by Nicola Gill
WE ARE FAMILY
Nicola Gill
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Nicola Gill 2020
Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Nicola Gill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008355425
Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008355432
Version: 2020-08-13
Dedication
For Dad. I know this would have made you nearly as happy as Manchester United winning the Champions League. Miss you always.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
‘Whatever have you done to your hair?’
Those were Laura’s mother’s last words to her.
Neither of them had known it at the time, of course. Although Laura couldn’t shake off the feeling that if her mother had known, she wouldn’t have changed a thing.
‘If you could get here as quickly as you can,’ the nurse from the hospice had said.
But Laura couldn’t get there very quickly at all. Jon was missing in action with his mobile going to voicemail which meant that, at the time Laura was supposed to be clutching her mother’s tiny, emaciated hand and righting thirty-seven years of wrongs, she was actually trying to persuade Billy that he did like fish fingers and he wasn’t going to watch Trolls unless he had at least three mouthfuls of peas.
Laura sat in the back of the cab pulling at a particularly rambunctious curl. You might have thought that a woman high on a cocktail of opioids and staring down the barrel of death wouldn’t have noticed that you’d had a disastrous haircut but her mother wasn’t one to miss something like that. ‘I went to a new hairdresser,’ Laura had explained, remembering how, when she’d first sat in the chair, Mario had stood behind her clutching random handfuls of her hair with a pained expression on his face before saying, ‘What are we going to do with this?’
‘Whatever you think best,’ Laura had said, flushing with shame. Which were pretty much the only words she’d said until she told him the final result was ‘wonderful’ before tipping him extravagantly and then leaving the salon to cry even more extravagantly.
The traffic on the South Circular was horrendous and despite the fact that it was a freezing January night, Laura could feel the sweat start to bead under her armpits. Although she had no idea why she was stressed about the time now; it was like killing yourself to get to the theatre when you knew you’d already missed the start of the play.
She fished a bot
tle of Gaviscon out of her handbag and took a swig.
‘They make tablets, you know,’ her mother had said to her reprovingly.
‘The liquid works quicker,’ Laura had replied. And yet the next time she was in Boots, she’d found herself picking up a packet of the tablets.
The driver scowled in the rearview mirror. He was obviously disgusted by her swigging too. She shrank back in her seat. Perhaps she should tell him? He wouldn’t be scowling then. But then she would be faced with unadulterated stranger sympathy, which would surely be even worse.
Jess had arrived at the hospice within twenty minutes of getting the call from the nurse, of course. No question that her perfect elder sister would be there on time.
Her mum’s death shouldn’t have come as a shock, really. They had known this was coming. But it was still weird to think that three hours ago Laura had been at work talking to her editor about whether she should pursue a story about a woman addicted to eating washing-up sponges (sometimes it occurred to Laura that her journalism wasn’t quite of the ‘Changing the World’ variety she’d once imagined). ‘I’ve got to shoot,’ Dani had said. ‘Let’s pick this up again tomorrow.’
Little did either of them know that Laura wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Because presumably you didn’t go into work the day after your mother had died? Even if the two of you hadn’t been that close.
Tears bubbled in Laura’s throat. Now there would never be a chance to be like other mothers and daughters. She’d tried so hard since her mother’s diagnosis. But somehow, however well-intentioned you were on the journey there, however much you thought you’d be the kind and solicitous daughter, my God, the reality was hard. Was Laura trying to choke her, holding the beaker like that? No, not that blanket! Why had she brought Billy with her? Did Laura really think she wanted a five-year-old behaving like a wild animal?
‘It’s the drugs making her cranky,’ Aileen, the kind red-headed nurse had said, putting her hand on Laura’s arm.
No, it isn’t.
It had taken five missed calls and two voicemail messages before Jon had finally called her back this evening, and even then, she could barely hear him over the sounds of a noisy pub. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s my mum,’ Laura had said, choking on the words and staring at last night’s Chinese takeaway containers, which were still littered across the kitchen worktops. Splatters of Kung Po sauce looked like blood.
Jon had been home less than twenty minutes later, smelling of beer and an outside world that didn’t know or care that Laura was running out of time. He’d pulled her into a hug and told her to get a cab. Billy, naked apart from his Spider-Man socks, was jumping up and down on the sofa. ‘Does he know anything?’ Jon asked. Laura had shook her head and said there was nothing to know yet.
And right on cue, her sister rang. ‘We’ve lost her.’
Lost her. Like they’d all been ambling around M&S and their mother had last been seen by the frozen foods.
The cab had arrived minutes later. Jon told Billy to wait inside while he put Mummy in the car. He did up her seatbelt for her, squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, babe.’
Laura was an orphan now. She felt faintly ridiculous at the thought. After all she didn’t have a flat cap or a grubby face or go around begging for more. Plus, she was thirty-seven years old. Two dead parents still made you an orphan though.
The cab pulled up outside the hospice.
Laura took a deep breath. Here I am, Mum. Better late than never.
Chapter Two
Laura raced down the road, sweaty and agitated.
She could not believe she was late for the appointment at the funeral director’s. And, if being late to the hospice hadn’t been her fault, well, this time it was definitely on her. It was just … nothing had gone right this morning. Billy couldn’t find Captain America, she couldn’t find that pile of clean T shirts she’d folded the other day – she really had to tidy up this flat. Then Billy had knocked over a whole bottle of milk just as she was trying to get some breakfast into him. She must have shouted ‘Billy!’ much louder than she meant to because Jon appeared in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.
