Read Online The Dead Wife's Handbook by Hannah Beckerman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hannah Beckerman
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he’s all yours . How’s that for a testimony, huh?’
It’s a wonderful testimony, there’s no denying. I never knew my best friend thought so highly of my husband.
I think about all the things I’d have added if I’d been writing that profile instead of Harriet. I’d have described Max’s broad shoulders that reassure you he could carry the weight of the world on them if he had to, and his beautifully solid hands that encase yours in security when he holds them. I’d have mentioned the muscle definition in his calves – cyclist’s calves – that imbue his every stride with a sense of purpose, and the oversensitivity of his bare skin that renders every human touch potentially ticklish. I’d have talked about how the tip of his nose quivers when he talks, engendering even the most fractious conversation with an air of comedy and how, last thing at night, after a difficult day, he’ll stroke your head with the gentlest of touches – so gentle it’s like the air of an angel passing through your hair – until such time as he’s caressed away the day’s frustrations and soothed you into slumber.
I think if I’d started writing that profile, I might never have been able to stop.
‘Harriet, I’m flattered, really I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want it up there.’
‘Hang on a second, Mr Risk-Averse. Before you go jumping the apocalyptic gun, just have a look at some of these women who’ve messaged you already. Look – there’s one here called Sophia who’s a doctor – actually, she’s a bloody surgeon – and, though I hate to admit it, she’s got even better legs than me. Look at them – they go on forever. What’s not to like about a surgeon with legs like that? And there’s another really pretty one here too – let me find her – yes, here she is. Sarah, she’s a social worker – possibly a bit earnest but she’s still pretty hot.’
Max looks over Harriet’s shoulder with disconcertingly more interest in this collection of female admirers than befits a man who insists he’s not ready for all of this yet.
‘You haven’t even got my height right here, Harriet. Since when was I six foot? And my eyes aren’t brown – they’re hazel. And while it’s very kind of you to have described me as “very good-looking” I think it might have been more honest to have ticked the average box.’
‘Stop obsessing over the details, Max. You’re almost six foot and anyway – what kind of freak is going to get out a tape measure to check? I said your eyes were brown because I always think that hazel sounds a bit – I don’t know – indeterminate whereas everyone loves a man with brown eyes. And given that it’s standard practice for people to upgrade themselves at least one rank on the looks leader board on these kinds of sites, if I’d said you were average I’d basically be implying that you’re ugly and I’m assuming you wouldn’t have wanted me to communicate that to the virtual world, would you?’
Max looks contemplative. I wish I could know what’s going through his mind. I wish I could discuss this with him, face-to-face, even though I know that if that were possible, the conversation wouldn’t be necessary.
‘I’m sorry, Harriet. I can see you’re just trying to be helpful and that you’ve gone to a lot of trouble. But it’s just not the right time.’
‘Oh come on, Max. You and I both know that left to your own devices you’ll still be saying it’s not the right time come Doomsday. Some of these women look genuinely nice. What’s the worst that can happen if you give it a go?’
Max leaves the kitchen table and begins wiping down work surfaces that were already spotlessly clean.
‘It’s not that I think something bad will happen, Harriet. It’s just that I look at the pictures of those women and I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice, but they’re not Rachel. In fact, when I look at them, all I can think about is how little
It’s a wonderful testimony, there’s no denying. I never knew my best friend thought so highly of my husband.
I think about all the things I’d have added if I’d been writing that profile instead of Harriet. I’d have described Max’s broad shoulders that reassure you he could carry the weight of the world on them if he had to, and his beautifully solid hands that encase yours in security when he holds them. I’d have mentioned the muscle definition in his calves – cyclist’s calves – that imbue his every stride with a sense of purpose, and the oversensitivity of his bare skin that renders every human touch potentially ticklish. I’d have talked about how the tip of his nose quivers when he talks, engendering even the most fractious conversation with an air of comedy and how, last thing at night, after a difficult day, he’ll stroke your head with the gentlest of touches – so gentle it’s like the air of an angel passing through your hair – until such time as he’s caressed away the day’s frustrations and soothed you into slumber.
I think if I’d started writing that profile, I might never have been able to stop.
‘Harriet, I’m flattered, really I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want it up there.’
‘Hang on a second, Mr Risk-Averse. Before you go jumping the apocalyptic gun, just have a look at some of these women who’ve messaged you already. Look – there’s one here called Sophia who’s a doctor – actually, she’s a bloody surgeon – and, though I hate to admit it, she’s got even better legs than me. Look at them – they go on forever. What’s not to like about a surgeon with legs like that? And there’s another really pretty one here too – let me find her – yes, here she is. Sarah, she’s a social worker – possibly a bit earnest but she’s still pretty hot.’
Max looks over Harriet’s shoulder with disconcertingly more interest in this collection of female admirers than befits a man who insists he’s not ready for all of this yet.
‘You haven’t even got my height right here, Harriet. Since when was I six foot? And my eyes aren’t brown – they’re hazel. And while it’s very kind of you to have described me as “very good-looking” I think it might have been more honest to have ticked the average box.’
‘Stop obsessing over the details, Max. You’re almost six foot and anyway – what kind of freak is going to get out a tape measure to check? I said your eyes were brown because I always think that hazel sounds a bit – I don’t know – indeterminate whereas everyone loves a man with brown eyes. And given that it’s standard practice for people to upgrade themselves at least one rank on the looks leader board on these kinds of sites, if I’d said you were average I’d basically be implying that you’re ugly and I’m assuming you wouldn’t have wanted me to communicate that to the virtual world, would you?’
Max looks contemplative. I wish I could know what’s going through his mind. I wish I could discuss this with him, face-to-face, even though I know that if that were possible, the conversation wouldn’t be necessary.
‘I’m sorry, Harriet. I can see you’re just trying to be helpful and that you’ve gone to a lot of trouble. But it’s just not the right time.’
‘Oh come on, Max. You and I both know that left to your own devices you’ll still be saying it’s not the right time come Doomsday. Some of these women look genuinely nice. What’s the worst that can happen if you give it a go?’
Max leaves the kitchen table and begins wiping down work surfaces that were already spotlessly clean.
‘It’s not that I think something bad will happen, Harriet. It’s just that I look at the pictures of those women and I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice, but they’re not Rachel. In fact, when I look at them, all I can think about is how little
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