The widows club, p.1
The Widows' Club, page 1
THE WIDOWS’ CLUB
Amanda Brooke
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Amanda Valentine 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover photographs © Rekha Garton / Trevillion Images (main image); Ilina Simeonova / Trevillion Images (flowers)
Amanda Valentine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008219215
Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008219222
Version: 2019-09-24
Dedication
For my daughter and my best friend, Jess
Epigraph
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Eight Months Later
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Amanda Brooke
About the Publisher
STATEMENT
The Widows’ Club @thewidowsclub
In response to unprecedented media interest, we confirm that the deceased was a member of the group but are unable to comment further. We kindly request that the privacy of the group and its members is respected at this difficult time.
1
As April Thorpe stood outside Hale Village Hall on a damp September evening, she didn’t know if she was ready to join the group she spied through the windows. A dozen or so chairs had been arranged in a circle, but so far no one had taken their seats in the glass-fronted room on the lower floor. They had gathered in the foyer, sipping tea and chatting, and when someone tipped their head back and laughed, it felt wrong. How could they look so relaxed and happy? Who in their right mind would want to be a member of this exclusive club? April certainly didn’t.
She was tempted to scurry away home and scream into her pillow, but she knew from experience that wouldn’t lessen the pain. It was time for a new approach, but April’s feet refused to move. She was scared, and her fear was echoed high above her head in the low rumble of a plane making an approach to land. Hale was directly beneath the flight path for John Lennon Airport and in the darkened sky, the noise carried a sense of foreboding.
‘I don’t belong here,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘I’m too young to be a widow.’
A passer-by might say the same. Widows weren’t thirty years old with bright auburn hair and a feathering of wrinkles around sharp, green eyes. They were older, with laughter lines and watery eyes that captured decades of memories. Such women might point out that a lifetime wasn’t nearly long enough, but it was longer than the five years she and Jason had been married.
Widowhood had been thrust upon April seven months and twelve days ago on a cold, February morning, and whether she liked it or not, she had earned her place here. She imagined Jason prodding her shoulder to get her moving, and her body swayed ever so slightly.
‘Are you coming in?’ someone behind her asked.
April turned to find a smartly dressed woman offering her a smile. She looked like someone April might bump into at the office, someone normal, but her tote bag gave her away. It had the phrase, ‘Hope is the thing with wings’ emblazoned across it.
‘Erm. Sure,’ she replied.
Swept along by embarrassment rather than purpose, April stepped into the foyer to be greeted by the one person who wasn’t a stranger. Tara was in her mid-thirties and reminded April of a tall Audrey Hepburn with her dark hair pulled back into a chignon. The look was completed with a black-and-white striped top and a pair of pedal pushers. She didn’t look like a widow either.
Tara had stumbled into April’s life by chance a couple of weeks earlier when delivering boxes of exquisite cupcakes to the office where April worked as an internal auditor. The cakes were the finishing touch to a lunch-time baby shower the team had organised for one of their colleagues. Sara had had a difficult pregnancy, not least because her boyfriend had dumped her soon after she discovered she was expecting, but on her last day at work, her belly had been taut, her smile broad, and her happiness suffocating. April had no right to spoil her friend’s moment and in her haste to escape, she had almost knocked the cake boxes out of Tara’s arms.
‘Bad day at the office?’ Tara had asked later when she found April shivering outside the building.
April pulled out her earphones. She had been listening to one of Jason’s playlists on Spotify, feeling safe with songs her husband had chosen rather than risk new releases he would never get to hear. ‘I’m sorry about before.’
‘I don’t suppose I can expect everyone to fight over my cakes. I’m Tara, by the way.’
‘April,’ she replied as she took a closer look at her new companion. That day, Tara was wearing a vintage print tea dress with a pale yellow, round-necked cardigan. Her dark eyeliner flicks accentuated eyes that scrutinised April’s features.
‘I don’t normally do the deliveries,’ Tara said, ‘but I had to be on this side of the water anyway. I’m on my way to Clatterbridge Hospital next. I go back every year.’ She left a pause before adding, ‘My husband died there eight years ago today.’
