Today, those same trestle tables had been laid out with a spread that on any other occasion Kate would have forced herself to resist. Almost every single item was off her list. An array of fresh sandwiches cut into triangles: cucumber, roast beef, salmon. Tiny bridge rolls filled with egg mayonnaise. Next to them, sausage rolls and mushroom vol au vents. And on the next table, fruit loaf and Victoria sponge and flapjacks. All the sorts of things her mother used to make.
It made her feel nostalgic and homesick and above all moved by the generosity of her mother’s friends, who had all pitched in and brought something.
Someone was pouring tea from the urn.
The cup that cheers but does not inebriate, thought Kate, accepting a cup and saucer gratefully. It was just what she needed. That time-honoured cure for all ills. There was no worry that her mother couldn’t chase away with a cup of tea.
Kate never drank tea in New York.
She helped herself to a cucumber sandwich and was immediately transported back to the summer of her childhood. It was amazing how taste could hold so many memories. If she shut her eyes, she would be there on the beach, sheltered from the wind by a gaily coloured wind-break, her hair whipping round her head.
A woman touched her on the arm.
‘You won’t know me,’ she said, ‘but your mother was so kind to me. When I lost my husband, she forced me out of the house and made me join the choir. It was the best thing I ever did.’
Kate smiled. Her mother had taken the choir very seriously, even though she wasn’t religious.
‘Were you singing today?’ she asked.
The woman nodded. ‘I like to think Joy would have appreciated it.’
‘The singing was beautiful. And she absolutely would have.’
‘I was so grateful to her. She was very special.’
Kate ventured another smile, but she could feel her chin wobble slightly. She lifted the cup to her lips to hide her lack of composure and turned away. She stood for a moment, but she could feel the tears coming. She put her cup down and walked into the kitchen, hoping no one would notice.
The kitchen hadn’t changed an iota. It even smelled the same, of bleach and beef consommé. How many times had she helped her mum with functions in here, plating up ploughmans for the harvest supper, or scooping out mulled wine into plastic cups for the Christmas bazaar? She could remember her sixteenth birthday party, serving up hot dogs at nine o’clock because her mum (quite rightly) said everyone’s stomach needed lining. Even now she could see the disco lights swirling round the ceiling, yellow and red and green, faster and faster because someone had tipped a half-bottle of rum into the punch.
She stood in the corner of the kitchen, behind the door of the cupboard that held the mops and buckets, and wept. She didn’t think she was ever going to stop.
‘Hey.’ It was Debbie. Debbie, who unlike most of Pennfleet had done herself up to the nines in a shiny tight black dress and four-inch heels and her hair pulled back in a bun high on her head. ‘Come here.’
She pulled Kate into her and held her tight, rocking her back and forth and shushing her, as she would her own children. ‘You cry, my lovely. You cry.’
Gradually Kate’s sobs died down. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This place brings so many memories of her, that’s all.’
Debbie ignored her apology.
‘I remember when I threw up all over your parents’ couch after your party,’ she said. ‘We’d been drinking that punch all night and it was lethal. Your mum made me clear it up. But then she put me to bed and she was really kind.’
‘Yeah – put you into my bed,’ remembered Kate. ‘I had to sleep on the floor.’
‘You always had a better head for drink than me.’
‘Not now,’ said Kate. ‘I’m a real lightweight.’
‘Me too. With four kids. I fall over after one glass of wine.’
The two of them laughed. For a moment it was as if they were back in the school canteen, planning their next escapade.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ asked Debbie.
‘I don’t know. Just going home, I suppose.’
‘You don’t want to be on your own, surely?’
Kate didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t want to go back to her parents’ empty house, but at the same time she didn’t want to be with people, putting on a brave face. Or worse, a not very brave face. Home seemed the easiest option.
‘I don’t mind. I need an early night. I’ve got to start clearing the house out tomorrow. I’ve got to get back to work as soon as I can.’
‘I can give you a hand if you want.’
