I don’t know how we get through the service, but we do. Perhaps it helps that the non-denominational celebrant didn’t know Adam, so the service is depersonalised. All three of us squeeze our eyes together as the curtain comes down and Adam’s coffin disappears.
When the service is over and everyone is milling out in the hallway, I notice DI Cornish and DC White standing in the corner, observing us all. I am quite sure they’re not here to pay their respects. Bea and Cassie marshal us through the crowd of well-wishers, and the limousine whisks us away to a local hotel.
‘You never know how many people are going to come to the wake,’ Fiona had said. ‘Best have too much food and drink rather than too little.’ The hotel concurred. But then they would. They’ll be in the money.
The hotel is large, and the building is squat and rather ugly, with a white rendered finish that looks odd in its rural settings in woodland at the foot of the Sussex Downs. I’m not sure how, but quite a few people have arrived before us and are already milling around in the sterile conference room. There are a lot of faces I don’t recognise, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve got the right funeral. But then I spot Ajay; Marianne is clinging onto her husband’s arm for dear life. I turn away from them. What cheek for them to attend Adam’s funeral.
Cassie hands me a glass of white wine, and I take several large gulps. I look outside through the large patio windows, towards the well-tended gardens. The kids are with their older cousins, sitting outside on a bench. Louis says something that makes them laugh. I’m relieved. Now I have to play the grieving hostess.
How come there are so many strangers here? How did Adam know all of these people? Are they all from the golf club, or are they people from other parts of his life that I knew nothing about? Adam had so little family. An only child, with both parents dead and no cousins that I am aware of. He never talked much about his childhood, although I know that he was sent off to boarding school, where he was desperately unhappy. It was very obvious that neither of his parents thought that I was good enough for their only son. But they misjudged us: their constant criticism of me and everything Adam did only served to make us closer. I wondered whether they thought they were displaying a weird form of tough love. It didn’t work. Adam didn’t cry at either of his parents’ funerals, just as I’m not crying at his.
‘Are you all right?’ Bea asks as she brings me over a small plate filled with sausage rolls and open sandwiches. I place it on the windowsill. I’m not hungry.
‘I don’t know half these people.’
She places a kiss on my cheek. Bea never kisses me. I finish my glass of wine and another appears immediately.
After shaking hands with queues of sombre mourners, I slip out of the room to go to the ladies’. I feel slightly tipsy, having drunk two glasses of wine and eaten nothing all day. When I come out of the cubicle to wash my hands, Marianne is standing with her back to the sinks. She is wearing a black silk dress and lots of heavy gold jewelry. Her Prada sunglasses cover most of her face.
I ignore her and step to the furthest sink.
‘Lydia, I’m so sorry,’ she says.
I turn the tap on full blast.
‘Please. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to cause such pain. I miss him so much.’
I turn with a snarl. ‘And you think that is going to give me any comfort? I don’t care what you think, what you feel.’
She takes her sunglasses off. Her eyes are red, and mascara has smudged underneath her eyes.
‘Please, Lydia. Please forgive me and forgive Adam. We didn’t want to hurt you or Ajay.’
‘Too little, too late,’ I say, drying my hands on a little facecloth and dropping it into a wicker basket under the sinks. She puts a manicured hand on my arm, but I shrug her off and storm out of the ladies. How dare Marianne and Ajay turn up here? How dare Marianne ask for forgiveness? And what about Ajay? What does she think about him being a murder suspect, or does she even know?
I find Bea. ‘I want to go home now.’ She nods. Five minutes later, we’re wedged into a taxi. Mia, Oliver, Bea and I sit in silence all the way home. Craig and the boys will follow. My heart bleeds for my babies, fatherless now. How will I cope being both mother and father? Will their childhoods be ruined? I need to talk to someone, find out what support I should be giving them; making sure that they understand that life is fragile, but at the same time, not being scared to live theirs.
When I open the door to our silent home, the sadness and confusion is replaced with a sense of lightness and relief. Such a significant chapter has closed in my life, but I feel a sense of liberation, a little frisson of excitement for what the future may hold. I know it’s wrong of me to feel that, today of all days. Of course I didn’t want Adam to die, but in a perverse way, it’s easier that he is dead. If we had gone through the divorce, we would have fought over the children, the house and the business. I realise it makes me sound like a bad person. And really, I’m not.
9
Three Months Later
I slip the black dress off the white satin padded hanger. Goodness. I have forgotten how very flimsy it is. Such an expensive dress for so little fabric. As I’m applying my make-up, I run through my usual mental checklist. There’s a lasagna in the oven, bubbling away nicely, ready for Cassie to eat with the kids. I’ve put a freshly made salad on the table, covered in cling film, and homemade salad dressing in a little cut-glass bottle.
‘Mum, where’s the sellotape?’ Oliver stomps into the bathroom without knocking. It will be a matter of months before my little boy transforms into a lanky teenager. He’s at that precarious stage where he still needs me, but doesn’t want to admit it. I watch him swagger with his newly formed friends, trying so very hard to be in with the cool crowd, but still on the periphery. Thank goodness we had the summer for him to steel himself before having to return to school. When I drop him off at the school gates in the mornings, he braces himself before walking through the gate. A deep breath, shoulders tensed, a purposeful walk. I see so much of Adam in him, but unlike his father, Oliver has a soft centre, and I worry for my gentle boy.
‘The sellotape should be in the second drawer down in the utility room.’
‘Are you going out?’ he asks.
I pull my dressing gown tighter around my waist.
‘Yes, I told you. Cassie is coming to babysit.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just out for a bite to eat with an old friend,’ I say, wishing I didn’t have to lie to my boy.
He grunts and leaves the room.
‘Have you finished your homework?’
I don’t get an answer.
I apply my make-up carefully. More foundation than usual, and mascara. I have naturally dark lashes and don’t normally bother, but tonight I’m hopeful. I slip on the black dress. It is silk, with little spaghetti straps and a cowl neckline that makes my bust look more substantial than it is. I do a twirl in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. The saleslady told me I looked twenty-five in the dress, that I was stunning. Oh, how easy it is to flatter. I didn’t believe her, I’m not that stupid. But I do look all right. My legs are shapely and slender, my waist slim. I’ve lost nearly a stone over the past four months. As I glance at my watch, the doorbell rings. Cassie is always on time.