Would You Rather

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

2024

Sophie saw her the moment she lifted her eyes from the pages of the eulogy to look at the congregation.

Standing at the back of the packed venue, looking straight at her, was a woman about twenty years or so younger than her, not particularly striking, yet Sophie knew exactly who she was. Juliet.

Or Gillette, as Sophie thought of her. She’d certainly cut her like a razor. Slashed everything Sophie had thought she’d known about her life into ribbons.

Or was it Matt who’d done that?

She blinked and looked down again, relieved that people would think she was overcome with devastation at the prospect of reading her husband’s eulogy, not that she was in shock, having just looked right into the eyes of his mistress.

And was she imagining that this woman looked – oddly – a little bit like her? A younger, slimmer version. Much slimmer.

Standing up taller and pulling her stomach in, Sophie made herself start reading. After a few stumbles on the first paragraph, she found her voice and the eulogy seemed to go down well. The assembly of family, friends and colleagues laughed where she’d hoped they would and she could feel the frisson of sadness wash through them when she mentioned the plans she and Matt had made for a new, post-children life, away from South London down on the coast, in Hastings.

She couldn’t stop her eyes flicking over to Gillette as she read that bit. How would she react to hearing Sophie’s heartbreak about the sudden end to the plans that she had in fact already wrecked? Or Matt had. They had, together.

Sophie felt a flash of pure rage and found she was staring at Gillette, who fortunately had her head down. Then Sophie noticed she was wearing a leather jacket – an old biker-style one, that looked horribly like the one Matt used to have. And then she saw there was a Union Jack applique up by the shoulder, on the left side. It was Matt’s jacket. She hadn’t seen it for years – and now she knew why.

Her fury spiked again and she forced herself to snatch her eyes away. Seeing her sons, Beau and Jack, glance at each other nervously, clearly concerned she was about to lose it, she focussed her attention firmly back on the eulogy.

She was very glad when it was done and she could leave the lectern to squeeze onto the front pew again, between her boys. Beau put an arm round her and Jack took her left hand in his and held it tightly, as the first bars of ‘Hallelujah’ – the Jeff Buckley version, Matt’s favourite – started to play.

Lodged in tightly between them, not boys any more but big, grown-up men, and feeling hands on both her shoulders – from Matt’s four brothers, who were sitting in the row behind – she felt propped up by love. They were such a tight clan, those Crommelin men.

With that support, she hoped that, for a while, she could just exist and experience the rest of the service and not angst about when – or whether at all, ever – to tell them the truth about their beloved father and brother. Just for those few minutes, she wanted to remember the Matt she had known and loved so passionately for over thirty years. She needed to grieve him, not think about how he’d told her he was leaving her for his mistress and wasn’t coming with her to Hastings.

So she was glad of the distraction when Beau stood up to read a poem he’d chosen, wearing one of his father’s suits, a charity-shop double-breasted pinstripe, flashing the bright paisley lining at the crowd as he stepped up to the lectern, prompting a laugh of poignant recognition.

Sophie glanced at Jack and he smiled gently at her, tears in his eyes, still holding her hand. She smiled back, weakly, trying to tune her brain into Beau’s spirited reading of part of Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’, as, despite all her efforts to block it out, the sequence of events on that awful day nearly two weeks earlier replayed in her head, as it had ever since.

She’d been standing in the kitchen on January fifth, trying to get back into work after the break, kneading dough for a Turkish bread recipe from a cookbook she was styling, when Matt had come in.

Leaning on a chair at the other side of the table, he’d told her – completely calmly – that he wasn’t moving to Hastings with her after all, but was going to stay in London to start a new life ‘with Juliet’.

No further explanation, just the name, as though his words were all perfectly normal.

He’d made that appalling announcement and then – refusing to answer any questions, saying he was going to give her some time to take it in before they talked about ‘the details’ – he’d set off on his bike, leaving her standing in the doorway, blood-drained and weak-kneed in uncomprehending shock, with flour all over her hands.

Still in that state a couple of hours later – minus the flour, dough abandoned – too stunned even to cry, she was sending him increasingly hysterical messages, demanding he come back and explain himself, when there was a knock on the door.

Sophie opened it to find two policewomen standing there. They asked politely if they could come in and then, sitting with her at the kitchen table, told her Matt was dead.

