How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(9)

The master of ceremonies is back after that and warbles through a pre-prepared eulogy that paints Matthew as a loving partner, devoted father and much-adored son, brother and colleague. Hayley and an older woman are crying Biblical-level tears now and a part of my limbic brain wants me to stand up and shout that he threw a glass bottle at me when I refused to give him what he wanted.

I don’t, of course. Whoever made Matthew Berry-Johnson the entitled gobshite he was, wasn’t any of these people. Not individually anyway. And they are grieving a man they love.

Christ, I bet even fucking Hitler had one or two people who mourned him.

Then Hayley stands up, flanked by a woman of a similar age – a sister or friend, I’m guessing. She wipes her eyes. There’s no mascara dripping down her face so I assume she’s had lash extensions done for it.

‘Going for the Russian lashes, babe? Special occasion?’

‘Cremating the body of the father of my child who no one knows was a violent, lecherous dickhead.’

‘Ah, that’ll be nice. I’ll make sure you look super gorge, hun. Show him what he’s missing.’

Hayley shuffles a few papers in front of her and a photo montage of Matthew’s life appears on two screens at the front of the chapel.

‘There’s a void now, which you once filled,

‘An empty chair, I’d often willed,

‘A silence I prayed for, before you were gone,

‘But I have your child, she’ll carry you on.’

There’s a hushed silence, before she continues.

‘I know it’s not the done thing to say at times like this.’ Hayley juts her chin up a tiny bit, an imperceptible move that no one else seems to notice. Nor do they see the flicker of steel in her eyes. ‘But Matthew wasn’t a saint. Yes, he worked hard. Yes, he loved his mum and brothers. And yes, he adored Lucy. But he was often appalling to me. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand here and lie. I can’t stand here and say we are saying goodbye to a great man. He could be great. He could be the best. But he could also be cruel, angry, violent.’ She turns to a woman in the front row who is howling out sobs from the darkest place inside her. She’s got mother-of-the-dead written all over her, she may as well be wearing a placard. ‘Gillian.’

Then Hayley is on her knees, holding Gillian’s gnarled old-lady hands. ‘Gillian. I loved him so much. You know I did. And there was so much to celebrate.’ She softly touches Gillian’s powdery cheek and guides her face towards the screens where a glowing Matthew is holding his baby daughter for the first time. Hayley’s almost whispering when she adds: ‘He wasn’t a saint, Gill. He was a man.’

Gillian crumbles into Hayley’s arms. She knew exactly what her son was.

I can’t take any more.

‘Could I borrow one of those, actually?’ I fake sniff to the lady next to me, who’s been watching the whole thing like we’re in an immersive theatre production.

‘Yes, sure.’ She hands the box to me, her eyes barely leaving the commotion at the front. I pick up my bag – Gucci, vegan obvs – and slip out, as unnoticed as a social media account with under 100 followers.





7


MAISIE’S APARTMENT, FULHAM

Matthew Berry-Johnson is still on my mind a couple of weeks later when we’re all summoned to Maisie’s to help her with an ‘emergency situation’. That’s what she said in the WhatsApp group chat. I’m immediately dubious as Maisie’s idea of an ‘emergency’ doesn’t always tally with the rest of mankind’s. There was the time she got stuck in a dress in Comptoir des Cotonniers, for example, and refused to call a sales girl in. Not to mention the time she pulled out of being her cousin’s bridesmaid on the day because of an eczema flare-up under the dress. But she’s promised to provide sake and sushi. So essentially an emergency situation, but make it Japanese.

‘We should have like a special name for our meetings,’ she says, looking perkier than I was anticipating when I arrive and sit beside Tor at the giant marble dining table. Hen’s here too, picking through the sushi selection that’s already been delivered and laid out. ‘You know like the government have the Viper Room.’

‘What?’ I say.

Tor hoots with laughter.

‘You mean COBRA,’ Hen says.

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. The Viper Room was a Hollywood nightclub.’

‘Nothing to do with the government?’

‘Nothing to do with the government.’

‘Well, live and learn,’ she says, pouring sake into glasses for us. ‘Anyway, I didn’t ask you over to talk about snakes. Although, it’s potentially quite a fitting theme’. She takes a dramatic gulp of her drink. ‘I’ve had my heart broken.’

Now I notice her eyes are rimmed with bags Balenciaga would be jealous of. Her nose is pink and I suddenly panic that she’s contagious.

‘Are you sick?’

‘Love sick,’ she says, sinking her sake. ‘I’ve been dumped.’

‘That’s awful, darling,’ Tor says, slowly, carefully. ‘But I’m not sure we’re all on the same page here. Who’s dumped you, sweetie?’

Maisie stares back at her, face wild with disbelief.