How to Say Goodbye

by Katy Colins

  ‘There’s going to be tons of people, all of them size zero models, so the food really will go to waste. That’s another reason why we’ve been hiding out round here; I don’t have much in common with them.’ She managed to zip up Noah’s coat, he was too preoccupied with the new toy to notice his mum had won the battle. ‘There. Right, yes, sorry Grace. The wake will be at Callum’s house. It’s number three, Cherry Tree Way. If you get to Waitrose then you’ve gone too far.’

  I repeated the address in my head. Hearing the road name, and picturing that side of town, my previous vision of the Anderson’s shabby-chic home life shattered. The houses on that street were for the seriously rich. I was even more curious.

  Noah was bored of us chatting, so thrust a chubby hand in his mother’s mouth to get her attention. Mel laughed. ‘Yes, OK, we’ll go now. Maybe see you there then, Grace?’ she called out as they headed off down the path away from me.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said, knowing full well that I couldn’t not go.

  Chapter 13

  I had to park halfway down the street. The gleaming cars that I’d seen in the crematorium car park were now filling the long, sweeping driveway and nearby kerbs. I tried to walk with purpose to the front door, fighting with my conscience that was telling me to turn around, to leave this family to mourn alone in peace. But the other side of my brain reminded me that Mel had asked me to come. I didn’t want to let her down.

  There was a man about my age standing near the entrance to the driveway. His head was bowed, lost in the screen of his mobile phone. Every so often he glanced up at the house then back down at his phone. He looked different to the other guests; in his ill-fitting suit, the drainpipe black trousers slightly too short, flashing mismatched socks. He caught my eye and I smiled politely, wondering if he was as apprehensive as I was about being there. He didn’t return the smile, but looked back down at his phone screen instead.

  I made my way down the impressive driveway that was surrounded by a biscuit-coloured high brick wall. Two impeccably maintained plots of grass were separated by raised flower beds. Colourful geraniums poked their fat heads up from the soil. A muted grey front door was partly hidden inside a wooden atrium between two oil lamps fixed to the walls.

  My attention was drawn by the sound of chatter, laughing and low jazz music emanating from inside. I patiently waited on the doorstep after knocking three times. I was about to go back to my car, taking this as a sign that I wasn’t meant to be here, when the front door was thrust open and the handsome Welsh man I’d stood next to in the service flew out, almost bashing into me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said in the most unapologetic of ways, an unlit cigarette in his other hand, his eyes red-rimmed and jaw tense.

  He strode down the path, searching in his pocket, presumably for a lighter. He seemed to be in a great hurry to get out of there. He’d left the door wide open behind him. I felt like my feet didn’t belong to me as they carried me over the doorstep and into the warmth of the bright, large hall. It reminded me of the first time I’d met Callum. Crossing the threshold into another world. My wide eyes took in the impeccably dressed crowd and animated mourners, no longer confined by the formal protocol of a funeral service, and oiled by a few glasses of the fizz that was being handed out.

  ‘Champagne, miss?’ A young man dressed in a black suit with a dicky bow tight round his neck loomed over me with a silver tray. Three flutes were standing upright, bubbles fizzing in the air.

  ‘Oh right, thanks.’ I took one, just for something to do with my hands.

  The hallway was lit by a bulbous chandelier hanging low on a slim chrome flex, the light from its crystals dancing on the stark white walls. A chunky wooden console table was on my right, more suited to hold house keys and unopened post, but now littered with discarded champagne bottles and half-empty flutes, an array of lipstick smudges on the rims.

  I walked through a set of wood and glass double doors, into the open-plan kitchen diner, where the real heart of the gathering was beating. I was moving as if on a conveyor belt, my feet steering me forwards out of curiosity. No one gave me a second glance. The music was louder in there, voices competing to talk over one another and snatched laughter making it feel more like a surprise birthday party than a wake. Strong musky perfume filled my nostrils as I squeezed past two women brazenly taking a selfie. I tried to spot Callum or Mel, but there were too many people crammed in there. My ears picked up on snippets of conversations, dramas about school fees and tennis clubs. I kept on moving forward.