He’d been knocked off his bike on the Old Kent Road by a lorry driver who was turning right and texting at the same time. Matt had died immediately, they said. Nothing could have been done.

‘The stupid vain idiot never would wear a helmet,’ Sophie had said, ‘in case it spoiled his fucking hair.’

Then the tears had finally sprung forth as she wondered if he’d seen her text calling him a ‘spineless bastard’ before he died.

She was glad to be distracted from those thoughts when Matt’s four brothers got up together to present a simultaneously heartbreaking and hilarious tribute to him with a slideshow of family photos and video clips. They referred to him as ‘Matt the Twat’ and ‘Twat Matt’ all the way through it, which made Sophie, Beau and Jack laugh slightly hysterically. It so captured the Crommelin family dynamic, a constant tug of war between undying love and brutal competitiveness.

The tribute helped Sophie hold it together for the rest of the service, and as it came to an end, she glanced behind her to see rows and rows of people crying as Pink Floyd’s ‘Brain Damage’ played, picked by Beau and Jack. Their father would have roared with laughter at their choice of the track, considering the nature of his death, and despite everything, Sophie was glad the whole event had been so perfect for him.

The spineless bastard.

Half an hour later, she was standing in the ghastly function room upstairs at Matt’s favourite local boozer, the Red Lion. With its low, knotty-pine ceiling and carpet that was sticky under foot, the pub had pretty much nothing going for it in terms of décor, original features, food, welcome or quality of drinks. Which was exactly why Matt had loved it. He’d said it was ‘authentic’.

‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ said Beau, offering his mother a tin foil tray of nasty-looking sausage rolls.

‘Make sure the white wine’s a bit warm, to go with them,’ said Sophie.

‘I was tempted to get plastic cups,’ said Beau. ‘Just to create that genuine private-view atmosphere.’

She smiled at him, happy to have a moment of respite. Her face was beginning to ache from holding it together as she talked to a seemingly endless train of old friends, extended family, Matt’s colleagues, art critics, artists, gallery owners and students old and current. All offering the most heartfelt and sincere condolences to the woman they saw as his loving wife and support, his best friend and true love. The tragic widow.

If only they bloody knew.

Seeking a moment alone, she went to the loo, coming out of the cubicle to find Bella, the wife of Matt’s oldest brother, standing at the mirror doing her lipstick.

‘Darling,’ Bella said, spinning round and clasping Sophie’s hands. ‘If you can’t stand it another minute, just tell me and Thomas will have our driver whisk you away. You don’t have to endure another moment in this dreadful place. We can pop you into Claridge’s and you can just snuggle up and have room service and a massage and anything you want.’

Sophie smiled at her. She loved Bella. They’d been comrades for years in their roles as ‘Crommelin WAGs’, as the wives and girlfriends of the five brothers called themselves. She was genuinely well meaning but did always find a way to remind everyone just how rich she and Thomas were.

‘You know he has an account there,’ Bella continued. ‘So there’s always a room for Thomas, a suite actually, complimentary fizz, you know...’ She wrinkled her nose conspiratorially and Sophie almost had to stifle a giggle. How Matt would have loved this.

‘You’re very kind, Bella,’ she said. ‘And although it’s tough, I do want to see everyone here. I’ll be at home with the boys later and I want to spend as much time as I can with Jack before he goes back to Brisbane.’

‘Of course,’ said Bella, smiling at her with what Sophie could see was sincere understanding. ‘You need your boys more than anything right now, but do remember you can come down to us in the country any weekend you want. We’re so close to Babington House, as you know, so we can have a lovely spa day there. Thomas has an account.’

Sophie gave her a big hug, genuinely grateful for the good intentions – and the laugh, which had given her a boost to go back and face the room full of lovely people who genuinely cared about her. And who she couldn’t be honest with ever again.

She took a detour round the far side of the room to avoid one of the other Crommelin WAGs, who she could see was trying to catch her attention. Not because she didn’t love Freya – she and her husband, Sebastian, and their kids were the part of the family Sophie and Matt were closest to – she just wasn’t feeling up to that sister-in-law’s ultra-keen perception. Freya was a columnist on one of the big broadsheet newspapers and Sophie was sure she would immediately know something was up with her, even beyond the unique stress of this occasion.

Five minutes later, talking to some of Matt’s devoted students, one of whom was openly sobbing, Sophie thought she was doing pretty well despite it all when she spotted Gillette standing against the wall, near the door, on her own.

