All I want to do today, the day of the funeral, is make sure Giles and Em get through it, that we all do, as best we can. It’s not going to be easy. There was the delay, due to the … circumstances. You’d think that would make things less painful. It should be less raw. But it’s like pulling the plaster off bit by bit. They’ve had time to get used to the pitch of their grief, we’ve pared down our lives to fit around it. Now we have to open ourselves up again, parade in front of strangers.

Still, if we can keep putting one foot in front of the other, get to the end of this long and dreadful day, then it’s one major ordeal over. I’m not saying we can then move seamlessly on with our lives. I know now that recovery will be slow. But still, it will be one less thing hanging over us.

Em is in a dark-purple dress, one that Patrick liked. Better than black, for a girl of her age. We’ve scrambled together a dark suit for Giles. Boys can look wrong, dressed up in men’s clothes. Vulnerable necks, shiny jackets. But Giles looks good. Pale as his shirt, of course, and so sad, so brave. But smart, well turned out. Just like his dad.

I’d taken one of Patrick’s suits to the undertakers. His best. They’d asked me if I wanted to see him then. I refused, of course.

Unwisely, I mentioned it to the kids and then, of course, they felt obliged to see him. So I had to do it after all. Back to the funeral parlour, the careful obsequiousness of the staff, the décor that was so inoffensive it managed somehow to be revolting. We waited with another red-eyed family, offering each other stunted little smiles. Then we were led into the ghastly viewing room. Real flowers, at least. A pale pink carpet, suspiciously clean. I loathed it all. I looked at anything except the dazzling high shine of the coffin we’d picked, and the snowy white satin around his head. We were a tight little clump again. I could feel their fear and dread, the horror the living have of the dead, but I could feel their determination too. They are the best part of me, that’s for sure.

I shuffled them forward, tried to make things easier, all the while averting my own eyes as much as I could. I couldn’t avoid a glimpse. And the worst thing was that he somehow looked so untouched, after all that he – we – had been through. That dressmaker’s dummy was not my husband. But he was still my children’s father.

Chapter 4
Now
Becca

Becca Holt stumped into the station building and dropped the results of her shopping trip on her desk. It was cluttered already with clumps of empty Costa cups and plastic bags as shrivelled as autumn leaves. Tutting audibly so her colleagues wouldn’t think it was all her rubbish, she shoved the lot into the nearest bin, hesitating only briefly over whether it should go into ‘recycling’ or ‘general waste’. Even throwing stuff away was complicated nowadays.

Once the decks were cleared to her satisfaction, she snuffled in the pristine white paper bag she’d brought in. Just inhaling the doughnuts calmed her, the reassuring, wholesome smell of vanilla undercut with the hidden raspberry jam. She breathed in a bit too hard and had to splutter, finding a sudden unwilling sympathy for the coke addicts they were constantly moving on from under the arches down near the station.

She darted a quick glance around. At most of the desks, her fellow PCs were sprawled flat or had their noses pressed up against screens. Opposite, Burke was knocking a biro against his teeth in a rhythm that was doing his dental work no favours and would soon be messing with her head. She’d bought the doughnuts to share. She knew she should be tearing open the bag, leaving it on the side of her desk, making a general announcement of her largesse. Getting them all to love her. But bugger that. She wanted them all to herself.

She carefully edged a doughnut up a tad in the bag, ducked her head down, bit and sighed. It was good. So good it was bad. A bead of jam oozed down the side of her mouth and she licked and rubbed ferociously. Didn’t want to look like Dracula, did she? Or be caught snacking, either. She could do without being teased. As she’d discovered, the banter here wasn’t imaginative. Give them a stick, and they’d be beating you with it until you collected your pension.

She chewed carefully and swallowed, the movement making her waistband dig in that little bit more. She felt a prickle of shame. It suddenly made her think of that woman’s thighs. Her first and only knock, and as such seared on her memory. But she didn’t think she’d have forgotten it anyway, even if she’d called on as many of the recently bereaved as the Co-op Funeral Service.

Louise Bridges. That had been her name.

There’d been something about her, for sure. She couldn’t say it had been eating away at her. She was the one who had been eating away, and not at that case, but at mounds of stuff she shouldn’t even be looking at. She knew that. But this was a tough job, physical. She could walk it off. In theory. Unfortunately, her beat didn’t cover Land’s End to John O’Groats. As often as not, she was welded to the seat of her patrol car, and even that was stationary in traffic.

