“I didn’t get it.”
“Of course you didn’t. Stop the bull, Rachel, and admit you forgot because you don’t give a toss about her.”
“I didn’t know, I swear.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Look, when is it?”
“Two o’clock at St Mary’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
Alan hung up. She was glad. He would only get louder. She had absolutely no doubt that he hadn’t sent an email. If he had sent it, she’d have seen it at once on her cellphone. No, he’d waited until the day of the funeral so he could be sure to catch her on the back foot. Just like him.
She idly ran her finger over the burns on her arms. She’d told him about them, about what Julia had done and what had he done? Told her she deserved it.
Now she had to decide quickly whether or not to go.
Turning away from the living room, she ran through to the bedroom, already thinking about what to wear. There weren’t many etiquette guides she could refer to.
Dear Cosmo, What should I wear to the funeral of my adoptive mother who hated me and was so cruel to me for all those years until I finally got it together to leave and never look back? The woman who I keep expecting to appear over my shoulder at any moment, the one who ruined any chance I had of a normal life. The one who made it impossible for me to love anyone or anything? Any advice? Ah, dark gray knee length dress. Great, got it.
She stopped dead in the middle of the bedroom. Should she go? She hadn’t seen Julia since when? Gosh, since she was sixteen. That was eleven years ago. She hadn’t spoken to Alan in more than two years. The last time was when she found out Julia was ill.
She tried to go visit. Julia wouldn’t let her inside. If she’d had her way she would have only adopted Alan and left Rachel to rot in the children’s home. It was only because Mrs. Dalrymple had insisted the two of them remain together that Julia took them both in.
For her entire time in that house Rachel paid dearly for that. While Alan was doted upon, she, to put it bluntly, was not.
She shook her head. She should still go, if only for his sake. He was still her brother and he was grieving for a woman he loved. She could support him. Or he might kill her for actually turning up.
She smiled at the thought of a murder at a funeral. Maybe they’d get two for one, chuck an extra body into the furnace. She winced. Inappropriate joke. Better get them all out of the way before she got there. No one would appreciate her dark sense of humor. They might roast her for it.
Right, that’s enough, she told herself. No more awful jokes. Focus.
She pulled open the wardrobe and worked her way through the coat hangers. There wasn’t a black dress in sight. How had she made it to twenty-seven years old without buying a single black dress?
There was a black skirt but it was nightclub length. Not really suitable when she wanted to try and patch things up with her brother. He’d take one look and the word slut would fall out of his mouth before he even knew he was saying it.
She kept looking. If only he knew how far from the truth his insults had always been. She, who had never slept with anyone in her entire life, accused of whoring herself around so often, she almost thought it was true.
Stop it, stop thinking about the past. Get into the mourning mindset. Imagine it was the funeral of your actual mother, not the one who kept you locked in your room whenever you weren’t at school.
Charcoal gray trousers.
They’d do. Thin for a chilly May but she wouldn’t be outside for long.
White blouse?
No, she’d look like she was part of the catering team for the wake.
What about that?
A black top, scooped neck, not too revealing, not even a hint of the cleavage she didn’t have. Long sleeves which would help if the cold wind kept blowing. The wool coat from goodwill would keep her warm enough if it did.
What shoes to wear with it?
The flat Chelsea boots would be best. No one would appreciate Converse with Calvin and Hobbes handpainted on the sides.
