Beneath the Skin(71)

‘As many of you know, my father is still unwell in hospital. He tried to escape, but they caught him.’ There’s a small tremor of polite laughter. ‘But he asked me to read a few words.’

The few words are many, which Rupert reads with shaking hands but in a loud clear voice. Loving words, warm and funny. Tales of school and sporting achievements, stories she hasn’t heard before. An explanation about David’s parents too. Loving parents, Rupert reads, who tragically died together in a car crash, when David was so young. He’s at peace with them now.

Black ice, Antonia thinks. Like so much in life. You can’t see it but it’s there.

‘David was loved,’ Rupert finishes, his tears soaking the paper. ‘Loved very much.’

Charlie’s tender words from the voice of his boy.

The Anglican hymns and prayers are so similar to hers. Not a priest, but a vicar, with a kindly booming voice. ‘A popular man,’ he says. ‘A generous man. Much loved by all.’ He offers David back to God.

Antonia turns her head, then. To Candy and the carer. Is this the same God that her mum adored but forgot, she wonders. Does Candy remember him now?

Then it’s over, so quickly. Her limbs are automatic as she stands. But she’s grateful for Sami’s firm hand under her elbow as he guides her down the aisle to an open world without David. ‘I’ll drive you back to White Gables,’ she hears him say. ‘I’m so sorry Sophie’s not here. It’s unforgivable.’

Sophie’s car has a sat nav, but she hates the female voice. It’s smug and satisfied. Sophie is well aware that’s what people think of her too; they’ve said it enough times. She knows she can appear that way, sometimes even feel that way. But what she’s not, she’s absolutely not, is unstable, depressed, bipolar. Or whatever her fucking mother might think.

She glances at the AA route planner on the passenger seat, still damp from her earlier tears. She feels fine now, absolutely fine. In fact the rush of adrenaline she felt when she drove out of Didsbury is still with her after thirty fast miles, goading her on.

It’s a right on to Meadow Lane and then first left. She’s sung along with Madonna the whole way, belting out the lyrics through the open window even though it’s so cold. ‘The Immaculate Collection’ CD, bought by her dad when she was a kid. They used to sing it together. She still knows every word.

She pulls up the car, flips down the mirror flap and presses the lipstick on her mouth to get an even full spread. Then she fluffs up her hair. She grins at herself and nods. Here goes.

The door is answered eventually. ‘Yes?’ The girl is young, certainly no more than twenty-five. She’s not conventionally pretty but has a stunning ponytail of thick blonde hair down the back of her petite frame. A T-shirt barely covers her thighs. The girl puts a hand on her hip and examines Sophie with luminous eyes, her lips in a dismissive slant.

Sophie pushes past her into the warmth of the flat. The aroma of sex and dope fills her nostrils. She didn’t expect it to be so small. The bedroom door is ajar, the bedcovers rumpled and the curtains closed.

‘I take it that you know Baz.’ The girl has a high-pitched southern accent. Essex, Sophie guesses. ‘The sort of accent that makes her sound stupid,’ she would laugh with Antonia.

‘I do. Where is he?’

The girl falls back on to the sofa and folds her arms. ‘I’m not sure if that’s any of your business.’

‘I’d better wait then.’

Sophie sits down in the armchair opposite, her chin high and her eyes on the girl. She folds her arms. Smug and satisfied, she thinks, don’t desert me now.

Sami holds Antonia’s hand in the car. He squeezes tightly and silently as she closes her eyes. She understands they are friends again after their spat about Sophie. Warm and dependable once more, like the big brother he’s always been, which is such a relief. Then suddenly they’re back on the large driveway at White Gables. Antonia shakes herself and turns around to look through the rear window. Cars have followed. People are climbing out. They’re milling and chatting. Hungry and thirsty, no doubt.

She strides from Sami’s car. There’s a job to be done; she has a purpose now.

Like a wedding, she thinks, as she opens the fridge, turns on the ovens, peels away cling film and foil. Nibbles are heated, drinks are poured, time flies and Antonia floats above it all.

‘We’re here to help, remember. Where are the tea towels?’

‘I’ll carry that tray, Antonia. Sami’s opening the wine.’

‘I’m Robert Smith. We met at law college. Such a great guy.’

‘We’re so sorry for your loss. The other girls send their love.’

‘What a fabulous eulogy. Chip off the old block. Hope Charlie’s on the mend.’

She walks from room to room with a bottle or a tray. Hearing everything. Hearing nothing.

‘We heard you were stunning, Mrs Stafford. Dave had a great left foot!’

‘A hundred not out, and a hat trick if I remember. Should have gone into sport.’

‘Sorry I’ve left all the visiting to Mike. Thank you for being so sweet to Rachel. She adores you, you know.’

‘Dad sends his love. Hopping mad he couldn’t come. I hope I did OK.’

‘You look really pretty, Antonia. Can I help?’