‘That’s lovely,’ April said. She blinked. ‘Sorry, I mean, that’s awful, but it’s nice that you go back.’ Her cheeks flushed. She was usually on the receiving end of such a clumsy response and it felt odd to have the situation reversed. She hadn’t been prepared to meet another widow so much like herself. ‘You must have been quite young when you lost him.’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘I was twenty-nine,’ replied April.
‘I know,’ Tara said. ‘I spoke to your friend Sara and she mentioned why you might be upset.’
‘Then maybe you could explain it to me,’ April said, and for the first time she felt like she was talking to someone who might actually know why she felt the way she did. ‘I’m happy for Sara, and it’s not like Jason and I ever lost a child or suffered a miscarriage. We weren’t even trying for a baby.’
‘And now you’ll never get the chance,’ Tara replied. ‘While everyone else is working out their future paths, the ground in front of you has fallen away and you’re balancing on the edge of a precipice.’
‘I am,’ April said with a nod that threatened to spill the tears welling in her eyes. ‘I woke up one morning and everything I thought I had was gone. Jason died in his sleep. A subarachnoid haemorrhage. There was no warning. Nothing.’
April could remember how she had stretched out her arms when she awoke that morning. Her hand had touched something cold and even the memory made her recoil. She had no idea how long she had been lying next to Jason like that, but it would have been hours and there was no doubting he was dead. Her first reaction had been to scramble backwards off the bed, and she had landed hard on the floor. Unable, or unwilling to process what was happening, she had started to scream. Luckily they lived in a flat, and one of her neighbours had heard her.
Staring into the distance, April was back on her bedroom floor. A part of her had never left.
‘It will get easier,’ Tara assured her. ‘The grief might stay with you for ever but the shock each time you remember your loss will become less intense, or else you’ll simply get used to that stabbing pain in the centre of your heart.’
‘It really is a physical pain, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘How did you get through it?’
‘With a lot of help from a close network of family and friends. My daughter Molly was only two at the time, and Mike and I ran a business together, so there was no choice but to keep going.’
‘Gosh, that must have been hard. I don’t know how I’d cope if I had a baby to look after as well,’ April admitted, which only confused her emotions about the dreaded baby shower.
‘You seem to have a good group of friends around you too,’ Tara told her.
‘They must be sick and tired of walking around on eggshells. I don’t know how I feel from one minute to the next, and if I can’t predict how I’ll react, how can they? I know I’m being irrational half the time.’
‘Talking helps.’
April shook her head. ‘I don’t have any siblings, and I can’t offload on my parents, or worse still, Jason’s. I keep telling myself I should open up to friends, but Jason and I had known each other since school and we worked for the same council. His mates were mine, and vice versa. I can’t talk to them. It’s too painful. It’s too complicated.’
‘If you’re interested, I run a support group called the Widows’ Club. We were a bit short-sighted when we came up with the name because quite a few of our members these days are men, but we were all widowed under the age of fifty. We meet once a month to share things that would probably sound crazy to anyone else. We cry, we vent, and occasionally we have a laugh too.’
April bit her lip. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, edging away. ‘I should be getting back to work.’
Tara chuckled to herself. ‘I know how this must look, but I promise, I’m not some recruiter for a weird cult. Here,’ she said, pulling a business card from her pocket. ‘My mobile number’s on the back, or you can look up the group online. Have a think about it and if you’re interested, come over to my shop and we’ll have a proper chat.’
The embossed card with cursive script was for Tee’s Cakes and above Tara’s phone number was her address. ‘You’re in Hale Village? I live in Eastham.’
‘Then we’re practically neighbours,’ Tara said, dismissing the fact that the Mersey flowed between the two villages. ‘If you can get there, you’d be very welcome.’
Meeting another young widow had felt fated and, despite April’s reservations, she had visited Tara’s shop the following week where she found herself being inducted into the group. Tara’s offer of friendship had proven difficult to resist and she didn’t look in the least bit surprised when her newest recruit arrived at the village hall for her first meeting.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she said, giving April’s arm a squeeze.
‘I didn’t,’ April replied, stunned that she had made it this far.
There followed a blur of introductions that left April dizzy. After months of isolation, she was now one of many. Someone made her a coffee and another offered her a carefully crafted cupcake, presumably from Tee’s Cakes, but a combination of nerves and dread churned April’s insides. She was lucky to make it past the pleasantries without throwing up.
