The Last Love Note(56)
I break away from him and back into the hall, determined to ‘work the room’ and show him that tonight’s potential victory wasn’t a one-off. The event is filled with people who I know are interested in their future legacy or want to make something of the legacy of people they’ve lost. I feel uniquely placed to understand that, and to gently float ideas about how they can make a difference.
Hugh works just as hard. I’m aware of him across the room, understated charm offensive in full swing. It occurs to me what a strong team we make when we’re totally on our game – or when I am. It’s rare for him not to be.
The evening evolves with the arrival of a band, and a few people drift onto the dancefloor. I haven’t danced since the last time I was out with Grace, just before everything tumbled. Being out tonight, Charlie-free, dressed to the nines and feeling confident for the first time in years, I am itching to get out there.
‘Do you dance as well as you network?’ I’m asked by the app developer I’m chatting with, Arch Jacobs. He’s been an overnight sensation, making a small fortune with an intuitive podcast app that apparently cuts post-production in half.
‘I can’t remember!’ I say, hoping it’s like riding a bike.
He takes my hand and pulls me into the centre of the room. The band is catering to the older demographic, playing a range of hits from Glen Miller through to Elvis, and this is exactly the dress for the task. I’m loving the way it feels as I move, loving all of it, really: the music, the freedom, the temporary holiday this night is giving me from Charlie and all the sadness.
Eventually we peel off for a drink and sit down. I feel like I’ve exorcised months worth of stress in just one set of songs.
‘That was great,’ Arch says, still catching his breath as he places a gin and tonic in front of me on the table. ‘Where’d you learn to dance like that?’
‘School of life,’ I reply, and he laughs.
‘What’s your story, Kate?’ he asks. ‘Married? Kids? Divorced?’
‘Widowed,’ I answer. Even now, it feels unnatural to utter the word.
Like most people when I break the news, Arch looks immediately uncomfortable. He’s searching for words to wrap around a situation like ours. ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for reminding you.’
‘How could you have known? And thanks.’ I hadn’t forgotten!
The air is charged with a type of awkwardness I’ve come to accept. I’m forever having to smooth this over for people, help them navigate the topic and reassure them it’s okay. On top of everything else involved in grief work, it’s just another layer of difficult.
I want an excuse to leave, the spell of the evening broken now. I catch sight of Hugh, who’s having a conversation with someone at the back of the room. He looks over and responds to my subliminal communication. I watch him wrap up his chat, shake the guy’s hand, grab his suit jacket on the way past his table and walk to ours.
‘Hi,’ he says to Arch. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. Hugh Lancaster. Amazing app, mate. Well done.’
Arch seems relieved for the change of subject.
‘You ready to head off soon?’ Hugh asks me. ‘No rush.’
I nod. ‘Thanks. Arch, it’s been lovely to meet you. Thanks for the dancing! Hope to see you again at another event.’
He smiles, then goes in for an unexpected hug, crushing me to his chest while he whispers in my ear, ‘I’m so sorry again, Kate.’
When he releases me, I nod, pick up my bag and follow Hugh out of the room, down the stairs and through the exit into the cool evening air.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Grief convo. Awkward as usual.’
‘Yeah. But it looked like you were having a good time before that?’
I was. The first good time I’ve had in a really long time. And I’m sorry the evening is over.
Hugh opens the Uber app. ‘Do you feel like going home?’ he says. ‘Or would you like to make the most of your freedom? We could get a drink somewhere?’
The idea of going home feels horrifically lonely. No Charlie, who’s sleeping over at Grace’s for a treat. No Cam. No distractions. Just me in the house. I don’t think I’m ready for it.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I blurt. ‘I don’t know where. It’s been so long since I’ve been out in the world after dark. I don’t know half the bars in town these days.’
‘I know exactly the place,’ Hugh says, booking the car.
Chapters is a new bar on the corner of an old street in the redeveloped central suburb of Kingston, not far from Hugh’s apartment. It’s tastefully art-deco inspired, with worn leather couches, coloured glass panels, metal accents and high ceilings. The lighting is warm and the music soft enough to speak over. I think I’m in love with the place and, best, the drinks are named after classic authors. I take a photo of the drinks menu and send it to Grace by way of an update on my evening.
‘Chapters? You’ll love it! Please tell me you met a hot guy at the gala and you’re about to have a wild night of drunken debauchery and merry-widow sex.’
‘Everything okay?’ Hugh says, returning from the bar with our drinks – the ‘Austen’ for me and a ‘Thoreau’ for him. In a flap, I drop the phone on the low table right beside where he’s placing my glass. It lands face up, of course, with Grace’s message broadcasting from the screen, the words ‘merry-widow sex’ blaringly obvious.