Gillette had come to the wake.

What the hell?

Turning up uninvited at the funeral was bad enough, but to tag along to this most personal of gatherings – and still wearing his leather jacket – defied belief.

But at least it seemed she didn’t seem to know anybody.

Sophie had no idea how Matt had met his new ‘friend’, or anything else about her, but she’d assumed there had to be a crossover somewhere in their acquaintance. It was one of the many things that appalled her – wondering who of their friends had known about Matt’s new liaison before she did.

Looking at her, standing there like she had a right to be at Matt’s wake, lit a hot anger inside Sophie. She wasn’t going to take it. She was going to go over there and demand Gillette leave immediately, but then she realised that even if people weren’t openly looking at her, she was inevitably the centre of attention. Everyone would see her do it and want to know why.

With a famously verbose art critic approaching, no doubt to asphyxiate her with white-wine breath and a spray of sausage roll crumbs, Sophie smiled and held a finger up to him to indicate she would be back and reached over to tug the arm of her best friend, Reyansh. He was at Sophie’s side in an instant.

‘What’s up, babe?’ he asked in a low voice, taking hold of both her hands and looking at her with tender concern. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost – oops, sorry. Not the best expression on this occasion.’

He grinned and Sophie smiled back, shaking her head indulgently before pulling him close.

‘Don’t look now,’ she whispered, ‘but there is a woman at your five o’clock, standing by the wall, near the door...’

Rey stepped back and elaborately took off his jacket, incorporating a glance over his right shoulder as a natural part of the manoeuvre. ‘That one in a cheap leather jacket who looks like a less refined version of you?’ he said, turning back.

Sophie winced. So she hadn’t imagined that. How pathetic men were.

‘I think the words you are actually looking for is younger and less fat, but yes, that one,’ she said. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

Rey nodded, his eyes open wide.

‘Can you casually head over there and start chatting to her? Find out her name – and if it’s Juliet, will you politely ask her to leave? Use force if you have to.’

‘Consider it done, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But can I make a formal request that you tell me why one day?’

‘Of course,’ said Sophie, automatically crossing her fingers behind her back. She had no intention of telling him, or anyone else. Ever. What good could it possibly do?

Beau was standing outside the pub pulling on a roll-up he’d cadged off one of his cousins. He didn’t smoke, but he’d needed a reason to sneak off and be alone for a few minutes. Making conversation with lovely people who got tears in their eyes or actually broke down while talking to him about his father felt like the most exhausting thing he’d ever done. He’d rather run an ultra-marathon with his annoyingly sporty brother than ever do this again.

And there was also a tiny part of him that was expecting his dad to walk in and reveal that the whole thing had been one of his art projects. That he’d been filming it all with hidden cameras to make one of his famous video installations: ‘My Death’ by Matthew Crommelin.

After all, he’d videoed their granny’s last illness and actual death and turned it into an artwork. This would be a great companion piece.

Trying to blow smoke rings and watching his pathetic attempts condense in the frosty air, Beau heard the side door of the pub open and shut and then two people talking quietly. One of them was Rey. He could pick that voice out anywhere, even though his mum’s best friend seemed to be reining in his usual megaphone volume. Why was he doing that?

Beau edged towards the corner of the building to listen. Maybe Rey was in on it with his dad and they were planning the reveal, but as he got closer he could hear that the other voice was female.

‘It’s nothing personal,’ said Rey. ‘But considering the nature of the occasion, if, as you tell me, you don’t actually know anyone here, it’s probably best if you slip away. It’s a bit, you know, intrusive.’

‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble by coming today,’ said the woman, speaking quietly but urgently, a catch in her voice as though she was trying not to cry. ‘I do see now it was a very bad idea, but I only found out this morning that Matt had died and I wasn’t thinking straight. You see, I was hoping I could speak to Sophie. To tell her it’s not what it seems. Please tell her that. I’m so sorry for her loss and it’s not what it seems.’

Beau dropped the cigarette, instinctively backing up against the wall, aware he was eavesdropping on a conversation the people having it clearly wanted to keep private. This woman, whoever she was, sounded genuinely distressed – and what had she just said? ‘It’s not what it seems’?

What wasn’t? And if she didn’t know anyone at this wake, why was she mentioning his parents’ names?