‘I might need advice on where to get rid of some of the stuff.’
‘No problem. And if you want to come over to mine tonight, I can do you some dinner. It won’t be anything fancy. And it’s mayhem. But it might take your mind off things.’
‘That’s really sweet of you. But I’ll probably just go to bed.’
‘Course.’ Debbie put a hand on her arm. ‘But the offer’s there.’
Kate looked at the woman she’d spent so many crazy days and nights with all those years ago. They’d been best mates then, but they were worlds apart now. Their lives could not be more different. Yet there was still a strong connection. She felt genuine warmth and concern coming from Debbie, and she was grateful for it.
‘You’re really kind,’ she said, and her voice broke a little bit.
Debbie looked at her in surprise. ‘You’d do it for me.’
Would I, though? thought Kate. Would I even have the time to stop and worry about someone else? In theory, yes, of course. But would she take the time out to invest in someone just because they had once been friends, long ago?
‘Just come and bang on the door if you want company,’ said Debbie. ‘Number four. Carlyon Terrace.’ She grinned ruefully. Carlyon Terrace was where all the tearaways used to live. The problem families. ‘It’s not as rough as it was in our day.’
‘Thanks again.’ As she watched Debbie go, Kate gathered herself together. She really should get back out there and not stay snivelling in the broom cupboard. She wiped her eyes and made her way back into the hall.
People were starting to clear away cups and plates. Someone was putting cling film over the few remaining sandwiches. As the last of the mourners drifted away, Kate felt a gloom descend. She had felt so supported and uplifted by everyone’s kindness, but now she realised she was on her own. She expected to see her mother any moment, wielding a broom.
She pulled on her coat and left. She couldn’t bear to say goodbye to anyone, for she knew she would cry again, even though she wanted to thank them all. She felt bone-tired and lightheaded. She thought they would probably understand.
8
Spencer’s funeral service finally ground to a halt.
Everyone waited, and Vanessa realised that, as the widow, she was expected to leave first. Mrs Mac took her arm, escorted her out of the pew and back up the aisle. She kept a gracious look on her face but avoided eye contact with anyone. She still didn’t trust herself. She’d always had a terrible reputation for corpsing at school, in exams and assemblies and at moments of great solemnity. She was a giggler. It was nerves, really. Of course she didn’t find her husband’s funeral funny, but she knew at the slightest provocation she might dissolve. Thereby undoing any chance she had of Spencer’s entourage taking her seriously. You couldn’t control these things.
She made it out into the fresh air, into the churchyard, and breathed in. Beyond the lych gate, real life continued, with the occasional passer-by glancing to see what was taking place: the black clothing soon told them it was a funeral rather than a wedding or a christening, and they hurried on. There but for the grace of God.
The crematorium was small and bland, with none of the comforting grace of the old church – just grey and municipal and lacking in atmosphere, as if to confirm the harsh reality of what was about to happen. The process was mercifully swift. No one wanted to be there: s
houlders were hunched and expressions set.
As the coffin disappeared behind the curtains, an awful sound came from the right-hand side of the congregation: a low moaning that grew to a wail. Vanessa knew without looking that it was Karina. She tried not to look irritated as a swarm of sympathetic mourners flew to her side. She’d heard that sound before. It was Karina’s default setting. The noise she made when something hadn’t gone her way.
Now Spencer had finally departed, Karina wasn’t going to be able to emotionally blackmail him for cash any more. She wasn’t going to be able to twist him round her little finger, piling on the guilt, which he always assuaged by giving her a handout. Vanessa hated the fact that everyone seemed to be taken in by Karina’s act, oozing sympathy for the bereaved ex-wife who had been usurped by a much younger model.
Vanessa clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at the floor. Mary Mac, too, remained impassive, but Vanessa knew she wasn’t fooled either. She didn’t want to catch her eye, though, just in case the expressions on their faces made their feelings apparent. It really didn’t do to look askance at someone else’s grief, and they could hardly accuse Karina of being a charlatan mid-cremation. It was a tricky social situation, and Vanessa didn’t want to be the one who made things kick off. This was the last time she would have to see any of these people again. She wanted to emerge from the whole thing intact.
