No Dress Rehearsal (3 page)

Suddenly all his neck hairs were standing on end and he was pulling on clothes and racing back to her parents.

Lizzie knew none of this. All she could see was that he was gone again. Misery wrapped itself around her like a heavy, grey cloak. Things were much worse than she'd realised. He'd never behaved like this before.

Panic rose in her throat. She had to talk to him. This had to be sorted out once and for all. She decided to ring
him at work as soon as she got in herself.

Half-heartedly she got ready for work. Then she did her daily ritual of standing on the weighing scales. This was to see if the cycling was having any effect. But instead of whizzing up to nearly ten stone, the needle on the scales didn't budge. Even when she bounced up and down, it stayed stuck at nought. Broken, she thought, like everything else in my life.

Neil and Lizzie weren't the only ones who'd had a bad night's sleep.

Sinead had spent eighty-nine minutes between three and five a.m. worrying about all the work she had to do the next day. She got back to sleep but awoke exhausted.

By eight o'clock she was at work. The phone rang at ten past. Who could be ringing so early? Ginger probably. Telling her he couldn't remember how to breathe. Or asking her what side he parted his hair on. But it wasn't
Ginger. It was Neil. What did he want?

“I've some bad news,” he said.

Now what could that be? Had someone scraped the side of his car? Had Man U lost last night?

“It's Lizzie,” he said. And immediately Sinead stopped her sarcastic thoughts. She felt a sudden and terrible fear.

“She was in an accident yesterday,” Neil said.

“Where is she?” Sinead was already pawing for her bag. “Which hospital? I'll go now.”

“No.” Neil said. “You can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because … because she's …”

Dead. What a funny word it was, Sinead thought, calmly. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. It was a good word for dead. Because it sounded so dead.

Neil was mumbling into her ear about removals, funerals. But she wasn't really listening. Her gaze was drawn to the floor beneath a filing cabinet. Look at how dusty it was. Thick with it. I suppose there wasn't enough space to get a brush beneath it. That'd be why it's so dusty, she thought.

“I'm at her parents,” Neil said.

“I'm coming over.”

As she was leaving, Ginger was just arriving.

“Where are you going?” he asked in alarm.

“Lizzie died,” she said, trying out the new and strange words. Then she decided to try it another way to see if it felt any more real. “Lizzie is dead.”

Ginger stared at her. “But where are you going?”

“To see her mammy and daddy. To
help them and Neil with the arrangements.”

“When will you be back? We've that big load of ball-bearings coming in today.”

Carefully Sinead repeated, “Lizzie is dead. I don't know when I'll be back.”

“Er, right. Make sure you have your mobile on.” Then, too late, Ginger remembered his manners. “Sorry for your trouble,” he muttered.

The morning was very misty as Lizzie cycled to work. She had to swerve more than once to avoid hitting people. They kept stepping out into her path, as if they couldn't see her. Puzzled, she put it down to the mist.

At the office she said a gloomy “Good morning” to Harry the porter. But he point-blank ignored her. Her throat ached with the onset of tears.

Clearly something was in the air. Brenda, her secretary, had her head on her desk and was crying for Ireland.

Further down the hall Lizzie spotted her boss, Julie. Was she imagining things or did she look very sad and grim? In fact there seemed to be an air of misery around the place that wasn't quite the same as the
usual
air of misery. It had a different, deeper feel to it. Hey, Lizzie thought sarcastically, has somebody died?

When she pushed open the door of her little office, she stopped short. To her surprise, there were two people already there. They looked like social workers. The man had a beard and a brown hairy jumper. The woman had frizzy, purple hair and earrings that looked like she had made them herself. And probably out of milk-bottle tops, at that.

“Excuse me,” began Lizzie, but the male social worker stopped her.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he said gently, “my name is Jim. Why don't you sit down.
I'm afraid this may come as a bit of a shock.”

“What's going on?”

“Please, Lizzie, it's better if you sit down,” said Jim.

Shakily she did so. “Is it Neil? Has something happened to him?”

“No, Lizzie, I'm afraid it's you.”

“ME?”

