Afterwife by Polly Williams

properly for the first time that day. She liked it at number thirty-three. Apart from anything else, her misery paled against his and this made her feel like the sane one. “Any grannies in the house?”
    “Sent Mum home.”
    “Really?”
    “Don’t worry. She’s still phoning every couple of hours. Like a speaking clock.” He pushed the bit of white paper up beneath hisfingernail and put on a high woman’s voice. “‘It’s four o’clock, Oliver. Have you got dressed yet? Have you canceled Sophie’s bank accounts? It’s five o’clock, Oliver, has Freddie had his tea? Have you spoken to the lawyers? When is the case coming to court?’ And on and on.” He shook his head. “Bless her. She’s driving me nuts.”
    “Er, I guess there’s a lot of stuff to sort out.” She could only imagine.
    “We die and do you know what we leave behind?” Ollie kicked back in his chair angrily. “Admin. We leave admin. Fucking great.”
    “Maybe it’s too soon to send your mum home, Ol,” she said, wondering when she’d slipped into calling him Ol rather than Ollie and whether this was overfamiliar. Sophie had called him Ol. “How about Soph’s sister? Would…”
    “I need to do this on my own.” Eerie choral medieval chanting music started to pour out of his speakers. It reminded her of churches and crypts. No, it was not going to help. He needed Emmylou Harris.
    He glanced at her, reading her mind. “It’s this or replaying Sophie’s voice on the answer machine.”
    Déjà vu suddenly hit her with such force she stepped backward. Two years before. A dark winter’s afternoon. Walking up the path of number thirty-three, hearing music, loud music, soft, smooth, old soul. The lights were on in the house, the curtains open, and she saw Sophie and Ollie clutching each other, dancing around the living room, oblivious to anything but each other, his arm tight around her waist, her eyes fixed hungrily on his face. Like Taylor and Burton, she’d thought. Shocked by the erotic intensity and not wanting to intrude, she’d turned right round and walked twice around the block, realizing that she’d never danced like that with anyone. From that to this. It was pitiful. “You can’t be alone,” she said quietly. “Not right now.”
    “I’m not alone. I’ve got Fred.” He looked out the window, eyesfocused on something invisible in the middle distance. “It was airless in the house with everyone here, Jenny, all of us choking on grief. Believe me, this is easier.” He shook his head. “A few days ago, I had this energy surge and ran about sorting everything out, phoning the idiots at Orange, calling her building society, some twat at London transport, and feeling almost positive, even though that sounds mad, and then…I…I just crashed.”
    “Oh, Ollie.” This big, wonderful chunk of a man as vulnerable as a little boy, it wasn’t right. But he’d get through this. He had to. She was going to make sure of it.
    “It keeps going round and round my head. If you’d both left the restaurant thirty seconds earlier…If you’d got a cab…” His face crumpled. “The what-ifs of it all make me want to rip my skin off. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t explain.” He looked up at her desperately. “I can’t
be
, Jenny. I can’t just be anymore. Tell me how. Please.”
    She leaned toward him then, needing to be close to him. He smelled different from Sam. Saltier. She recognized the smell from Sophie, who’d always smelled slightly of Ollie in the way other people smelled of their houses.
    “I don’t want to be here, Jen,” he said so quietly, she could barely hear him.
    “Don’t even say that, Ollie. Freddie needs you.” She noticed that there was a Coco Pop trapped in his beard.
    His eyes darkened. “I need him more. And I hate that. It should be the other way round.”
    “I think you’re holding up really well, Ollie. I do, really.” Should she tell him about the Coco Pop?
    “Every day I wake up knowing