Eventually the wailing subsided, drowned out by some interminable piece of prog rock. Spencer had always joked about it being played at his funeral and Vanessa had seen no reason not to obey his wishes. An endless guitar solo meandered on as everyone came to terms with the fact that Spencer was gone. The silence when it finally came to a finish was solemn, as the music had given the impression of heralding an arrival rather than a departure. It felt like a huge anticlimax.
Vanessa led the way out. Behind her Karina staggered, face streaked with make-up, supported by a stressed Daniella and a mortified Aiden. Part of Vanessa wanted to scoop the two children up and whisk them away to comfort them, but it wasn’t her place and neither of them would thank her. She felt sorry for them, though. Spencer had been their dad, after all. They had every right to genuinely mourn his passing, unlike Karina who, Vanessa knew, had done everything in her power to make her ex-husband’s life as difficult as possible, right up until the very end.
Karina’s behaviour had always upset Vanessa during their marriage. Not because she found Karina a threat, but because her endless haranguing phone calls, her demands for money, her cris de coeur every time something went wrong took up so much of Spencer’s time and energy.
‘She’s your ex! She’s had her settlement. You don’t owe her anything,’ Vanessa told him repeatedly, because Spencer always seemed to drop everything to help her. She didn’t resent it; she was simply bewildered by it.
‘She’s the mother of my children,’ would be his answer, and with that Vanessa couldn’t argue. But did that mean he had to jump to her aid every time Karina had a minor domestic crisis, or a major financial one? It was such manipulative behaviour, and she didn’t understand why Spencer had fallen for it every time, because he was nothing if not shrewd. Guilt, she supposed, just like with the children.
She turned to Mary Mac as Spencer’s friends and relations streamed out of the crematorium, car keys at the ready, conferring with each other as to who should follow whom.
‘I can’t do it,’ Vanessa told Mary. ‘I can’t go home and face all the disapproving glances and the recrimination. Everyone knows I had nothing to do with Spencer and Karina splitting up, but somehow I’m still getting the blame.’
Mary hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘It’s OK, love. I can take charge. It’s only a question of serving up the casserole. And one of the men will do drinks.’
‘Am I being oversensitive? I mean, none of them can stand me, so they’d be better off without me.’
‘No.’ Mary understood. ‘You come back when you want. I’ll keep you some food.’
Vanessa reached out and hugged her. ‘You’re a star.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just make sure everyone has plenty to eat and not too much to drink.’
She could feel everyone’s eyes boring into her back as the undertaker led her down the path to the waiting cars. Why she was still the enemy she would never know, but she supposed she wasn’t the only one. It was an occupational hazard, being the second wife of an extremely wealthy man. And Vanessa had a feeling being his widow would bring even more trouble.
Nathan Fisher sat at the wheel of the lead funeral car, a sleek black Mercedes with cream leather seats. He was in a dark suit and black tie with a black cap, his blonde shoulder-length hair swept back and tied in a ponytail. He’d fought with his boss for ages about the length, and Malcolm had eventually capitulated, because Nathan was reliable, a good driver, empathetic and honest. Never mind that when he was dressed in his uniform he looked like something out of a Madonna video. There had, so far, been no complaints. And he’d even been to the chemist to buy proper black hair ties, not just elastic bands.
He watched the widow being led along the path. Vanessa Knight. She looked calm and dignified. No tears. No companion. No children. No hat. Nathan had long learned never to judge or make assumptions about mourners. She turned to Malcolm, his boss, and indicated that she didn’t want to be escorted any further. She would be fine on her own. Nathan could see Malcolm wasn’t happy – he hated anything that didn’t fit into his vision of how a funeral should be – but he stood back and let her make her own way to the lead car.
