Chapter 6
SIX
All around me, I could see other faces turning towards the back of the church, bewildered, aghast or – in the case of Andy’s mother – furious. Kate’s voice fell silent; Zara’s continued for two more words: ‘To home.’
Then she said, ‘Sorry, sorry. Don’t mind me,’ and slipped into a pew at the back of the church.
I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. Today of all days – a day that was ostensibly about celebrating Andy’s life but couldn’t possibly be, because the shock and grief of his death were still so raw. A day when my friends and their support mattered even more to me than they did every other day. A day when the past felt even more present in my marriage than it usually did. And she was here. From the jumble of my thoughts, one clear one emerged: She didn’t get the memo. Literally didn’t get it – about the purple.
Then I thought, What the fuck, Naomi, now is not the time to obsess about fashion choices, is it? I forced myself to look at Patch next to me, and saw that he’d gone white as a ghost – as if he’d seen a ghost. I slipped my hand into his and squeezed it, but he didn’t squeeze back – his normally strong grip was ice-cold and clammy.
Then, into the silence, Kate’s voice resumed again, with a faint tremor at first, then settling into calm clarity.
When you are lonely and sick at heart
Go to the friends we know.
Laugh at all the things we used to do
Miss me, but let me go.
As she recited the final stanza, I wondered how many of the congregation were actually listening. Probably some thought it was nothing – just a random, slightly eccentric woman who’d turned up late and disrupted the proceedings before settling down and behaving herself.
But we knew it was more than that. I could see it in the slight wobble in Kate’s legs as she walked carefully back to her place in her high heels; in Abbie’s wide-eyed look of shock – almost fear; in the way the tears were no longer falling from Rowan’s eyes.
I could feel it in Patch’s hand, still and rigid in my own.
She’s back , I thought. Today of all days, she had to pick to come back. And it’s not going to be pretty.
Absurdly, I thought how much Andy would have relished the moment of drama – how he’d have retold the story again and again, adding new embellishments every time.
But Andy wasn’t here any more.
Finally, the organist played Amazing Grace and we all joined in as best we could, before filing back outside into gently falling rain.
Zara didn’t come over to speak to us, not then. I determinedly avoided looking at her, but I couldn’t help catching glimpses of her in my peripheral vision, malignant as a crow in her black dress, flitting around talking to Andy’s NA sponsor, the vicar, Andy’s mother – anyone but us.
I stayed close to the little group made up of Patch and our friends, as if there’d be safety in numbers.
‘What are we going to do?’ Kate whispered.
‘We can’t uninvite her to the wake. She’s here now,’ said Abbie.
‘And she wasn’t invited in the first place.’ Rowan was clinging to Alex’s arm like she was having difficulty staying on her feet, Clara watching wide-eyed.
‘You don’t get invited to funerals, anyway,’ Daniel pointed out grimly. ‘You just turn up. And she has.’
‘We could go somewhere else,’ I suggested desperately. ‘A different pub. There’ll be others nearby.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Patch said. ‘Not when we’ve organised it all, and Andy’s mum and all these other people are going to the Watley Arms.’
His face was frozen and his voice sounded stilted, as if it was an effort for him to speak at all never mind sound almost normal. It was the first time he’d spoken since asking me if I wanted espresso or cappuccino, over an hour before. I wanted to hold him tight, let him tell me if he was feeling as shocked as I was, hear him reassure me that he loved me. But it was almost like he’d forgotten I was there.
‘We could go.’ I looked up at my husband pleadingly, then around at my friends like I was asking for permission. ‘Just us.’
‘We can’t,’ Abbie said gently. ‘You know we can’t.’
Of course, I knew we couldn’t.
‘This isn’t about us,’ Rowan said. ‘Come on, Nome. It’ll be okay.’
I waited for Patch to echo her reassurance, but he didn’t. The cold weight I’d felt in my stomach since learning of Andy’s death, which had been heavier since I woke that morning, had been joined now by a swarm of icy butterflies.
The rain had intensified. Zara had produced a giant black umbrella, and Andy’s mother was sheltering under it with her, like the two of them were official NBFFs. People were starting to look at their phones and drift off in the direction of the pub we’d so carefully chosen for its proximity to the church and its upscale buffet menu – Andy would rather have died than have wilting egg sandwiches and mystery meat sausage rolls at his wake.
Except obviously he wouldn’t have had a wake if he hadn’t already died.
‘We’re just going to have to front it out,’ I said. ‘That’s what she’s doing, after all.’
‘You sure, Nome?’ Rowan asked. ‘You and I can slip off early if you’d rather. Or go home. It’s fine, you do you.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll come if Patch still wants to.’
Patch kind of shook himself, like a dog that’s just been for a swim. ‘We’re coming. Let’s do this.’
He took my hand, squeezing it quite hard. My fingers were cold now, and damp from the rain, whereas his felt as warm and reassuring as usual, the chill I’d felt in the church gone. But I wasn’t quite ready to be reassured.
