nails tended to look when you spent most of your time mucking out stables and moving jump poles.
***
Amanda sat bolt upright, because otherwise she was sure she’d crumple in a heap, and felt strangely detached as she stared at the coffin. So, this was it. It hadn’t been a nightmare when she’d woken up to find his arm pressed cold against her. And it seemed surreal, and somehow wrong, to be sharing his last moments with the group of people he’d wanted here. In life they’d been such different people, and in death they were too. They’d grown apart because they were so different, but stayed together because maybe they were the same, deep down.
For one ghastly moment she imagined the coffin lid coming up and his great guffaw of a laugh ringing out into the silent cavernous exterior of the church. But it didn’t. Just like he hadn’t turned around one day and asked forgiveness for all the women he’d laid and promised to be faithful until the end of his days. No, some things were as improbable as landing on Mars and discovering it actually was inhabited by a race that understood every word you said to them.
The last time she’d sat in a church had been their wedding. Which was bad, maybe she didn’t deserve to be happy? All the trimmings, a horse and carriage, a satin white gown, enough flowers to finish off a hay fever sufferer. The façade of a fairy tale, turning her into the princess he wanted to live with. Well, maybe not live with, the person he wanted to put on a pedestal and use as a symbol of what you could achieve if you worked hard. Which was a bit ironic, as Amanda had worked bloody hard to turn herself into that type of person. From the geeky, unfashionable teenager brought up in the suburbs she’d made a career out of self-improvement. Self being the operative word. If she hadn’t bothered, maybe she’d have found a man who truly loved her, and who was faithful. Maybe not.
‘I’ll be good to you, Mandy. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.’ And he had been, and she hadn’t been left wanting. Whatever everybody thought. Which would have been fine if she’d been a pampered pet poodle.
She’d forgiven his affairs at first, but then she’d realised that he had to shag everything that had a pulse and she knew if she’d thought the tip of the iceberg had been bad enough, the rest that was hidden underwater would end up drowning her. And it was the fact that everyone knew, that was what really hurt her.
He’d been in her bed the night he died for a reason. He’d wanted to explain all the reasons she didn’t want a divorce. Quietly, patiently, like you’d explain to a five-year-old with learning difficulties. Marcus was good, was believable, and was lovable in his own way. He knew how to persuade her, knew every weak spot, and knew that she didn’t really want to go through with it. He wanted to find a compromise that would suit both of them, and she was so close to saying yes to him. So close, because it was next to impossible for her to deny him, whatever he did. But the one thing that any compromise could never give her was what she needed most. Freedom. Freedom and her self-respect back.
The stained-glass window blurred, so she glanced down at the coffin, then down further to her cold hands clasped so tight in her lap that the fingertips had gone from pinkish to white and were heading for blue.
And she fucking missed the stupid bastard. A drop of water splashed down onto her thumb. Shit, she couldn’t cry. She just mustn’t. But tensing her jaw didn’t seem to work, nor did biting her bottom lip. A second, third tear found their way out. Although someone had to mourn his passing, he was, had been, a good man, deep down. That was why she’d married him. He’d spent a whole life changing himself, like she had, into a symbol of success. But she’d recognised that kernel of the original man that still remained, like he’d winkled out the bits of her that hung on from the past. And that was what tied them together. Until the reality of who they’d become had been too heavy to ignore. Why the hell did things have to change? What was wrong with just being happy?
She wiped across her cheek with the back of her hand surreptitiously and glanced around the packed pews. How many of these people knew Marcus? Really knew who he was. Had been. At a guess, none of them knew, and none of them cared. They’d come because he was a success, and even in death some of that might rub off onto them.
If she could just march out now, and tell them all to go to hell, she would. The old Amanda might have done, his Mandy. But she couldn’t. Marcus would have wanted it this way, he had wanted it this way. The circus, that didn’t respect him at all, but did celebrate his achievements. The attendance alone did that. You couldn’t count love by numbers, but you could count respect. Or envy. Now all she needed was the whole fiasco to pass as quickly as possible and then she could go to bed with a bottle of wine and flannelette pyjamas and mourn her own way. He’d have laughed at that, ditching the satin nightwear to mourn him. And he’d have hugged her. Shit, she was going to start blubbing again if she wasn’t careful. She just had to concentrate. On the crowd, on being polite. On forgetting why they were there, like everyone else would soon do. God, she’d kill for a drink right now.
***
‘There was water in the bottom of my boot.’ Rory slid into the pew next to Lottie and hissed in her ear. The warmth of his thigh welcome in more ways than the normal ones.
‘Don’t wriggle dear, sit still.’
Lottie had thought she’d only shifted a small, unnoticeable, amount, and in Rory’s direction. But eagle-eyed Elizabeth had noticed it.
‘I know. Accident with the tap.’ She’d gone for the sink option and the tap had spurted cold water out uncontrollably when she’d turned it the wrong way. ‘It isn’t much.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ He squeezed her own thigh, how the hell was she supposed not to wriggle when he did that? ‘He didn’t roll about too much, think old Billy must have put risers in his heels.’
‘I thought he looked taller.’ Elizabeth’s tone was dry.
And how did her gran hear whispered words, when she played deaf most of the time? Obviously, she decided, there must be a gap between her ears and the words had gone straight through.
***
Mercifully the service was short, sweet and not too sycophantic. And the congregation sighed a collective sigh of relief when they got out of the cold, dark gloom of the ancient church and into the soft warmth of the spring sunshine.
Marcus had opted for cremation, which meant that although he didn’t go out with a bang, nor did he go with a thud. As Pip put it, ‘A ball of fire just has to be better than a clod of earth, doesn’t it?’
‘Sex on fire is even better.’
Lottie would have been pleased if she could have hung onto the urge to stamp on Mick’s foot, or put his own sex on fire, when the Irish burr cut into the conversation. But, annoyingly, the need went quickly when she looked up, straight into those dancing Irish eyes. She just wanted to gaze at him, like an adoring Spaniel might. And wag her tail, except now she was going from the ridiculous to the faintly obscene. ‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ The toe-curling smile made her want to spin the banter out, but Elizabeth was hot on her heels.
‘You and Rupert can come with me.’
‘Rory. You know he’s called Rory, Gran.’
‘Sorry, what was that Roger?’
‘I’ve got my own car here, thanks.’
‘If
