his life. Or she may not.
    Either way, I don’t believe that any of us are ready for this.
    The pub’s double doors swing open and a woman halts hesitantly for a second, scanning the room in search of the swiftest of rescues before her eyes eventually settle on Max, who stands up clumsily at a table devoid of enough space to fully erect himself, and offers her a comforting wave.
    ‘Hi. You must be Dodie.’
    Max stretches out his hand to be shaken while simultaneously inching his head towards her in anticipation of an introductory cheek-kiss, a movement which fails to be reciprocated, leaving him bobbing in and out of Dodie’s personal space like an inconclusive jack-in-the-box until, finally, accompanied by a nervous laugh (from him) and an awkward smile (from her) he touches his lips to this woman’s cheek. It’s hardly a consummation of the relationship but already my stomach’s somersaulting with the violence of envy.
    ‘What can I get you to drink?’
    ‘Just a coke would be great, thanks. I’m driving.’
    A flutter of surprise stumbles across Max’s face. I can understand why. He told Harriet he planned to traipse here via two separate buses this evening under the relatively sensible assumption that blind dates and alcohol areinextricable bedfellows. Now Max must decide whether to continue to drink alone and order his third pint of the evening or join Dodie in her sobriety.
    Max elbows his way to the bar where he spends an uncomfortable few minutes endeavouring to attract the barman’s attention while simultaneously offering Dodie a series of awkward, reassuring smiles. After the third of these, Dodie turns to face the opposite direction, affecting an impression of interest – however improbable – in the antiquarian maps hanging in frames on the wall. With Max free to devote his efforts to getting served, I turn my attention to a closer study of Dodie; I know that once Max returns it’ll be impossible for me to concentrate on anything other than