Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
JO
The morning of my father’s funeral arrives wrapped in a kind of heavy silence.
It’s clear to see that being rich has its advantages in death just as much as in life.
There’s no waiting for an opening with the funeral director or the church.
He died two days ago, and already his funeral is happening, and I have no doubt it will be a grand affair.
I wake up before my alarm goes off, disoriented for a moment by the vastness of my bedroom, the high ceiling.
I forgot to shut the heavy drapes and unfamiliar light filters through tall windows dressed in gauzy curtains that soften the sun into something pale and almost fragile.
For half a second, I forget where I am. Then it all rushes back.
I lie still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, my chest tight as though someone has set a weight directly over my sternum.
It feels performative to be sad. I feel like being seen to be visibly upset would make people think it is forced or artificial.
I mean, I get it. I never knew him. I never heard his laugh.
I never sat across a table from him. I never had him tuck me in at night or tell me off for missing curfew.
How can I be sad to lose someone I never even had?
And yet in a strange sort of way, I am sad.
Or I’m feeling something that is similar to sadness, at least. There is a hollow place inside of me this morning that wasn’t there last week.
A space that feels like it was carved out to be filled by a father’s love and now will be forever empty.
I press the palms of my hands to my eyes.
They feel hot and dry. I haven’t cried at all since getting here.
I roll onto my side and reach for my cell phone.
I turn the alarm off, sit up, and then I check my notifications.
I am expecting some form of contact about the plan for today, but there is no missed call from Gavin.
I answer some texts from the girls, then decide to get up and get ready.
I don’t want the call to come to say it’s time to leave and for me to not be ready.
I go through to the bathroom where I have a wonderful shower with the water pressure up high, and the water blasting my skin almost hard enough to hurt.
When I get out, my skin is pink and glowing from the pummeling it’s taken.
I brush my teeth, go back into the bedroom, and take the simple black shift dress off the hanger.
I kept it understated on purpose, choosing something with a fairly high neckline, elbow length sleeves, and a knee-length skirt.
It’s fitted but not attention-seeking. It feels appropriate for the occasion but still like something that can blend into the background.
Slipping into it and a pair of black heels, I sit down to apply my makeup and dry my hair.
I’m curling the last few bits when a soft knock comes at the door.
“Miss Button? Jo?” Betty’s voice floats through the door gently. “May I come in?”
“Yes, come in,” I call- turning around to face her as she enters.
She steps inside with the quiet efficiency of someone trained to move without disturbing the air. Today she’s dressed more formally than usual in a black pencil skirt and a grey silk blouse. Her red curls are pinned neatly into a pretty updo.
“Mr. Hampstead called,” she says softly. “He asked me to tell you that your car will be here at eleven and to let you know that you’re welcome to join the family procession if you wish. Otherwise, your vehicle will take you separately to the church.”
“Please let him know I’ll go separately,” I say without hesitation.
Betty studies me for a moment, and there’s no judgement there. Only understanding. I’m glad she gets it. It makes me feel like I made the right call.
“I thought you might,” she says gently.
I nod. I don’t belong in the family procession.
I am family only by biology, and in truth, I am a stranger to these people.
I don’t even know Joseph’s family except, of course, what I have seen of them in the media.
I don’t belong beside Lydia Manswell, Joseph’s ex-wife, but for some reason she is now playing the part of his grieving widow.
And I certainly don’t belong beside Sheldon Manswell, Lydia’s son from a previous marriage, or my stepbrother, who will be grieving a father who actually raised him.
I certainly don’t belong in that line of black cars carrying the immediate family.
In fact, I don’t even know if I belong at the funeral, but according to Gavin Hampstead, my father requested I attend, so maybe I’ll be there for him.
“Thank you, Betty,” I say.
She hesitates. “It will be … quite an event.”
I feel like she’s trying to warn me that this isn’t going to be any ordinary funeral.
Of course it won’t be ordinary. Joseph Manswell was never ordinary in life, and I’m sure in death he wants to have his last moment of glory.
He didn’t just build a company. He built an empire.
Tech, satellites, AI, clean energy. He’s been on magazine covers.
Panels. International stages. I’ve seen his face before of course, on the news, in business journals left behind on planes and in tabloids when his marriage to Lydia broke down.
I knew a fair bit about his life, I guess.
The first thing I notice as the car approaches the church is that it is enormous.
It’s not quaint, and it’s certainly not intimate.
It’s absolutely monumental. Stone steps lead up to towering doors.
The bell tower is so high up that I have to tilt my head back to look at it.
It’s made from gray stones and it looks like something out of a movie.
Long black cars line the curb in a procession that looks less like a funeral and more like a global summit.
People mill around in various shades of gray and black, talking in muted tones as they wait for the family to arrive.
The car comes to a stop, and I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.
I don’t know why I feel so nervous. I shouldn’t be.
Nothing is expected of me. The driver comes around to open the door for me, but I wait a moment before stepping out.
Thanking him, I busy my hands by smoothing my dress down over my hips.
I move quietly through the throngs of mourners, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. I want to stay invisible. That’s the goal. I check my cell phone is off, even though I know it is, then I stand slightly off to the side and wait.
Cameras flash near the front steps, and even from here, I can hear the murmur of reporters as they surge forward as one. The main procession is arriving.
I stay back, blending into the cluster of respectful guests. I’m pretty sure the reporters have no idea who I am, but just in case information has leaked out and someone knows about me, I don’t want to be caught on camera like some little fame-hungry wannabe.
When the procession reaches the front, several men in dark suits, probably the security team hired by the family, get out of the first car and begin ushering the reporters back.
The doors to the other cars start opening, and people begin getting out.
The pallbearers get the coffin from the hearse and as everyone is focused on that, I take a moment to look around me.
I assume some of the sharp-suited attendees are company executives, extended acquaintances, perhaps even investors.
I catch glimpses of faces I recognize from news articles and documentaries, and it feels surreal.
I spot a tech magnate who pioneered private space travel.
A woman who runs one of the largest AI firms in the world.
A hedge fund billionaire whose name I once saw attached to a scandal that was quickly hushed up.
There are famous actors, a former president, and celebrity musicians who write songs about love and break-ups.
I feel like I’ve wandered into a documentary about the modern oligarchy.
I keep my head down and no one spares me a second glance.
The procession is ready, and the pallbearers lead the way, the coffin resting on their collective shoulders.
The family follows, and then all of the other mourners join in.
I hang back and join as the crowd thins out.
The last thing I want is to be front and center.
Let the movers and shakers who want to be seen be seen.
Inside, the church is cold, the atmosphere hushed and yet strangely buzzing.
It’s a controlled atmosphere of grief wrapped in wealth.
White orchids cascade down the aisle, and the scent of lilies hangs heavy in the air.
At the front, the coffin rests beneath a massive arrangement of white flowers on a polished wood stand.
The whole set-up is immaculately understated money.
My throat tightens as my glance lands on the coffin. That’s him. That’s all that remains of the man who unknowingly shaped my entire existence.
I slip into a seat near the back and watch as the family sits down in the front pew.
Lydia is breathtaking in black, every bit as gorgeous in real life as she is on the internet.
She is sculpted, composed, and flawless.
Even from here, I can feel the chill of her presence.
Almost mannequin-like. A world away from my mother.
It makes me wonder about the relationship between my parents.
What caused my mother to lie to me all these years?
Sheldon sits beside her, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed forward. He looks like he is trying to emulate his mother’s composure. Next to them are people I don’t recognize, other family members I assume, ones not close enough for the media to follow and report on their every move.