Before long, Gabe had the chance to be the one giving the pitch to investors. He barely slept the night before. He practically fizzed with nervous energy. I made him breakfast that morning, but he was too nervous to eat. He showered and dressed in his most expensive suit. I told him he looked like Don Draper in Mad Men and he laughed, but I could tell his mind had already left the building.
I waved him off from the front porch, like a mother waving off a child. He said he’d call me as soon as they knew anything. I waited for the call all afternoon. When I hadn’t heard from him by 5 pm, I called his phone, but it was switched off.
I wasn’t worried; Gabe was notoriously bad at charging his phone. I tried calling the office, but they hadn’t seen him and hadn’t had any news. Eventually I had to assume he and his team had gone out for drinks – to celebrate or commiserate.
I finally fell asleep about 1 am.
When I woke up the next morning to find I was still alone, I started to worry. I called his phone again, but it was still switched off. I checked the spare room in case he’d crept in overnight and hadn’t wanted to disturb me. I even checked the front doorstep in case he’d lost his key and slept outside. That’s where I was when the taxi pulled up. Gabe emerged looking decidedly less polished than when I’d last seen him. His shirt was untucked, his hair was ruffled. He didn’t appear to have his jacket with him.
His face lit up when he saw me. He ran from the taxi and hugged me so hard my feet lifted off the ground. He smelled of booze and cigarettes and sweat. ‘We got the money!’
Gabe was so excited it was hard to feel anything but excited too. It was a big deal. He just wanted to talk and talk and talk. I made coffee and told work I wouldn’t be coming in and we sat in bed all day, rehashing the events of the day before. Gabe was practically levitating with joy.
Later, it seemed silly that I didn’t think it was a sign of something. But I took it as confirmation of his brilliance, his charisma, the great choice I’d made in marrying him. Yes, he’d stayed out all night, but he’d never been great at keeping track of time. He was swept up in the energy of the first deal, that was all. It was the same excitement and energy that had helped him to land the deal, so it seemed to me that I couldn’t really complain.
13
PIPPA
NOW
It’s rare that someone studies law with a plan to become a wills and estates lawyer. It is, at best, the colorectal surgeon of law. Not the most glamorous specialty – in fact, the butt of many jokes – but on balance an important and necessary job. There are those who get into it for practical reasons – job security, work/life balance and the ability to work for yourself – and those who enter the field because they’ve seen family members miss out on inheritances or estates get manipulated by greedy individuals. I am one of the few people – heck, perhaps the only one – who did go into law to become a wills and estates lawyer. Not because I watched a family member get diddled, or because I was worried I’d get diddled myself. I chose it because, in this world where so much is out of your control, it is one time when, with the right person in your corner, you get to play God.
‘Have you had any thoughts about your funeral arrangements, Mr and Mrs Peterson?’ I ask the couple on the screen.
I’m sitting at my laptop at the dining room table, as I often do in the morning when the light is better here. Beside me is a notepad, a glass of water and a digital clock that beeps when we’ve reached the end of our allotted time. Obviously, I’m aware of the time, but the loud beep helps the oldies to stay on track.
It’s clear Mrs Peterson hasn’t thought much about funeral arrangements because she looks at Mr Peterson questioningly. I’d told them exactly what we’d be covering today and asked them to make these decisions in advance. So far, they’ve argued over their medical power of attorney, their choice of executor and whether or not to hold assets in a family trust. Now, it’s 10.50 am, and I’m getting the sense this will take longer than the allocated ninety minutes, particularly since the first fifteen minutes were spent speaking to Mr Peterson’s son Nigel, who was trying to set up the Zoom call and was having trouble with the technology. I shouldn’t complain, as I have no issue charging for every minute, but today I’d like to get off the call sooner rather than later.
Gabe and the girls had bustled out the door just before 9 am, in a whirlwind of bags and lunchboxes and scooters. This morning’s drama centred around Asha’s declaration that she only wanted strawberries in her lunchbox. No sandwich. No yoghurt. Just the strawberries. Gabe had wanted to oblige, but I’d opted to sneak a sandwich into her bag in a separate container to avoid the judgement that would be forthcoming from their teacher. As they disappeared out the door, I noticed Freya was still wearing her pyjama top and Asha was wearing tights without a skirt. ‘Gabe! Asha needs a skirt!’
He’d been so confused. ‘But she’s wearing pants.’ He’d surveyed her for a moment. ‘With feet. Why don’t they make these for men?’
I’d tossed him a skirt and rolled my eyes. The girls were going to be late, but it wouldn’t matter because Gabe was dropping them off. Sarah Punch, the girls’ teacher, loves Gabe. Every time I show my face at school, she goes out of her way to tell me how wonderful it is that Gabe is such an involved parent, how he’s the only dad who volunteers, how he remembers every special day and activity. She appears not to hear when I point out that 1） he really doesn’t do any more than the other mums, and 2） I’m the one who remembers the special days and activities. Most irritatingly, she only answers to Mrs Punch – and that goes for the mums as well as the kids – but laughs giddily when Gabe calls her Sares. Gabe is staying on as the parent helper at preschool this morning, which means Mrs Punch will lose her mind. This is why men rule the world.
‘Have you thought about whether you’d like to be buried or cremated?’ I ask.
‘I’d like to be buried,’ Mr Peterson says definitely.
‘Fantastic!’ I say. ‘Anywhere particular?’
I expect this will be another twenty-minute debate, but Mr Peterson answers immediately. ‘We have a family plot in Sorrento.’
Perfect, I think. We might finish before noon.
But I’ve barely finished formulating that thought when Mrs Peterson’s head snaps up. ‘You want to be buried in the Sorrento plot? With Jilly?’
Jilly, I have ascertained from our discussions, is Mr Peterson’s late first wife.
‘It’s a family plot,’ Mr Peterson says. ‘You can be buried there too if you like.’
‘The three of us?’ Mrs Peterson looks at me beseechingly. ‘Together?’
‘Why not?’ He grins. ‘It’d be the only threesome I’ll ever have.’
Mrs Peterson gasps at the same time as I hear a knock at the door. A moment later, Dad calls out, ‘Hello!’ and lets himself in. I peer down the hallway to see him with a newspaper under his arm and a takeaway coffee cup in his hand. Mum must have sent him. （‘Go check on Pippa. Make an excuse so it doesn’t look overbearing. Take her a coffee and the paper or something!’ Dad was excellent at following directions to the letter.） I wave to him and hold a finger to my lips.