He started to put his head round the corner gingerly, to see if he could sneak a look at her, when a figure came round it at speed, sweeping past him.

Beau ducked down, pretending to tie a shoelace – although he was actually wearing his father’s red lizard-skin cowboy boots – and looked up as the person passed to see the back of a woman with mid-length, dark blonde hair wearing what was clearly his father’s old leather jacket. What the fuck?

It had the Clash logo painted on the back, he’d know it anywhere – and he’d been wondering where it was, surprised not to find it when he’d gone through his dad’s clothes at his mother’s request.

He stayed crouched down in case Rey followed, his mind starting to race. Who the hell was this woman wearing his father’s jacket? Why had Rey just asked her to leave the wake? And what had she meant by wanting to tell Sophie it wasn’t what it seemed?

As he turned it all over in his head, another thing came into his mind. Something his father had said to him the last time they’d had a drink together in this very pub. When he’d said, out of nowhere, ‘I’ve met someone.’ But before Beau could ask him what he meant, one of Matt’s loud friends had turned up and the conversation had ended. And he’d never had another chance to talk to him about it, because that was the last time Beau had ever seen his father.

Was this woman somehow connected with that? Was that how she had his father’s jacket?

Standing up, Beau peeped round the corner to make sure Rey had gone back inside then squared his shoulders, ready to face the wake again.

For the time being, he just had to keep it together, to support his mother and his entire extended family. His Uncle Seb was a total mess. But one day he was going to have to bloody well find out who that woman was. However unpleasant it might turn out to be.

Juliet threw the leather jacket onto the back seat of her car. Hard. Really, she’d like to jump up and down on it and chuck it into the nearest dustbin, but she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t hers to throw away.

What had she been thinking, wearing that stupid thing? She’d only put it on because it seemed weird to be carrying a jacket at a funeral. At least it was black.

But really, she hadn’t been thinking at all, because if she had, she never would have gone to that service, let alone the bloody wake. Now she was furious with herself and the situation, she could feel an anxiety attack building up. A sob escaped, but bracing herself against the car door, breathing slow and deep, she made herself calm down. She had to get back to the office, be normal. She had work to do, an important Zoom meeting. A lot of people depended on her. She didn’t have the luxury of a personal life crisis.

When her breathing was even again, she slid into the smooth cream leather driver’s seat and checked her face in the mirror. There was a bit of mascara seepage, so she grabbed a wet wipe from the stash she kept in the glove box and fixed it up. With some eyedrops from the bottle she always had in her handbag and a fresh slick of lippie, she felt restored. Enough, at least.

She sat, looking out at the bleak pub car park, still able to hear the noise from the party, if you could call it that. She was glad that nice man had asked her to come outside. What had he said his name was? Ray?

‘I can see you don’t know anyone here, Juliet,’ he’d said, after she’d introduced herself in return. Just her first name. ‘And you look a bit peaky. Shall we go outside and get some fresh air? I could do with some myself.’

Standing on the street, in the frosty January air, he’d offered her some sugar-free gum, stuffing four pieces into his own mouth.

‘Not very exciting,’ he’d said. ‘But since I gave up the death sticks I do miss the comradery of popping outside for a ciggie, so now I share this stuff with people instead. It’s quite revolting really, so at least it ticks that box.’

They’d stood there for a moment chewing, Juliet feeling increasingly nervous about what she should say when he inevitably asked her how she knew Matt.

‘Isn’t this the worst pub ever?’ Rey had said. ‘Typical of Matt to make this his local, with all the cool bars there are in this area now. He loved how basic it is. Always particular, always contrary, our Matt. Maybe he brought you here...’

He’d turned and looked at her steadily. Her mouth had gone dry. Rey reached out and touched her shoulder.

‘I’m pretty sure he didn’t, actually,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Look, it’s nothing personal, Juliet, but considering the nature of the occasion, as you don’t know anyone, it’s probably best if you slip away. It’s a bit, you know, intrusive.’

Then she’d babbled all that stupid stuff about wanting to tell Sophie it wasn’t what it seemed. Oh, why had she done that? She had no idea who Ray was nor how he was connected to the family and the worst thing would be for him to say something to Sophie without the full explanation.

But, on the other hand, he was the only person she’d had any contact with. She should have got his bloody number, she thought, as she started the car.

How the hell was she going to get Matt’s jacket back to the family now?