“Yes, Lizzie.” Milk-bottle-top woman spoke for the first time. “By the way, I'm Jan. Haven't you noticed anything … well … a little bit odd yesterday and today?”

“No,” Lizzie said stoutly.

“Really?” Jan sounded like she didn't believe her.

“All right, things have been a bit strange, I suppose,” Lizzie admitted, though she didn't want to. “But only because I was in shock from falling off my bike.”

“Lizzie, I'm afraid that when you fell off your bike yesterday, you died,” said Jim.

“Well I admit I was embarrassed,” Lizzie said. “But anyone would be.”

“No, I don't mean that you died of embarrassment,” Jim said. “I mean that you died. That you are now dead.”

Lizzie started laughing. “Ah, come
on
!”

“Lizzie, your reaction is quite normal.”

Lizzie's patience snapped. This nonsense had gone on long enough. “What the hell are you talking about?” She raised her voice. “Who are you? Who let you in here?”

“We are what you might call your welcome committee,” Jan said. “Our job is to welcome you to your new place. To sort out any little problems that you might have while you settle in.
And nobody let us in here. We don't have to be let in, we can appear anywhere we like.

“Not that I'm showing off,” she added hastily. “That's just the way it is.”

“I don't know what drugs you're taking, I swear to God I don't.” Lizzie had enough on her plate with a runaway boyfriend. She felt quite unable to deal with these two oddballs. Leaping up from her chair she ran to the door and called, “Brenda.”

“No, don't do that,” Jim said nervously. Oh dear, he had seen all this before and it still upset him. Even after all these centuries.

“Brenda!” Lizzie cried again. But Brenda – who was now typing with red eyes and sniffing and snorting like a rhino – seemed not to hear.

“BRENDA!” Lizzie shook her
secretary's shoulder. She couldn't believe it when Brenda shivered like a jelly, but didn't react in any other way. She didn't even turn around. She simply continued typing.

Bloody hell! Lizzie had always known that Brenda wasn't too quick on any uptake, but it was almost like she had gone into a trance.

Right then! Time for the heavy guns! Angrily Lizzie marched down the hall to Julie's office. No better woman than Julie. She'd sort out these two trespassers, if anyone could. After a brief knock, she pushed the door open. Julie was having a discussion with Frank, another senior member of staff.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Lizzie said, “but we've got a problem, Houston.”

Lizzie's voice trailed off as she noticed several things all at once. Firstly, she noticed she was being
completely ignored. Secondly, she saw that her diary was open on the desk. Julie was saying to Frank, “We'll cancel all the meetings she was due to have this week. Then we can brief Nick and let him take over …”

“What are you doing with my diary?” Lizzie's voice was thin and high with outrage – and fear. “And why are you cancelling all my meetings? And giving my cases to Nick? I mean, what the hell is going on around here? Well?” she demanded.

Their heads remained bent over her diary. They didn't even look up.

“Well?” Lizzie demanded again, but she had started to shake.

“How did that door open?” Julie murmured, crossing the office. She stood before Lizzie, looked her right in the eye – and right through her. Then shut the door firmly in Lizzie's face.

For a few stunned seconds Lizzie stood, her nose almost touching the wood-veneer door. She'd been sacked. Hadn't she?

But a horrible suspicion was growing in her mind. Getting bigger and gathering force. Something was going on. And she had an idea that, whatever it was, it was far worse than being sacked.

Panicking, she turned on her heel and ran down the hall, stopping at every office on her way. The same thing happened in each case. No one could see her and no one could hear her. When she laid her hands on people they shuddered and shivered.

Wheeling around in sweaty terror, she started back up the hall. The feelings of fear and nausea were starting to make sense.

She burst into her office, and found the two ghostly social workers still sitting there.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Jan said sadly.

“No one can see me,” Lizzie screeched. She was no longer a successful insurance manager but more of a dead fishwife.

“That's because you're dead,” Jan agreed.

“I'm not dead, don't be so stupid! How could I be dead?You pair of eejits, coming in here, talking crap …”

Jim and Jan let her have her little rant. They were used to this sort of thing. All part of their day's work. It was as well to let her get her anger out of the way. Then they could talk calmly.