  The room was enormous. There was a curved wooden staircase in the far left-hand corner – thick planks of honey-coloured wood held together by a clear sheet of glass. The kitchen was a mix of strong midnight-blue tiles and gleaming marble, full of chrome gadgets. A huge American fridge-freezer, with an ice dispenser and a touch-screen stood in the corner. The work surface was cluttered with sympathy cards, half-empty wine glasses and cut flowers in tasteful vases.

  Floor-to-ceiling glass doors looked out onto a long, manicured lawn with professionally pruned flower beds. Wide sandstone steps led down from the kitchen to a muted grey decked area, a large built-in barbecue covered up. At the far end of the long lawn was a modern brick outhouse, almost out of sight. I imagined that in the full bloom of summer the leaves from nearby trees would shield it from view, creating a perfect secret spot. There wasn’t a fallen leaf in sight or stone out of place. It all looked so… perfect.

  Hardly anyone was looking at the buffet, let alone taking a plate and indulging. Mel hadn’t been joking when she’d said it was a spread and a half. A long table stretched down one side of the room, groaning under the weight of the food. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. A gluten-free section, a sushi platter, fresh plump pastries and an impressive fruit display. If Abbie’s parents were feeling guilty for missing their own daughter’s funeral, then they clearly thought this feast would make up for it.

  I squeezed past two men animatedly clapping each other on the back, and managed to find an empty spot next to the buffet. I would have something to eat, like I’d promised Mel, then head back to work. On the wall behind me was a large framed photograph of Callum and Abbie on their wedding day, kissing in the centre of a snow-filled patch of grass. A winter wonderland wedding. Abbie had her hair braided, small white flowers dotted down the thick plait. She was wearing a fluffy white cover-up to keep her bronzed bare shoulders warm. They both looked so happy. I couldn’t imagine how Callum had been able to get through the past couple of weeks with this bearing down on him.

  ‘I could hardly listen to what that man was saying about poor Abbie. Saffron’s lips were all I could see out of the corner of my eye,’ an angular woman standing next to me in a sequined dress said to her friend. I’d tried to squeeze past her to get a plate.

  ‘Did you see them!? And she said she only had a small top-up of filler.’ Her friend tried to raise an eyebrow that was frozen in place.

  ‘Oh, please. If that’s the truth, then I’m wearing Primarni.’ They both dissolved into high-pitched giggles.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I piped up. ‘Would you mind passing a plate, they’re just behind you?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The frozen eyebrow lady still managed to give me an impressive dressing down with her eyes, her mouth stuck in a pinched half-smile. ‘Here.’

  It was a look that told me, in no uncertain terms, just how out of place I was. I fidgeted in my cardigan, suddenly feeling very warm. I took the plate and nodded my thanks. The women moved away quickly, murmuring something under their breath as they went.

  ‘It’s like they’ll put on weight just by standing near the food.’ The man in the ill-fitting suit, that I’d seen hovering outside, was now standing beside me. He spoke through a mouthful of sausage roll. Flecks of pastry dropped onto the wide lapel of his jacket. ‘Whoops, don’t want to make a mess.’

  He dabbed the crumbs with a linen napkin plucked from a stack that were artfully displayed on the table.

&nb
sp; ‘I always eat too much when I’m nervous.’ He stuffed another huge piece into his mouth, his cheeks flushing pink. ‘And talk too much… apparently.’

  I smiled kindly. ‘It looks like there’s enough food here for an army.’

  ‘Yeah, and judging by those here,’ he cast a not-so-subtle side-eye at the room full of skinny, beautiful people, ‘it’s going to go to waste. Please don’t let me be the only one to get stuck in.’

  I reached over the wasabi dip and picked up a handful of prawn crackers that were individually wrapped. I usually wasn’t so keen on an open buffet, the possibilities of cross-contamination and bacteria was insanely high. More than 500 people die of food poisoning each year, after all. But looking at the impressive selection, it appeared to be top quality and as fresh as you could get. I decided to risk it.

