I found myself following him into the church but not to the pew. Instead I stood at the back, leaning against the wall, sinking into the shadow. The coffin was already in place, centrally in the aisle, with a huge arrangement of white lilies on the top, like a ridiculous, frothy hat; and at the side of the altar, on a wooden stand, a massive photograph of Felix was smiling inanely at the congregation, the same glossy photograph that had appeared in the press and on websites when he died. Dazed, I looked at the backs of people’s heads, and realized that I was looking for Scarlet; I half thought that she’d be unable to stay away, that she’d want to engage with the death she caused. But I couldn’t see her, and I closed my eyes, actually praying for Felix to rest in peace, to be forgiven his sins. When I opened them again, I saw Francesca Moroni coming into the church, crouching slightly as she slipped into a pew. She was exceptionally beautiful, her mass of brown hair falling across her shoulders, dark eyes gazing at the coffin as she knelt down, clasping her hands together in front of her face, and I wished I could examine her thoughts and emotions. Was she grieving the love of her life? Or was escape from Felix her salvation?
I thought about moving from my position at the back wall, towards Francesca. But then I was distracted because Tilda arrived, walking slowly down the aisle, acknowledging no one, taking her place at the front, between the coffin and the photo. She was holding herself still, reverentially—and I struggled to know what was going on inside her head. I couldn’t tell whether she was as distressed as she’d been on the day Felix died, or whether her true feeling was one of relief that she could now abandon her terrible flirtation with death, her sick game—goading and taunting Felix until he snapped. I looked at the back of her head, her fair hair falling from a tasteful black hat that Felix would have approved of, and I saw only her exterior—the actress playing her part.
Erik and Alana arrived next, Alana clutching Erik’s arm, almost falling into him, her steps weak and faltering. Behind them, Lucas walked sedately like a guard, ready to catch his mother if she fell. They sat next to Tilda, and I wondered if they’d reach out to her. But they didn’t; they simply nodded, very slightly. My heart burned in my chest. My sister and her suffering deserved recognition, not cruel disdain. Lucas was different, though—he reached across his parents to squeeze her hand.
We sang “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and all the time I was deeply aware of the way Erik and Alana held themselves, resolutely angled away from Tilda and towards their dead son. I suppose they blamed her. Maybe they blamed England too, and hedge funds in Mayfair—all the people and places that had taken Felix away. At one point Lucas went up onto the altar to read from the Bible, and it was hard not to cry as we heard his voice wavering and recovering and wavering again, while Alana buried her face in Erik’s unconsoling arm. The service wasn’t long, and afterwards the immediate family went to the crematorium. I’d asked Tilda whether she wanted me to come, and she said no, so I didn’t get to see the final moments before Felix went up in flames.
Instead I shared a car with Paige and Robbie to a hired room at a small local hotel where we were supplied with triangular sandwiches and tepid tea, and made efforts at conversation. Paige kept telling me that Tilda would need the love and support of her friends, that we must “rally round.” Robbie agreed and said it would help Tilda “if she got stuck into some challenging roles. It’s always good to immerse yourself in work during hard times, takes your mind off your troubles.” I was amazed by his presumption. How could he know what would be good for Tilda? I said I needed to eat, and moved away. I had spotted Francesca, sitting by herself at a table close to the food, and I took some sandwiches over.
“Would you like one? There’s egg salad and ham. Are you Francesca?”
She gave me a sad, welcoming smile. “That’s right.”
“I’m Callie. Tilda’s sister.”
“Ah . . . Poor Tilda. How long ago were they married?”
“Just a few weeks.”
“It’s impossible to comprehend, isn’t it? Something this tragic . . .” Her voice was composed and dignified.
I was longing to ask her so much, but my questions were too personal, too intimate, to say out loud, and I stood there like a lemon, blurting out, “I love your dress,” then, more appropriately, “there’s so much I want to learn about Felix . . . about his life before he met Tilda.”
She didn’t answer because, at that moment, we all looked at the door to the room, at the crematorium contingent returning. Erik spotted Francesca, and he and Alana came over to us, and the three of them hugged each other. Francesca was whispering, “I’m so, so sorry.” Across the room, Tilda was watching, a sort of wonder registering on her face—but then she turned her back and talked to Lucas.
Mum appeared, coming to offer her condolences to Erik and Alana, walking towards our group in a black chiffon Goth-like dress and a sparkly waterfall cardigan that looked out of place. She leaned in to kiss Alana, but Alana recoiled. Mum muttered, “Felix was such a wonderful person. I was so happy to have him as a son-in-law.”
But Alana came right back, in a voice so small you could barely hear it: “Of course we wish he had never left Boston.”
Mum and I exchanged a glance and I guessed that, like me, she had heard Of course we wish he had never met Tilda.
“I understand,” said Mum. “It’s all so terrible. And not to have him with you in those final months . . .”
Alana whispered to Erik, “Take me away.” And Erik, in a deflated imitation of his former self, said, “Do excuse us. We’re both very tired.”
I watched as they left, seeing how old they’d become, realizing that Erik would no longer set the world to rights with unbridled pomposity. I realized, too, that I would never see them again.
I returned to the sandwich table—for some reason I was rampantly hungry, and as I was leaning over, grabbing an egg salad, I heard, “How are you, Callie?”
I turned quickly. “Liam! It’s nice of you to come.”
“Of course I would come, Callie.”
“But had you spent any time with Felix, other than at the wedding?”
“Not really. But Tilda spoke often about him.”
“What did she say?”
“Well . . . she told me how much she loved him.”
I had the impression that she’d confided a great deal, but that he didn’t want to talk about it. Not here, at the funeral.
“Could I come and see you?” I said. “I have things that I’d like to ask—but this is the wrong time, wrong place.”
“Sure, do that; I’d like it.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket to find his business card, and wrote his home address on the back. I put it safely in my bag, then noticed Liam staring across the room at Tilda and Lucas, who were deep in a conversation, sitting side by side, Tilda leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Have you had a chance to talk to Tilda today?”
“No . . . No, I haven’t. I’d better do that now—I have to leave soon.” Something about his attitude suggested he was weighing up Tilda, assessing the way she was handling herself, and later, as I was on the train back to London, I kept thinking that Liam held secrets, that he could shed light on how Tilda really felt about Felix’s death.
When I arrived home, though, I forgot all that, because I did my usual thing—sitting by my bedroom window, turning on my laptop, and I saw a message from Scarlet. It read simply, 30 October, 4 o’clock.
I wrote back:
Send me your address.
But she answered:
No. I’ll send it on the 29th.
37