She opened the door and fell into the front seat with a sigh, as if Nathan was her dad picking her up from a party earlier than all her friends. She was wearing a black silk jersey dress, wraparound, expensively forgiving. The skirt slithered off her legs as she crossed them, revealing sheer black hold-up stockings. She didn’t seem to notice.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go in the back?’ he asked.
She turned her head to look at him. Huge, cornflower-blue eyes with too much kohl and mascara and rather old-fashioned pale-pink lipstick. Her almost white-blonde pageboy had two inches of darker root. Her nails were short, painted dark-cherry red. Her stilettoes were sky high but down at heel, the suede rubbed bare in places. They had definitely seen better days.
She was a curious mixture of chic and unkempt, thought Nathan, as if she’d been caught unawares by the event and hadn’t had time to get her hair done. Or maybe she just wasn’t bothered. She smelled heavenly, though. The funeral car was filled with the scent of something sharp and dark and exotic that unsettled him and made him grip the leather of the steering wheel more tightly.
‘Just get me out of here.’ Her voice was low and husky, but that could be the grief – crying made people sound different.
Nathan checked his rear-view mirror to see if the other mourners had got into their cars. It was usual to drive off in an orderly cavalcade, at a sedate pace.
‘Don’t wait for that lot,’ she told him. ‘I’m not going back with them. Take me to the nearest pub.’ She wrung her hands, the fingers twisting in and out of each other. ‘The Neptune. You can park there.’
The Neptune was the roughest pub in town.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I have never,’ she told him, ‘been more sure about anything. I’m not going home to stand around being polite to his wretched relatives and all those brown-nosing friends of his. None of them ever gave me the time of day when he was alive so why should they start now?’ She tipped her head back against the headrest and shut her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just want to go and get horribly drunk.’
‘Right,’ said Nathan, nodding, but not really sure how to deal with the brief. ‘Um – I should tell my boss first.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m supposed to take you straight to Pennfleet House.’
‘I’m paying the bill, aren’t I?’ She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. Yet sh
e wasn’t being grand. Her eyes were teasing.
Nathan nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘It’s been a long day. I’ve been up since five. I couldn’t sleep.’ She pulled down the sun visor and peered at herself in the mirror. ‘I look like death.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Nathan.
She flashed him a sudden grin. It transformed her face; made her look impish and mischievous and about ten years younger. ‘You’re sweet,’ she said, ‘but I do.’ She wiped the surfeit of make-up from under her eyes. ‘I haven’t been crying, by the way. My make-up always runs.’
‘You’re allowed to cry. It’s a funeral.’
She stared at herself. ‘Why couldn’t I cry?’ she asked her reflection. ‘I always cry at funerals. And weddings. Even of people I don’t know.’
Nathan didn’t know what to answer, so he started up the engine and the Merc purred into life. He’d take her to the pub and phone Malcolm when he got there; explain the situation. She had a fair point, after all. The funeral was going to set her back the best part of ten grand, so if she wanted to go to the pub, who was he to argue?
Five minutes later, Nathan pulled into the Neptune car park. He felt awkward about letting his charge go into the pub unescorted. She might be putting on a brave face, but he knew funerals did strange things to people. And the Neptune wasn’t really the place to be vulnerable.
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you should be on your own.’
‘I’m tougher than I look.’
He shrugged, feeling foolish for asking. Then she touched him on the arm. ‘Actually, that would be really nice. And I need something to eat. I couldn’t face breakfast and now I could eat a horse between two mattresses.’
He grinned. ‘Well, I don’t know if you’ll be able to get one of them. But they’ll probably run to a steak sandwich.’
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. It would be Malcolm. He imagined he would be apoplectic. It was totally out of order, him driving off with the widow like that. Was it a sacking offence, he wondered? Suddenly, he didn’t much care. He was tired of death, and all its ramifications. Eventually, he thought, he would have driven everyone in Pennfleet to the graveyard. It was a sobering thought.
High Tide Page 7
