*
For the following days, it felt as though someone had pressed fast-forward on the film of my life. The house was full of people: my daughter Alice, who was pale with grief (she’d been close to her father); my son Anthony; my elder sister Susan who took over running the household from Philippa. She was a control freak and normally I objected to her barging in and rearranging things, but this time, I was grateful. She made a list of family, friends, ex-colleagues who hadn’t already been contacted, got death certificates printed, booked the church for the funeral, organized the service – though Michael had specified in his will what he wanted. We searched for photos for the order of service, sourced the music he wanted, readings I knew he liked. I kept busy alongside her but felt removed from it all, hollow, as people came and went.
Alice’s husband Ethan arrived from Sheffield the day before the funeral. My younger sister Jess came from London, as well as one of my authors, Katie Brookfield. I was touched by her effort and glad she’d come. She was now in her eighties and as sprightly and sharp as ever. I’d become extremely fond of her over the years I’d represented her books.
I was grateful for the distraction of guests staying, beds to make, linen to wash, food to prepare, endless cups of tea to make; anything to take my mind off the reality of what had happened. Philippa was over most days with other close friends who lived locally, and my old school friend Sara arrived from London on the morning of the funeral, as did Lawrence Carmichael, Michael’s oldest and dearest friend. His presence was a comfort because he’d known Michael so well and had been a big part of our lives together. Before his wife died two years ago, we’d holidayed with them most years and had always got on well. I felt he understood what I was feeling more than anyone.
The day of the funeral was a dark day, with black clouds that lashed down rain, as if the sky was angry. It felt like a manifestation of my feelings.
‘Couldn’t have staged this better,’ I said to Philippa when there was a loud rumble in the sky as we dashed from the car into the church. ‘Michael appreciated a bit of drama.’
Philippa squeezed my arm as we went inside. ‘Yes, a mild summer day wouldn’t have been right for him at all.’
The service took an hour. I knew that because I’d been told when we booked the church, but it felt like two minutes. Adagio played as the coffin came in. The priest said something about Michael, which struck me as odd because he’d never even met him. Michael’s younger brother Neill read from The Prophet. Lawrence read a poem that I barely heard. Alice wept quietly all the way through. I kept my arm around her but no tears came from me. I was numb, sore, sad and – for the time being – cried out. There would be time for more tears later when Alice and Anthony had gone. As people filed out, the Liverpool football anthem, Michael’s team, played; there was a smile as everyone remembered Michael’s humour and the man.
Next it was over to the Horse and Jockey pub for drinks and ham and mustard sandwiches. There were hands to shake, people hugged me, commiserated, told me what a lovely service it had been and that was it. Done. Over.
I sorely missed Michael to lean on, to gossip with, about who was there and how they looked; how the men had been checking out Sara, the women too, a celebrity in our midst. I noticed that she’d made a beeline for Katie Brookfield and they seemed deep in conversation with each other for a while, and then Lawrence Carmichael, who was Katie’s editor as well as Michael’s, joined them.
It was strange to see Sara after so long; it must have been a few years since we’d met up. She was as glamorous as ever, looking ten years younger than our sixty-four years, and I was touched that she’d come and by her offer to stay over if needed. Her presence reminded me that we had been close at various points in our lives. When first married, we’d spent many happy weekends together. Things had cooled off a bit when we’d had our kids. It should have been a bonding time, but we had different ways of bringing them up, Jo and I working from home when we could so that we could spend as much time with them as possible; Sara with a nanny and a home help. Even on the times we met up and Jo and I brought our children, Sara came on her own and left her son with a babysitter. Our relationship had particularly faded in the last decade. After her divorce, by her own admission, she’d gone into a frenzy of work. It was her way of dealing with things, and I’d tried to respect that, even though it meant she barely had time to see Michael and me. I also wondered if part of the reason we hadn’t seen her was that we were a painful reminder of the early days with Charles when we’d all hang out. Once upon a time, we’d have talked about what happened with him, had a proper heart to heart about it but she’d appeared to want to move on from all that reminded her of him, us included.
She broke off from her conversation and came over to me. ‘Can I do anything? I could stay as long as you like if you need company after today.’
‘I … thank you, but I have Philippa and my family here for the moment. I