  ‘Good choice.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘I’m Daniel, by the way.’

  ‘Grace.’ I awkwardly shook his hand with my other free hand.

  ‘It doesn’t feel right to meet someone in a situation like this and not ask “Do you come here often?”’ He smiled weakly.

  ‘Like a funeral crasher?’

  ‘You know, those sort of people are rare but they do exist.’

  ‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that if I did crash funerals then you’d find me right here filling up on the free food. The key would be to fit in without standing out.’ His hazel eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘If you think about it, how hard would it be to pretend you knew the person? I mean, read the newspaper, do some digging online and you could come up with enough details to pass off why you should be here.’

  ‘True, but what if you’re asked to sign the condolence book?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He took a sip of his drink.

  I felt suddenly aware that I could have something stuck between my teeth. Daniel was good-looking, in an unconventional, awkward sort of way. Maybe it was the that way his suit clearly didn’t come from Savile Row, like many of the other guests, but I felt oddly comfortable around him.

  ‘I guess you’d have to politely say you would sign it later, you needed to think of exactly the right way to express yourself. Seriously though, I’ve heard this story of a man who was addicted to going to funerals. Some Brazilian dude. He even quit his job, just so he could go to every funeral in his home town. He’s like some sort of celebrity to the funeral directors,’ Daniel’s eyes creased up in mirth. ‘It’s an interesting hobby, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But can you imagine the drama it could cause? You could easily say the wrong thing and give people the idea the deceased had lived a double life or something!’

  Daniel smiled but didn’t seem like he got the joke. I had taken it too far.

  ‘So, er, did you know Abbie well?’ I asked, hoping to get back to solid ground.

  He knocked the rest of his glass back in one. ‘Yeah, well, something like that. I designed that,’ he nodded his head to the piece of art hanging on the wall to our right, before topping up his glass from an open bottle of fizz next to the satay sticks. Tiny white clay leaves appeared to be caught mid-air, blowing across the muted wall. It was incredibly detailed.

  ‘Wow, so you’re an artist?’

  He shrugged, turning away from the sculpture.

  ‘Yeah, for my sins.’ He paused briefly. ‘Abbie wanted a bespoke piece that no one else would have.’ Judging by the look of the people inside, the flash cars outside and the over-the-top buffet, I guessed that keeping up with the Joneses was top of most of the guests’ agendas.

  ‘Here.’ He passed a business card. Daniel Sterling: Artist. I suddenly remembered reading Abbie’s five-star review on his Facebook page. ‘I need to get through these. What do you do, Grace?’

  ‘Oh, I’m…’

  I was interrupted by the sound of a knife tinkling against a glass. Hush descended on the room, before Callum’s voice rang out. I tried to wiggle around the men huddled in front of me to see him properly. I caught Daniel watching me from the corner of his eye. He had stuffed another sausage roll into his mouth.

  ‘Hey, er, hi.’ Callum cleared his throat.

  The two gossiping women were beaming at him. A bald man shouted at people chatting in the hall to quieten down. I slid into a small gap at the end of the table near the stack of marbled meringues the size of fists. Callum looked shattered. His skinny tie was askew and top shirt button open. He was standing next to Mel and the man I’d seen lead him from the service.

  ‘I’m, er, not really sure what to say.’ He glanced at his sister who nodded encouragingly at him. ‘Thanks for coming, I guess.’ He wiped his forehead. His other hand was gripping a champagne flute so tightly I thought the stem would shatter. ‘I never ever thought I’d be making a speech at my wife’s funeral, so you’ll have to forgive me for not having anything better prepared…’

  A low murmur of sympathetic noises came from the cluster of women. Callum cleared his throat and tried to smile light-heartedly.

  ‘Mel and I would like to thank Abbie’s parents for the food. Even though they couldn’t be here today they sent enough to feed the whole street so please do make sure you eat something.’ He waved a hand at the buffet table, catching my eye. I tried to telepathically send him some positive thoughts through a half-smile. He flicked his eyes back to the rest of the room and carried on. ‘Thanks to everyone who helped with the service, I hope we gave her a good send-off.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ the man next to him cheered.

