‘Used to,’ I mutter.
‘Well, she hasn’t changed. None of them have.’
‘You have,’ I say.
She stops then and turns to me. I can see the pale white scar on her forehead. She catches me looking at it.
‘A lot has happened since—’ she gestures to the scar with her hand ‘all that. Anyway, it’s nice to see you, Martin. I’m sorry if, in the past, I was …’ She searches for the right words, before coming up with the underwhelming ‘… rude to you.’
It must have shocked Serena to discover that, in the end, she has been let down by Ben just like the rest of us. Because Ben is only interested in himself. And now Serena is looking for a way out. That’s why I’m here. That’s why she’s fabricating this non-existent intimacy. She wants to unsettle him with my presence, and, maybe, I think, she also wants an ally.
I wonder if it’s not just sexual indiscretion that’s at the root of it. I wonder, in fact, if there are money troubles, too. I noted that the marquee was one of the cheaper models: shiny white PVC, rather than fabric. Ben’s watch was an Apple, not a Rolex. Serena’s dress is SaintLaurent from several seasons ago and there are greys at the roots of her dyed hair.
‘Fliss would be happy you were here,’ Serena says.
‘Oh,’ I reply, taken aback by the sincerity. ‘Yes. I did like Fliss immensely. But, I’m not sure I’m quite clear on how … she … well, how she died?’
For a brief instant, Serena looks offended. So, I think, she didn’t expect me to ask. Quickly, she collects herself and shrugs.
‘You know how Fliss was,’ she says. ‘High as a fucking kite in Bali. Went for a moonlight swim. Drowned. Very sad.’
I frown.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes,’ Serena says, reflective. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, and that makes it worse in a way, doesn’t it?’
I don’t answer.
‘And it was a bloody nightmare to repatriate the body,’ she continues. ‘But we must get you to your seat,’ she adds breezily, her normal social grace resumed. ‘I’ve reserved you a spot towards the front.’
‘Is the PM coming?’ I ask.
I noticed, also, the hulking quorum of security guards at the entrance of the chapel and, after all, it would be remiss of Ben not to invite his old chum Edward Buller. He loves to demonstrate their closeness to the rest of the world. I’ve followed it all in the press over the years: photos of Buller at Fizmaurice family christenings, reports of Ben having spent weekends at Chequers, joint holidays in Italian villas loaned by pop stars, and the frequently reprinted black and white images of the two of them at university formal halls, chins tipped towards the camera as if issuing a challenge to the country they were about to rule.
I’ve tried, again and again, to get Fleet Street editors interested in Ben’s murky past, but to no avail. They seem to expect criminality and callousness in the ruling class – more than that, they actually seem to want it.
‘Of course Ed’s coming,’ Serena says, bundling me into a pew.
‘You’re sitting with cousin Roger – sorry about that – and one ofFliss’s friends from Bali. Derek. Big Black man. Dreadlocks. You can’t miss him.’
In the empty pew, there are orders of service, each one bearing the photo at the front of the church. Everywhere, Fliss’s eyes follow us.
Serena untangles her arm from mine. Her jacket sleeve is pushed up and I see puncture marks in the crook of her elbow, a blooming bruise. She sees me looking.
‘Blood tests,’ she says, as if that explains it. ‘I’ll see you after the service, Martin.’
She turns. The dress swishes. I watch her silhouette as she walks up the chapel aisle, head held aloft, refusing to catch anyone’s eye. She recedes into the PVC marquee, back into the sunlight, back into her wonderful, terrible life – the one she so clearly wants to escape from.
I am the first person seated in my pew so, for several minutes, I can observe uninterrupted as the other members of the congregation take their places. Next to Lady Katherine, I can see four profiles I imagine must belong to Ben and Serena’s children. I’ve never paid them much attention. When couples have more than two offspring, they all merge into one amoebic whole for me.
It’s been six years since I last saw this particular brood. There are two teenage girls, one blonde and pretty, wearing lip gloss and heavy mascara, hair pulled tightly back into a bun; the other with a chopped dark bob and glowering eyebrows, arms crossed. The two boys are … well, boyish. The older one, who must be Hector, my godson, has spots on his face and a general unwashed air. He has yet to grow into his looks and I’m not sure the looks are even on the horizon to be grown into. The youngest – what’s he called? Lion? Apple? – is hunched forward, fingers moving frantically, and it isn’t until I peer over my glasses that I can see he’s playing a computer game.
Well, better that than playing with himself, I suppose.
‘Hey, brother.’
I look up. A tall man, who must be Derek, given that he is the only non-white person in the chapel, slides in next to me.
