White Bodies(66)

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


I had no intention of waiting. Instead, three days after the funeral, I took the train to Manchester, determined to find Luke. It was one of those dead Mondays, office workers trudging from Starbucks back to work, waiting in blank-eyed huddles to cross busy roads, and I stood with them, making my way from the station to Hollybank TV, wishing that I had a brilliant plan.

Hollybank, it turned out, was in a gray stone office block, along with insurance companies and legal firms with solid names like Mackenzie and Singh, and Turner and Partners. Clueless, I hung around by the revolving doors, watching people go in and out, pulling up the hood of my parka to keep warm. It was almost one o’clock and I had the absurd idea that Luke would come out for lunch and I’d somehow recognize him. Which, amazingly, did in fact sort of happen—because a group of five young people emerged onto the pavement, looking scruffier and trendier than the office workers, and I thought, Creatives! I followed them down two streets and into a café called Red Onion.