The truth was, it was the kind of work that you wanted to compensate yourself for doing. Demanding, sometimes demeaning. Requiring a lot of patience. Being polite, however absurd the calls on her time. Stepping in to defuse rows between grown men that would have shamed toddlers. Picking drunks up out of the gutter, and still treating them with respect, even when they hurled all over her clodhopping shoes. She needed a treat after a long day – and sometimes in the middle of a long day. And occasionally, like now, right at the beginning of what was, after all, bound to be a long day.

Unbidden, that woman’s legs unfurled in her mind again. How did you even get legs like that? Genetics, that’s how. Her own tree trunks would always be just that, even if she ate nothing but tofu and quinoa from this day forth. She knew that to be the truth. Yet there were steps she could take, to make sure the rest of her didn’t run the same way as her legs. She didn’t need Mrs Bridges rubbing it in.

But that wasn’t really why the woman had stuck in her mind. Or wasn’t the only reason, at any rate. Something didn’t stack up. Whatever her partner said, Becca hated a loose end even more than she hated an untidy doughnut. She lowered her head to the bag again, and nibbled the corner until it was flattened off. Perfect. But was that another bit poking up? She sighed. And nibbled again.

Even the hit of sweetness wasn’t enough to keep her mind off Louise Bridges for long. With a powder-white thumb she prodded her terminal into life. Burke would kill her, but he didn’t have to know. Thanks to her IT degree, she could just sneak a quick peek, set her mind at rest. Then enjoy her snack for as long as the job would let her. She licked her fingers, pressed a couple of keys, realised they were getting sticky and shrugged. This wouldn’t take a sec. Then she could give the whole keyboard a good wipe down. She fumbled in her drawer, found a piece of paper, studied the letterhead and tapped in the name.

A few strokes later and she was in. The doughnut, jam haemorrhaging away quietly inside the bag, was forgotten.

Chapter 5
Then

The first time I ever laid eyes on Patrick was at work. He just sauntered right past me. He didn’t need to tangle with me and Jen, the beautiful bookends sitting on reception. He was already in, shoulders swinging in his sharp suit, security pass wafted at the guard. Not that the fat, middle-aged geezer they’d hired to protect us all would have been able to stop anything other than a rampaging doughnut. Patrick knew where he was going, walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He owned everything. The job. The building. And now, suddenly, me.

That confidence. That sense of blithe entitlement. It wasn’t arrogance, he wasn’t really flash. He was just sure, steady, unshakeable. He was in the right place, at the right time. Everything was within his grasp, his for the taking. That definitely included me. Patrick was a living, breathing symbol of everything I’d wanted, my whole life.

I was attracted, an iron filing to a magnet. Stuck forever, just like that.

He gave Jen the ghost of a wink as he passed, shirt like a washing powder ad, glimmer of a smile, then clocked me and something changed in his expression. Too soon, he’d passed us and was at the lifts. On a better day, I might have mustered the boldness to get up, sashay past him, pretend I was on my way to the ladies’. But as it was, I just felt as though I’d been socked in the stomach.

That’s all it takes, sometimes. A look, and your life is sealed.

It was my first day in the job. God, I loved that place, the office building. Looking back on it, it was very ‘new millennium’, as they now say with a sneer. At the time, the shiny glass, chrome and marble seemed breathtaking. A palace to commerce, to possibilities, to a bright, clean future. Smart. Glitzy. Everything I badly wanted to have – and be.

So many things to remember, that morning. Who was who, where everything should go. It was crucial I shouldn’t look as though I was out of my depth. I’d blagged my way onto the temp agency’s books. The middle-aged woman at the dingy office had been deeply sceptical, but – surprise, surprise – the manager, puffing out of his shirt, was dead keen to have me on his books. Probably in all ways, but I just didn’t want to go there, even in my imagination.

