"So it's you," she said. "The Norah Singleton."
I swallowed.
"Do you two know each other?"
"Not exactly," I said.
"Oh, I know her all right. She's been flirting with my Henry for years."
Jessie laughed. "Look. She's blushing."
I didn't know where to look. The truth is that I, Norah Singleton, have known Henry Chapman for twenty years. We went to school together, shared our first cigarette and wept tears of homesickness as we lay on the roof of our hostel and dreamt of our mothers' cooking.
"I feel like I already know you," I said. "I've heard so much about you from everyone -- Jessie, Landon and even Henry himself."
She snorted. "Well, I can't say I see the appeal. Anyway, what is it that you do, again?"
"Champagne anyone?"
I shot Jessie a grateful look. "Where is the orange juice?"
"It should be in the fridge. Harold, how are those steaks doing?"
"Gimme another fifteen minutes and they'll be soft enough to melt in your mouth."
"I hope he means the steaks," she said.
I fetched the orange juice and set it on the table under the tarp. I wanted to avoid Lucinda's sneer at all costs. She made me want to fidget. I looked for something to occupy my hands. Ah, the serviettes needed folding. I set about shaping them into fans. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lucinda pawing at Landon. Jessie had set me up with him for lunch so I wouldn't feel alone. He was as camp as cocoa in enamel mugs, but I was grateful that his presence doubled as a human shield.
"So how do you know Norah?" She dragged the words up her throat and out of her nostrils.
"We go way back," said Landon. "She loaned me my first pair of heels for the school play."
"I didn't realise you were a Nancy boy. Tell me: how do you like my eyebrows?"
"I think they could use a proper threading. And you've overtweezered this one just a little." Landon brushed her brow bone.
"I have not!" She clamped her hand on his arm. "Come with me to the nearest mirror and explain yourself."
Harold chuckled into the charcoal fumes. I finished folding the serviettes to coincide with their exit.
"Doubt that woman draws breath."
"You're telling me. What a way to greet one of Henry's oldest friends. I never flirted with him."
"She's just jealous." Jessie joined us around the coals. "And everyone, myself included, thought you and Henry would be the first in our group to have a happy-ever-after."
"What?"
"Don't look so surprised." Harold turned the steak. "Henry was besotted with you."
"I don't know where you're getting all this from. We were only ever friends. Stop that look, you two. And stop those speech bubbles that say I'm protesting too much."
"What's the protest about? I swear, if I hear another example of people trashing property in the name of a cause, I'll eat my James Dean poster." Lucinda's left brow had a scarlet blotch growing beneath it.
"Norah thinks Harold will burn the steak." Dear, sweet Jessie to my rescue again.
"He'd better not. Harold, you'd better not. Burnt food is full of carcinogens and that will make it inedible."
"Not inedible, surely." Landon looked pleased with himself. He kept winking at me and trying to point at his own eyebrow. I knew an act of sabotage when I saw it. Lucinda was lucky he let her keep her brows at all.
"You don't know the half of it." Lucinda stepped up to the grill. "Oh, my god, you're using charcoal. Did I not say wood, Harold? Wood is better for us and for the environment."
"It was wood until just now, when it became charcoal, Lucy."
"Yes," said Landon. "And charcoal isn't even wood's final form..."
"Could you help me with the salad?"
I nodded at Jessie and followed her inside. "That woman is insufferable. What does Henry see in her?"
"A gigantic pair of knockers."
"You can't be serious."
"Don't blame me. Shakespeare said that men do not love with their hearts but their eyes."
"Except in rare instances. Look at you and Harold."
"Are you saying I'm ugly?"
I punched her arm. "No. But he loves you so much it makes me sick."
"I take it the new guy didn't work out."
"Not even in the same postal code."
"Do you ladies need help?"
"Not really. Unless you can help Norah find a man."
"Hey! I do not need help finding a man."
Jessie laughed. Lucinda scowled.
"Besides," I said, "I think Landon might be the one."
Even Lucinda joined in the laughter.
"Steaks are ready. Lunch is served."
"We'll be right there. You two go on out. I'll join you shortly." Jessie had that look about her.
"What are you up to?"
"You'll see." She pushed me out of the door and into the glare.
Landon was pouring drinks and Lucinda motioned for me to sit next to her. I felt like I was between Scylla and Charybdis. As I sat down, I heard Bryan Adams blast from the iPod dock behind us. He was singing about being 18 until he died. When Jessie came out, she was carrying a monstrosity pretending to be a red velvet cheesecake and ducking the spluttering of the sparklers.
"Did you have to?"
Jessie smiled. "Happy birthday, Norah." She placed the cake in front of me and I watched through blurred vision as the sparklers died. Someone put champagne in my hand.
"Speech! Speech!"
Trust Landon to stick to conventions.
"I... I don't know what to say. Thank you all so much." Bryan Adams fell silent. "I feel grateful to be able to celebrate my special day with you and..." My voice failed.
"What are you waiting for? Cut the damned thing."
Landon thrust a knife into my other hand.
"Yes, good idea," said Harold, eyeing his steak. "The meat needs to rest anyway. A backwards meal it is."
"Do you hear that?" Lucinda craned her neck.
"My phone, sorry." I ran inside. "Hello?"
At first, I didn't remember what happened next. Jessie said they found me staring at the screen of my phone. All I kept saying was, "Henry's dead." Later, once I stopped shaking and once the cake was dried out on paper plates and the steak a victim of the neighbour's cat, I recalled the conversation.
"Hello?"
"Is that Norah Singleton?"
"Yes."
"Do you know Henry Chapman?"
"Yes."
"He listed you as his next of kin."
"Yes, but he's married now. His wife..."
"Miss Singleton, I regret to inform you that Mr Chapman died an hour ago. He collapsed outside the fruit and veg. He was carrying a card addressed to you."
"What?"
"We need you to come and identify his body."
"What?"
"Our preliminary reports suggest he had a brain aneurysm."
"What?"
"Miss Singleton, are you alone?"
"No."
"You said he's married? Was married, sorry."
"Yes."
"Do you know his wife's name?"
"Lucinda."
"Right. We'll contact her. Thank you, ma'am."
Lucinda never forgave me for being the first one they called. It's not like I asked for it. I never did get to taste Jessie's cake or Harold's steak or revel in the feeling of being the Birthday Girl one last time. And even if I did, I don't remember it. I just remember being sad.
My birthday is in three days and I don't want to tell anyone. Do you blame me? Can you blame me for hating my birthday when all I want to do is celebrate without being reminded of Henry? Henry, the man I've known for twenty years, who shared my first cigarette, and wept with me in communal homesickness on the roof of our hostel as we longed for our mothers' cooking. Henry, my closest friend, my keeper of secrets and, although I didn't realise it until after he was gone, the custodian of my heart. And every year, I am cursed with a constant reminder of his absence.
Happy birthday, indeed.
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