Free (2013) Four Widows by Helen MacArthur Page B

general public.
    I was unapproachable at first because no one had a clue what to say. “Hi, sorry to hear that your husband is dead. Can you sign my expenses form?”
    Jim became the go-between. He buffered me from people until the awkwardness retreated. There is something about death that can be catching. I’ve seen people recoil. I understand Cece’s thinking that her business was cursed; you become paranoid. Losing a spouse needs an upper age limit. Under the age of 40 is too much for everyone.
    On a technical note, even copy editors on the magazine don’t like a widow: a lone word stranded on a line.
     
    I told Jim about Ted. “He walked out seven years ago. Disappeared.”
    He whistled. “Man, and she’s still holding out for him? After all this time?”
    “It would seem so.”
    “I get that. Hell, I still believe Richey Edwards is alive. Private investigator?”
    “I’m not sure she wanted to go down that route.”
    “Because?”
    “The police told her that if he’s determined not to be found there isn’t much they can do. They have a point. She can’t drag him home kicking and screaming.”
    “Yeah, but wouldn’t you want to know? Either way.”
    “I would, but everyone is different.” I chose my next words carefully. “Suzanne puts her faith in God–and he helps.”
    Jim took a moment. “But not so hot at tracing missing persons?”
    “I’m guessing he has quite a schedule.”
    “Guess so.”
    We left it at that and got back to work.
    Corset Magazine might not be adept at handling recent bereavement but I had a talented team. Natalie, office gem, our favourite fashionista, had the edge on me; could tell who was wearing what from her insatiable coverage of fashion shows and editorial campaigns. It was useful to have someone so slavishly devoted to the cause: someone who could spot a blue Max Azria gown worn back-to-front on the red carpet before the stylists did.
    Everyone loved Suzanne when she came into the office. Jim was straight over at her, talking ideas for the cover shoot while she hung on his every word, enchanted.
    While Suzanne was in the fashion cupboard with Jim and Natalie discussing models and dresses, I arranged for Kate and Cece to pop over to the office, suggesting a quick lunch at our roof-level canteen whenever Suzanne was released from Q&A interrogation.
    “SURPRISE!” shrieked Cece when Suzanne and Jim finally returned to my desk. “LORI SMUGGLED US INTO THE BUILDING.”
    Suzanne squealed and held out her arms.
    “We are SOexcited for you,” continued Cece with pride, pulling Suzanne into a hug with Heimlich-manoeuvre enthusiasm.
    Jim whispered to me, “Some set of pipes.”
    I gave him the act-your-age-not-your-shoe-size look.
    Cece, oblivious she was being discussed, dragged me into the hug. “And I think YOU are what Isabella Blow is to Lee McQueen.”
    I was about to crack a joke about how well that worked out when Kate coughed and whispered, “No one’s told her–not sure even she knows Gianni’s dead.”
    Jim grinned, white teeth against sunburned skin, while raking a hand through bleached surfer’s hair.
     
    Lunch was loud. Mash up of fashion and Ribbons’ rescue plan. Once Cece got wind that Jim might be useful drumming up publicity, well, dog with a bone. She drilled him for advice while scoffing from a giant box of jelly babies someone had sent into the office.
    When Kate and Cece eventually left, Suzanne remained behind, unfazed by demands from Jim who wanted details on what inspired the collection (romance with a nod to Hollywood); where she had been exhibiting; who had she worked for; designers she rated; and what was next. I half listened while she cited her grandmother as her strongest influence and the label’s namesake; a dressmaker who copied designs from Vogue patterns to sell to local clientele. Her grandmother also sold knitwear from her living room to make enough money to support the family, including Suzanne, whom she raised.
    There