Ahead of us, I could see Zara’s patent black stilettos with their scarlet soles striding along the wet pavement. There were seams running up the back of her tights, and the coat she’d put on was swishy cashmere, exactly the same length as her dress. I wondered if she had an outfit specifically for funerals tucked away in her wardrobe, or whether she’d bought this one for the occasion. I wondered how long she’d known she was going to be coming, and where she’d been.
I looked at Patch, but his face gave no sign of what he was thinking.
Soon – too soon – we reached the Watley Arms. From the outside, it looked like an old-school London boozer, complete with a swinging board bearing a coat of arms, leaded windows and a heavy, studded door. But I knew from the website that inside it was all sleek and modern, with beige suede banquettes, engineered wood floors and abstract art on the walls.
We all paused outside for a moment.
‘Come on, team,’ said Kate. ‘We’ve got this.’
‘We knew it was going to be bad,’ Abbie said. ‘And the worst bit’s over.’
‘The worst bit’s just starting,’ Kate muttered, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the wake, or Zara’s surprise appearance, but about the days, months and years that lay ahead, without Andy.
‘This is about him, not us,’ I said. ‘Zara doesn’t matter. It’s fine. She can’t hurt us.’
‘So let’s all get in there and get shitfaced,’ Rowan said.
Our eyes met and we all recited our funeral mantra: ‘It’s what Andy would’ve wanted.’
Inside the pub, it was blissfully warm. I took my coat off and draped it on a pile of others, feeling the polyester of my dress damp under my arms.
‘Bottle of fizz?’ Daniel asked.
‘Better make it two,’ said Matt. ‘Abbie and I will stay here by the door to meet and greet.’
‘I’ll stay too,’ Kate said.
‘I’d better go and speak to Andy’s mum.’ Reluctantly, I left the safety of my husband and friends and edged through the small crowd of people in the direction of Mrs Sinclair.
She was standing alone as I approached her, a glass of what looked like brandy clutched in both hands. She was a tiny woman, fair-haired like Andy, with echoes of his face in her razor-sharp jawline and high forehead.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Naomi, one of Andy’s friends.’
She took my hand in her tiny, bird-like one. ‘Ah yes, the famous Girlfriends’ Club. Lavinia.’
‘I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
She looked up at me, her eyes twin splinters of blue glass. ‘It’s your loss as much as it is mine. Andrew and I weren’t close, as I’m sure you know. But no mother should have to attend their child’s funeral.’
She said it with something almost like disgust, as if Andy had insisted she come and watch him cavort at a sex party, I thought. Then I instantly felt terrible for my harshness – how could I know how I’d react in her situation? For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine organising Toby or Meredith’s funeral, and I felt the tears that hadn’t been far from the surface since learning of Andy’s death threaten to start leaking from my eyes.
‘Of course not,’ I said gently. ‘It’s a terrible thing. We all loved Andy very much.’
And Andy must have loved her, at some point. But ever since I’d known him, he’d referred to his mother as ‘the gorgon’ and barely seen her – and, to be honest, I was starting to understand why.
‘We mustn’t speak ill of the dead,’ she said, in the tone of someone who was about to do just that, ‘but I sometimes think my son only loved himself.’
‘He was very troubled. We all have our demons, I guess, but he brought us all so much joy. He had so many friends.’
Zara’s face appeared in my mind, so clearly it almost seemed as if she’d materialised from across the room and was standing right there, smiling at me. But she wasn’t.
‘So I see.’ She looked coldly around the room. ‘And I suppose I should circulate among them. If you’ll excuse me.’
She turned away without another word and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me clutching my glass, trembling.
I felt tears welling up again, and saw the sign for the ladies’ toilet in front of me. I’d take a moment, I decided – have a quiet cry, sort out my make-up and then brave the rest of the afternoon. We needn’t stay long, I promised myself. We had to pick up the children. Soon I would be home.
I pushed open the door, already rummaging in my bag for tissues. But as I did so, I felt a sudden twang between my shoulder blades, and something sharp piercing my skin.
‘Ouch,’ I muttered. ‘Shit.’
I’d completely forgotten about the safety pin holding the top of my dress together where the edges of the zip wouldn’t meet. The air in the pub was so warm I hadn’t felt the coldness where the gap was, and hadn’t kept my coat on as I’d intended. As I approached the line of washbasins, I heard a tiny clatter as the pin fell to the floor, and as I bent to retrieve it, I felt the zip unfasten all the way down.
‘Damn it.’
Twisting in front of the mirror, I could see a bead of blood where the point had pierced my skin. There was no way I’d be able to secure it again without help – earlier, it had taken Patch five minutes of fumbling to get it right. I’d have to text Abbie or Rowan and get them to come and rescue me.