After a ten-minute tantrum, Lizzie paused and said sharply, “Why do you say I'm dead? Prove it to me.”

Jim and Jan looked at each other, then Jim gave Jan the nod. You tell her.

“Didn't you notice Death the Grim Reaper standing by the accident yesterday?” Jan asked.

And once Lizzie thought about it, she
did
remember a tall, gloomy-looking man hanging around the accident scene.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, “but I thought he was a student collecting for Rag Week.”

“In July?” Jan asked with gentle humour.

“And no one could hear you on the
phone last night,” Jan reminded her.

“The phone is broken,” Lizzie said quickly. Too quickly.

“It's not. It was working fine when your father rang Neil to tell him you'd died. And that business with the weighing scales this morning. Spirits don't weigh anything, you see.”

“How did you know about that?” Lizzie demanded. And then, suddenly everything became clear.

“So that's why Neil didn't speak to me and …”

“Yes,” Jan cut in kindly.

“Oh thank God,” Lizzie sighed. “I just thought he didn't love me anymore. And that explains why no one saw me this morning …”

“Exactly.”

Then the truth began to hit.

“But I don't want to be dead,” exclaimed Lizzie.

“Oh really?” Jim studied some papers on the desk. “Did you or did you not say to your boyfriend on 12th April at 7.38 a.m. ‘I hope there's a bus crash and I'm killed on the way to work'?”

“But everyone hates their job,” Lizzie protested.

Jim continued, “Did you not just say to Sinead about the break-up of her relationship on January 27th at 9.04 p.m., ‘Life's a bitch.'?”

“And then you become one,” Lizzie muttered. “Maybe I did.”

“Remember one time when you tried to give up smoking and couldn't? And Sinead said to you, ‘Don't worry, life's too short.' Remember?”

Lizzie nodded uncomfortably.

“Do you deny that you replied, ‘No, it isn't, life's too bloody long'?” Jim paused and looked gravely at her
over the top of his glasses. “Need I go on?”

“Well, I didn't mean those things … I was only joking …” she trailed off awkwardly.

A shock of terrible regret and loss swept over Lizzie. If she really was dead, there was so much that she hadn't done. “I never had a child,” she said, sadly. “I never went to India, I never even did a bungee jump.”

Jan looked through a list on her desk and said briskly, “Yes, that's absolutely correct.”

She ran her finger along the page and continued, “Also, you never read
War and Peace
. Never learnt a foreign language. Never won money on a horse. Never joined the Mile High Club. Never tasted caviar, not that you'd want to, dear, take it from me. Never returned next-door's corkscrew
after that party you had last year. Never dyed your hair red and had it cut short – and you have gone on about doing that for most of your thirty-two years, haven't you? Never understood Cubism
and
…” Jan stopped suddenly, “Sorry, am I upsetting you?”

“What do you think?” Lizzie demanded.

“Sorry,” Jan said, “I haven't been doing this for long.”

“Ah now,” Jim said. “She's doing her best.”

“But why didn't anyone warn me?” exclaimed Lizzie. “Why didn't anyone tell me that I'd feel like this?”

“But you were warned.”

“WHEN?” Lizzie was horrified. To think that she could have avoided this!

“Didn't you ever hear the saying, Life is not a dress rehearsal?” Jim prompted.

And when Lizzie thought about it, she remembered that someone had said it to her only about a week ago. She'd paid no attention to it. Well, how was she to know that she was going to die!

“And how about, You get no second chances in this life?” reminded Jan.

And yes, Lizzie had to admit that she'd also heard that little saying. A little saying that she had dismissed as annoying nonsense for most of her life.

“Not to mention, You only get one life, so make the most of it?”

“All right, all right! So I got plenty of warnings. I just didn't know that's what they were. I wish I had,” she said sadly. “I'd give anything to have another try. I'd really do things differently if I could go back. Just for a week. Or a couple of days. Even a few hours would do. I'd sort things out with
Neil. I'd ring my father and tell him that I love him. I've never told him that since I was about five years old.”