This was my second temping gig. The first had been fine; boring. A solicitor’s office. Sitting there, I’d soon felt there was more dust settling on me than on the files they guarded so jealously. I hadn’t expected much from this next booking, as a result. But as soon as I approached the building, I got butterflies. Even the door handles looked like they had more class than I did. Long, chrome rods, running the length of the sheet glass doors. I was reluctant to grasp one, get my smutty prints all over it. But that only lasted a second. They had people who spent their days buffing this stuff. I took a deep breath and strutted in like I wasn’t dirt, like I didn’t come from nothing – as if, contrary to everything I knew in my heart of hearts, I had some sort of a right to try my hand at a better life.

It must have been an Oscar-winning performance, as Jen, the permanent girl, barely raised an eyebrow. They’d taken me on to cover her colleague’s two-week summer break, the idea being that Jen would bring me up to speed, though if I couldn’t hack it, it wouldn’t much matter, as she had everything under control. I couldn’t believe my luck. From the moment I sank into that leather-and-chrome swivel chair, rich and squishy as chocolate mousse, I was determined they’d never drag me out of it. It was beyond me why anyone would want time off from a job like this.

It’s hard work, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not, pretending you know what you’re doing when you really, really don’t. But I’d had practice. Sucking in every possible clue you can glean from your surroundings, your companions, can make the difference between passing unnoticed and getting into, well, let’s just say, a sticky situation. ‘Where are you from?’ Jen’s eyebrows were elegantly arched, but geography wasn’t on her mind. Her eyes travelled up and down as I gave out the mixture of truth and lies I practised every morning. She smiled and returned to her keyboard, shoulders relaxing slightly. She was somewhat reassured. My answers had passed muster. But I’d clocked that my outfit was a catastrophe which needed immediate attention.

As soon as I could, I ran to the loo. This little get-up had cost all the money I had. But it was wrong, wrong, wrong. I looked at myself in the mirror. Shame and disgust blurred my vision and when it cleared, I saw my fancy sheer blouse for what it was. So pretty, when I’d popped it on this morning and slid my feet into my towering scarlet heels. So tarty, now I looked at it coldly, while the shoes would have been better on a street corner. The tiny pucker between Jen’s eyebrows had shown me the terrible error of my ways. Highly polished invisibility was what we were after, as though we’d grown out of our marble reception desk like Greek goddesses.

I was devastated. Humiliated, yet again. A less determined girl might have thrown her hands up at that point, called the agency, asked for something … more suited. But I swallowed hard. Got to work. The desk would shield the shortness of my skirt. I couldn’t do much about the silly shirt, except fasten every single button, right up to the neck. I felt as though I was being strangled, but instantly the look was less … available. Anything else I could do? I scrutinised myself, tried to be dispassionate. The bling. I took off a bangle, then two, and stashed them in my bag. The fewer personal touches, the better. Instead of refreshing my make-up, I scrubbed half of it off, brushed my hair with furious vigour until my scalp burned. I did my best to glide back to my seat with a detached smile, just like Jen’s.

Every morning after that, I pared myself down, shedding hoops and necklaces, dumping outfits I’d saved up for, sloughing off the vibrant shades I’d loved. Working out that they shouted so much that I wanted unsaid. In the space of days, I became a monochrome, sober version of myself. The only ray of light left was my curtain of hair. It hung like the sun in the sky during that long, hot summer. Something told me that blonde would always be the one colour that went with everything.

Sometimes I’d see a hand on my keyboard and wonder who on earth it belonged to. Those tasteful taupe nails, just long enough to show they were high-maintenance, could they be mine? Fire-engine-red had been my favourite since I left school, except when I went for blue or a green or a shrieking neon. But soon I was swiping through my bathroom shelf at home, chucking my little rainbow straight into the bin. That was now definitely in my past. And the mound of jewellery on my bedside table, so beguiling when it was bought? It oxidised almost overnight, showing me who was right. All that glitters is not gold. Lucky I was a quick learner.

Chapter 6
Now
Louise

Standing in front of my mirror, today of all days, I know that, ironically, I’ve finally found a look I can definitely pull off. Well, who doesn’t suit a little black dress? Patrick’s wedding ring round my neck on a simple chain. And lilies – the other perfect accessory.

The rest of it isn’t so great. My eyes seem to have shrunk from crying, while the lids are as puffy as the vol-au-vents which are already standing in serried ranks downstairs in the kitchen for the wake. Well, reception. Or aftermath? Whatever you want to call the ghastly gathering after the funeral, where we will all chat awkwardly until the alcohol kicks in. Then the laughter will suddenly ring out too loudly and we’ll be embarrassed again.