But as I was rummaging in my bag for my phone, I heard the sound of approaching heels on the floor outside and the swish of the opening door. Some instinct told me I should duck into a cubicle and hide, but my feet refused to move. In the mirror, I saw my eyes widen in alarm and I gripped the safety pin so tightly its point drew blood from my finger. Then the door swung open and Zara stepped in.
I hadn’t been in the same room as her for more than half a decade. I knew perfectly well what parenting twins had done to me – the changes pregnancy had made to my body and sleepless nights had wrought on my face. And the changes weren’t just physical. I was different in other ways too, deeper ones that were even more uncomfortable to think about. But it was like time had stood still for Zara – like she’d spent the intervening years in an alternate universe, or in a coma or something, and stepped back into the world utterly unchanged.
She was still blade-slim. Her pale skin was still unlined. Her dark hair was in the same asymmetric bob with the same brutally short fringe that said, With my bone structure I can do what the fuck I like to my hair and look great . Her cat-like green eyes were the same, with the same wings of black liquid eyeliner.
All of this I noticed in a few seconds, the safety pin clutched in my fingers, feeling a trickle of blood oozing down my back.
‘Naomi.’ She moved in and air-kissed both my cheeks. ‘Are you okay? God, this is tragic. When I heard I had to come.’
Unable to speak, I stared at her. I could feel the blood from the safety pin turning tacky on my hand and felt a flare of resentment – Look what you made me do! – mingling with a suffocating sense of dread.
‘Poor Andy. He was always so full of life – you know what I mean? The most alive person ever. I can’t believe it.’
‘No one can,’ I said, twisting the pin in my hand.
‘I’m back in London,’ she went on. ‘For the moment, anyway. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, but I couldn’t not come today.’
‘It’s what Andy would have wanted,’ I parroted mindlessly, although I was fairly sure it wasn’t true.
‘Are you having a wardrobe malfunction? Can I help?’
Don’t touch me , I thought. I could still feel the places on my cheeks where her kisses had almost landed, as if they were stained with her red lipstick, except Zara’s lipstick never smudged. But I found myself standing, frozen, while she took the pin from me and moved behind me.
‘I see the problem.’ I could feel her breath on the back of my neck – it made the hairs there stand on end – and smell her perfume.
I breathed in while she pulled the zip as high as it would go, then stood very still, feeling her knuckles pressing against my skin as she pulled the gaping the sides of the dress together.
I felt as if I, too, was being precariously held together, at risk of unravelling.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Job’s a good ’un. But you don’t want to go out there like that, do you?’
‘I left my coat by the—’ I gestured.
‘Want me to fetch it for you? What’s it look like? No, wait, I’ve got a better idea.’
She plonked her bag on the vanity unit and undid the clasp. The bag was large, pewter leather that I knew would feel buttery-soft. And I knew, because seemingly nothing else about Zara had changed, that it would contain everything from make-up to tampons to a shiny little notepad and pen – although perhaps Zara used her phone for note-taking now, like everyone else.
‘Pashmina.’ Proudly, she produced a rolled-up cylinder of black silk and shook it out. ‘I never go anywhere without a pash. Places get so cold.’
She handed it to me and I draped it round my shoulders.
‘I’ll give it back as soon as I’ve got my coat.’
‘No rush.’ She smiled. ‘We’ll be in touch soon, won’t we?’
‘Thank you.’ The words came out automatically. Damn it, Naomi , I castigated myself. Why do you have to be so damn British? Why can’t you tell her you’re not friends, everyone’s horrified by her turning up here, and what’s more, 2003 called and would like its fashion accessory back?
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t betray any anger, any sign of weakness.
Zara turned to the mirror, laser-focused on her face, dusting some sort of powder from her make-up bag over her cheeks, making her skin look even more luminous than it already did. I backed into a cubicle and locked the door, pressing toilet paper against my hand, which was damp now with sweat as well as blood. I could hear myself breathing effortfully, a tightness around my chest that wasn’t only to do with the newly secured zip of my dress. Although I could no longer see Zara, her scent clung to the pashmina, surrounding me like a miasma – or a memory.
I waited until I heard the door open and close again, the click of her heels receding then abruptly vanishing. Then I exited the cubicle, washed my hands and inspected my own face before deciding there was no point bothering to try and make myself look any different – besides, when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t shake the sense that she was there, watching me over my own shoulder.
Bracing myself, I pushed the door open again, immediately hearing the low buzz of voices and clink of glasses again. I’d find Patch, say goodbye to our friends, deposit Zara’s scarf on the pile of coats, and leave. And hopefully that would be the end of it – she’d be out of my life once more, this time never to return.
I saw Patch straight away. He was standing by a window, looking out into the rain-soaked beer garden where a few hardy people were smoking under umbrellas. And he wasn’t alone. Zara was standing next to him, her arm round his waist, her hand held aloft as she snapped a selfie of them together.