  ‘I know she’d be thrilled to see all of you in this room, kicking herself at having to miss out. We all know how much of a party-girl she was.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Abbie was taken from us way too soon. I can’t really put into words what life without this vivacious, kind and smart woman will be like. She lit up a room when she walked in, turning heads with her looks as well as her quick mind and wit.’ He paused as if to compose himself. Mel rubbed the small of his back.

  I wondered what Abbie would have made of it all, if the glitz and glamour of her wake was what she had wanted. It was easy to forget the purpose of why we were all in that vast room, with the music, laughter and generous buffet fooling you into believing you were at some cocktail party, just waiting for the arrival of the hostess. A hostess who would never return. The atmosphere sobered as Callum’s short speech came to an end.

  ‘If you could all raise your glasses. To Abbie.’

  ‘To Abbie,’ the room chorused.

  Chapter 14

  Sitting in the waiting area, I twisted my fingers round the strap of my bag. I couldn’t believe I was actually going through with it.

  For reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, I’d booked in for a haircut with Andre, the hairdresser Abbie had raved about online. The cold woman on the phone had informed me numerous times how lucky I was to get a cancellation spot with Andre himself so soon, as usually I’d have been waiting at least three weeks for the honour.

  I put down the heavy fashion magazine that I’d picked up, hoping to look like I belonged in a place like this. A place where I’d been handed a chilled glass of fruit-infused iced water when I’d arrived and been told to take a seat; Andre would be with me shortly. It had been nine and a half minutes and still no sign of him.

  Eventually, an Italian drawl rang out across the salon.

  ‘Grace Salmone?’ A tall man with jet black hair slicked back into a severe side parting, like a 1930s film star, stalked across the room then sneered down at me. He was clearly a man used to looking down his roman nose at people. I was about to correct him that my name was Grace Salmon, like the fish, but I stopped myself. Maybe now was the time to be Grace Salmone? It sounded so continental. I felt so different already.

  ‘Excellent. Follow me,’ he purred then clicked his fingers at a young girl who emerged from his shadow. A large bun on the top of her head wobbled as she held out a gown, holding it so I had to contort myself to get it on. She struggled to contain a snigger.

>   ‘I’m Andre,’ he said, pressing his large tanned hands onto my shoulders and firmly pushing me into the Perspex bucket chair. ‘So. What are we doing today?’ His fingers pulled out my elastic hairband and shook out my hair, fanning it around my face, examining it disdainfully.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m after something different. A new style,’ I stammered, repeating what I’d been rehearsing in my head since making the appointment.

  He lifted a strand and let it fall in barely hidden disgust.

  ‘Mmm-hmm. And what is your home care regime?’

  Home care regime?

  ‘Oh, well, I probably wash it every other day.’

  ‘Hmm. I was thinking more along the lines of what products you use…’

  ‘Shampoo and conditioner?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He shook his head. I’d clearly failed whatever test he had set me. ‘So, any ideas for this new style?’

  ‘I was thinking maybe blonde bits?’

  Blonde bits was perhaps not the technical term for the streaks of honey-colour that had shone from Abbie’s head, but that was the sort of thing I was thinking.

  Andre reared back and pursed his pillowy lips. ‘No, no, no, no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You are much too pale for blonde. Not enough depth for blonde. You can never be a blonde.’ He waved a hand elaborately in front of my face – my sallow-skinned face – and winced at my misfortune with genetics.

  Well, that’s it then. I shifted in the uncomfortable chair. I should have stuck to Chatty Claire, she’d never judged my pasty hue before. But, my brain reminded me, she’s never dyed your hair before. Same old boring brown. Same old boring Grace. I realised that Andre was still talking, and half scowling, at me.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ He paused, holding his large palms flat against my head, squishing my ears slightly. ‘Rrrrrred is more your colour.’ He lifted up a strand of my hair and let it fall, as if to prove some point.