‘I knocked over the milk,’ Billy said. ‘And Mummy shouted at me.’ His lower lip wobbled.
Jon kissed the top of his head. ‘Mummy didn’t really shout. Now eat your Cheerios while I clear up the mess.’
‘I don’t like Cheerios!’
‘They’re a superhero’s favourite cereal.’
Billy looked unconvinced but started eating.
Laura had stood at the kitchen sink with her back to them, taking a long, deep breath as tears welled in her eyes. Jon stepped over the river of milk and put his arms around her. ‘Sssh, no use crying over spilt milk.’
Twenty minutes later, Laura was shivering and pulling her coat tighter as she stepped out of the house. It was one of those grim January days where it seemed as if it would never be warm again, that maybe the sun had just forgotten how to shine. She glanced at her watch, noting that she just might still make it to the funeral director’s in time if everything went like clockwork. And as luck would have it, she could see her bus arriving as she got near to the bus stop. She broke into a run.
A large man going in the opposite direction barrelled into her, elbowing her hard in the chest just as the bus pulled away.
Great! She bet Jess was there already. I’m quite early, she’d be saying. I’ll just sit here and catch up on a few things. Like she had anything to catch up on. She’d have been up since 5.30 a.m. micro-scheduling the day ahead. She’d once told Laura that if she didn’t make herself get up at 5.30, the day ‘just ran away from her’. Laura, who routinely hit the snooze button until about seven and a half minutes before she had to get Billy to school and herself to work, had been utterly appalled. What normal person routinely gets up at that hour? In her book, it wasn’t even morning.
Six minutes until the next bus. Six minutes! Laura took a discreet swig of Gaviscon and hoped she wouldn’t spontaneously combust.
By the time she had got to the hospice the other day, Jess had already spoken to the funeral director. We’re meeting Robert the day after tomorrow at 11 a.m. Robert? Christ, how had the two of them become bessies so quickly?
When Laura got off the bus she immediately started running again. Was it normal to be so out of breath so quickly? She needed to lose some weight and get fit. Jess ran four times a week (of course she did). Thinking about her sister made Laura speed up a little, despite the wheezing. It was nearly twenty past eleven and she knew Jess would have started the meeting without her. In fact, she may well have their mother buried by now. Time is money.
Finally, the funeral parlour loomed into view. Robert Butler & Sons, a family firm (was this supposed to make death feel cosy and unthreatening?). It was sandwiched between a shoe shop and a convenience store. And Laura couldn’t help but notice that there was a huge poster for The Walking Dead just around the corner.
‘Robert Butler,’ a rotund man said, proffering a bear-like and slightly sweaty hand. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Was he sorry? This was his business, for goodness’ sake. If people didn’t die, he didn’t eat. No, she was being unfair. He could be sorry and not sorry in different ways. Besides, someone had to do this job. She must stop being so weird.
‘Did you have far to come?’ Robert said.
Laura shook her head. ‘Dulwich.’ Robert gave a purr of approval. It was strange that despite having rented a flat on Croxted Road for years, Laura had never really thought of herself as a Dulwich person. She didn’t know the Farrow & Ball paint chart off by heart, had never thrown a dinner party and happily ate non-organic carrots. Jon’s ambivalence about the area was even more pronounced and he’d been known to tell strangers he lived ‘near Brixton’, presumably because Dulwich just didn’t seem like an edgy enough hood for a white public schoolboy who grew up in Surrey.
Robert ushered Laura into a small, murkily lit room where
her immaculate-looking sister was already arranged elegantly on a sofa. Jess – who hated people being late – glanced at her watch in a move so classically passive-aggressive that Laura had to resist the urge to chuck the half-drunk green tea her sister was holding all over her.
And was that Mum’s necklace Jess was wearing – the one Dad had bought her? Blimey, she hadn’t wasted much time getting her hands on that.
Laura was determined she was not going to apologize for being late. Or chuck green tea at anyone. Or wrench necklaces from their throats. ‘There’s a poster for The Walking Dead right outside!’
Both Jess and Robert stared at her.
‘Unfortunate media placement, don’t you think?’
‘Umm … May I get you some tea or coffee?’ Robert said.
Well, so much for lightening the mood. ‘Yes, coffee please.’
‘How do you take it?’ Robert asked.
‘Milk and two sugars please.’
‘I’ve given up sugar,’ Jess said. ‘And I feel like a different person.’
Try giving up being smug, Laura thought irritably.
A few minutes later Robert reappeared with a rather muddy-looking cup of coffee and picked up his notebook. ‘Now, where were we?’
And suddenly, there were so many decisions to be made. Where did they want the service? What time? Cremation or burial? Pine or oak? Chrome handles or gold? Live music or a playlist?
Laura’s head pounded. She didn’t know the answers to any of this stuff. She had tried to talk to her mum about some of it but now, sitting here in this unfeasibly hot little room, she could hardly remember what she’d said. She knew her mother wanted to be cremated but that was about it.
Jess, of course, was absolutely the opposite and fired back answers as quickly as a quiz show contestant. St Anthony’s. Next Friday. Cremation. Oak. Fastest fingers on the buzzers!
Laura almost wanted to disagree with some of the decisions, just on principle. Had Jess really ascertained that live music was critically important to their mother? Or was that just something Jess wanted? Laura wouldn’t put it past her sister to be considering the reaction of her Instagram followers. Jess Tomlinson, Mistress of the Tasteful Funeral.
‘We’ll have more choice if we have a playlist,’ Laura found herself blurting out.
Robert stopped scribbling in his notebook and scratched his head with a sweaty paw.
