‘Don’t want to intrude, though,’ Hugh says, folding his arms in front and looking at the ground.
I glance over at Judy, who swivels back and forth on her ergonomic chair, following the conversation. She sees me and quickly snaps into action, busying herself with shuffling papers and checking that the phone is hung up properly.
Hugh scratches the back of his head. ‘I was thinking that maybe …’ He looks at Simon, who nods encouragingly. ‘I thought I could organise us a few surfboards for after your mum’s funeral, then we could all paddle out and make a circle together in the ocean to celebrate her life.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘I think it’s Hawaiian,’ Hugh adds.
‘It’s a beautiful idea,’ Simon says. ‘Really touching.’
People can sometimes act boldly around the bereaved. They can quickly take care to an unfathomable level. It’s part of the horror of it all really. One person rolls out of your life and half-a-dozen others roll right in. I’ve seen people turn up to funerals ready to harass Judy for extra biscuits or seat cushions. In it for the long haul. Peripheral family members are often the ones to cry the hardest through the memorial montages; the ones that look at each other wistfully and say, That was our John, with sad smiles, while John’s close family sit mutely by his coffin. Close family get medicated, everyone knows that. In my opinion, the bereaved need a very specific amount of care. The ratio of care to being left alone is around forty to sixty. The bereaved need time to stare at a wall blankly, but then they need help remembering to brush the back of their hair, not just the front.
I walk quickly down the hall to the prep room, picking up speed until I am almost running. I use the momentum to barge through the door, making Vincent jump in fright.
‘You are not qualified! What gives you any right?’ I yell.
‘Amelia! Don’t you dare come in here like that! My god! My heart!’ He stands at the end of Cherie’s coffin, grasping a handful of my brushes to his chest. His eyes are glassy and his clothing is crumpled.
‘You didn’t write back to me last night,’ he hiccups. ‘Who knew where you were?’
‘Are you drunk?’ I demand.
‘No! Certainly not,’ he says. ‘Don’t be rude.’
Cherie looks absolutely cooked with the amount of makeup he has applied to her face. She rests in her satin-lined coffin, dressed in a lilac skirt suit with a white shirt underneath. Her hands have been placed unnaturally high across her chest, so that it looks like she’s grabbing at her crucifix, as if trying to take it off. I have seen her wear this necklace while pouring carafes of wine down at the bistro, watching as the Lord Jesus sank feet first into the long seam of her bosom.
‘You are making this all about you.’ I wave my hands around the room signifying everything.
He gasps, ‘I am a widower.’
I ignore him and look instead at Cherie’s face, trying to analyse how to work backwards from all the layers of product. Overwhelmed, I begin by finger-combing some of her curls so that they are less like ringlets, but my hand gets stuck, and I bet it’s because he has set them with one of the shellac sprays.
‘There’s not enough time to wash her off and start again,’ Vincent says, making his way over to the sink, where he plonks onto one of the stools.
‘I used the gold powder to give her a bit of liveliness.’ He sweeps a fanned brush through the air to demonstrate.
‘Enough talking,’ I say.
He pulls a flask from his pocket and takes a swig.
‘Where did you get that?’
He shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He takes another sip. ‘The French drink in the mornings,’ he says. ‘Italians drink at church …’
‘No one drinks at work,’ I say, while trying to wipe Cherie’s face clean.
‘Sommeliers do.’
I fix her hands so that they are crossed neatly at the wrist, because the whole purpose of positioning the deceased is to show their loved ones that they are resting comfortably. He hasn’t done the research. He doesn’t get that things need to be done in a specific way if Cherie is to have a successful viewing. This job is very important and incredibly detailed, and little mistakes can make a big difference to the family’s funeral experience. I adjust the crucifix so that it sits at an even angle from her neck, and then align each side of her jacket, making sure all buttons strain at the exact same point across her torso.
I continue to work on Cherie in a panic-driven rush, with no time to hold deep commune with her body. While hastening around her coffin, I realise she is a similar age to my mother, and I quickly try to push this feeling so far down that it’s in the soles of my feet, and I can keep it contained by stepping on it each time I move. As Vincent cries and drinks, and as my mother lies in a cold store two metres away, I use the corner of a wet cloth to scrub flecks of make-up off Cherie Reynal’s shirt.
Forty minutes before the ceremony begins, we wheel her into the viewing room, which Carmen and Judy have set up beautifully. A cluster of mason jars have been filled with sprigs of golden wattle, and the large LCD screen steadily rotates through a series of photos. Bob and Cherie on a cruise at sunset, both sunburned and beaming at the camera; Cherie is wearing a turquoise sarong and a rattan cowboy hat. Bob and Cherie celebrating Christmas lunch on their deck. Cherie riding a mechanical bull in Vegas for her fiftieth, with her legs to the sky.
Bob peers into her coffin. ‘She’s really left me, hasn’t she?’ He sniffs loudly.
‘We are born alone and die alone,’ Vincent announces. ‘Except for twins.’ He