When it was time and they all took their seats in the circle, April didn’t know if she would talk, or what she might say if she did find her voice. With dark, unspeakable thoughts swirling inside her head, she stared into the depths of her half-empty mug until she became aware of the room falling silent. She looked up, and it was Tara’s face she saw first. She was sitting opposite to keep April in her line of sight, while the group’s other administrator, Justine, sat on April’s right. She was the one who had greeted April outside the hall.
Justine was around the same age as Tara, although her style was far more conservative. She wore a tailored dress and her sleek blonde ponytail swished as she bent down to take a clipboard from her tote bag. Tara had described her as the organised half of their partnership, and April was beginning to see why.
‘Shall we get started?’ Justine asked.
‘Sure,’ Tara replied. ‘Welcome back everyone. I’d like to start by introducing not one but two new members to the Widows’ Club. For those who haven’t had a chance to say hello yet, we have April sitting on Justine’s right, and on her left is Nick.’
There was a ripple of greetings and nods directed at the newbies, but April latched on to Nick’s smile. Wearing a suit and clean-shaven, he was in his late thirties and had spoken with a soft Liverpool accent when they had been introduced earlier. She had been too dazed at the time to pick up that she wasn’t the only curiosity in the room, but now that she knew, she felt drawn to him. They all had stories, and like the rest of the group, she wanted to hear his.
‘On behalf of all of us,’ Tara said, ‘I’m so sorry that you find yourself needing this group, but we’re in this together. Please contribute as much or as little as makes you comfortable. No one is here to judge.’
‘No Faith tonight?’ asked one of the men.
‘She’s passed on her apologies, but I’m sure our new members will have the pleasure of her company at the next meeting,’ explained Tara. ‘Right then, who wants to contribute first?’
As the conversation began to flow, April took time to familiarise herself with the faces that turned occasionally in her direction. The women outnumbered the men, but their ages were more evenly spread. There was at least one woman who looked younger than April, and a couple of members in their late forties, giving the group an age range that spanned more than a quarter of a century.
April tried her best to memorise names and keep a mental note of their individual circumstances, but it was difficult to keep track when her thoughts kept tugging her back to why she was there and how much she should share. What she did manage to glean was that some members had endured watching their loved ones’ health decline whilst others had suffered the shock of losing their partners in the blink of an eye. Some had children, others did not. They were all different, and yet whenever someone raised a gripe about a world that didn’t understand them, there were nods of agreement around the room.
‘I told myself I should get out more,’ a woman was saying. She glanced over at April and Nick to catch their eye. ‘I’m Jodie, by the way. My husband went out to play five-a-side one night and never came home. Heart attack. He died right there on the pitch two and a half years ago. He was twenty-seven.’ Jodie pursed her lips and there was a spark of anger, or was it disbelief behind her eyes? April had felt both.
‘I’m sorry,’ April replied, her first contribution to the group beyond a couple of indecipherable mumbles. Nick had been quiet too, listening intently as he pulled at the starched cuffs of his pristine white shirt.
‘So, where was I?’ Jodie asked with forced cheeriness, only to find she couldn’t continue. She tipped back her head and blinked hard for a second or two before straightening up. ‘You’d think I’d be able to control these flipping tears by now. Can you believe I went a whole week without crying last month? Honestly, I’m so sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise, not here,’ Tara reminded her.
‘I know, but sometimes it would be nice to say what I want to say without breaking down. It’s not like it was something sad, not really. All I wanted to share was that I bit the bullet and went out clubbing with my mates the other week,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, but all my friends are in couples and they’re desperate to hook me up with someone new. They spent the entire night striking meerkat poses to check out potential candidates.’
‘Did you mind?’ asked Justine.
‘Not really, or not at first. I know they just want to see me happy again.’
‘Only you can know when the time’s right,’ Steve said. He had introduced himself earlier, explaining how he’d nursed his wife through treatment for ovarian cancer. It hadn’t worked, the disease had been detected too late because a thirty-four-year-old mother of two presenting with symptoms couldn’t possibly have cancer. ‘You shouldn’t feel pressurised, Jode. It could be they’re only interested in pairing you up because they’re worried you’ll sink your claws into one of their husbands. The last time I went to what had been one of our regular couples’ nights, the men were ridiculously possessive of their wives. Probably explains why I wasn’t invited back.’