Meanwhile, my children are in pieces and my mother-in-law has barely spoken since it happened. Because of the delay, you’d think things would be less awful. They’re absolutely not. By the time we get to the crematorium, I feel as though I’m floating about a foot above the scene, or six feet below it.

Jill’s arm is round my shoulders, mine round hers, as we progress slowly up the aisle. The children sleepwalk in front of us. It’s like a negative of my wedding photos, all that white tulle and hope swapped for black and nasty pine veneer.

Patrick is already here, as arranged. We meet at the top of the aisle, just like we did before. But this time I slide into my pew, leaving him in lonely splendour on his dais. The shiny coffin nailed down hard over his smart suit. Goodbye, my love.

I planned the service down to the last word but after it’s over I couldn’t tell you a thing that was said, done or sung. I know the pieces complemented him, and our life together, and celebrated our children, our finest achievement by far – and I know they did the trick because I could hear the sniffs behind me from the congregation. Giles and Em too, they snuffle on either side of me, tiny soft creatures again, needing all the protection I can give them. Jill is on the end of the pew, back ramrod straight, knuckles white on the shivering service sheet.

It feels right to be here, instead of in a church. We’ve only ever been fair-weather members of any congregation, only there for the jolly bits, not slogging it out every Sunday. The kids aren’t at church schools so, to put it bluntly, there’s been no need. The last time we were in one was probably Em’s christening, at Jill’s urging. She was too shattered to insist that we hold the funeral there. I’d feel bad about this awful municipal solution to Patrick’s death, but I really don’t have that much emotion to spare. I’m sure God, and Jill, have worse things to worry about.

As far as I know, Patrick had never given a thought to all this – death and the rigorous tidying away it requires. But he would have enjoyed being centre stage, all eyes on him. People often say that, and I’ve thought how discordant it sounds, yet today it’s true. The full rows of friends, neighbours, distant relatives and vague acquaintances who have turned out for him. And quite a number of attractive women sobbing. That would have tickled him. He loved to cause a stir. If he’d been here, he’d have been so busy, up and down the aisle, a handshake there, a kiss, a look, a word. And turning, now and then, to give me that wink.

I think about him as the recorded organ music starts up. It was loud and rousing during the hymns, filling out the gaps where we all blundered, after the first couple of familiar lines. I muttered along for form’s sake, while Giles and Em were hardly audible. What do you expect? They don’t do proper hymns anymore at school, even the posh places like theirs. If they sing, it’s all about dolphins, not Dear Lord and Father and forgive our foolish ways. Jill’s voice was husky, catching on cigarettes and grief.

Now, the organ sound dribbles away, mild and meandering, ushering us out of the crematorium and onwards, to the rest of our lives. We shuffle obligingly to our feet when the celebrant, whose eulogy for Patrick gave new meaning to the word bland, gestures for us to go first. Once again, it’s a wedding march, except now Patrick is being left behind forever.

On the way back down the aisle, where once I grinned from ear to ear, my veil thrown back, ring gleaming on my third finger, my prize the wonderful man on my arm, now I walk uncertainly with Giles and Em, glancing quickly at the friends and colleagues who don’t know whether to smile or not. There’s Patrick’s university friend, they shared a flat back in the day, after graduation. A group from our old firm – it all seems so long ago now. A few more recent clients – I dread the chats to come. The miscellaneous blondes – my gaze skates over them and they busy themselves with bags and tissues, darting out of my view like a shoal of silvery fish. And there’s Jen, kind and lovely Jen. Still gorgeous. Still with that idiot Tim. She gives me such a lovely smile. Ah, Stacy Johnson, my best friend, right in the middle of a row. She’s in bits. Of course she is. I try not to catch her eye. I really can’t afford to set myself off again. I need to hold it together.

Then, in the last pew, I do a double take. The little policewoman. Not in uniform, but I recognise those bold, beady eyes, running over my face. She’s wearing a hoody and jeans. Not even black. Is nothing sacred? What is she doing here? It was bad enough that evening, her stare. But at my husband’s funeral? I hope the children haven’t seen or recognised her. I press them closer to me. Her gaze follows me as I pass. I do a mental tut. Here? Really?

And I swish on out, the flawless skirt of my black crepe dress flowing around my legs.

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