And now they . . . she has almost twenty-one million pounds sitting in the bank.
Tom and Pete are almost nose to nose with the solicitor, loudly debating the veracity of the will. Pete is hotly explaining how one of his stepkids urgently needs a new iPad. Apparentlyhe is sick of the fifteen-year-old borrowing his computer for porn. The solicitor looks a little green.
Tilly gets involved.
Paula takes a long, deep drink of the fabric softener and stands up. She can’t listen to this horrible nonsense anymore. She’ll leave them to it; let them all shout it out. They can have the money if they want, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want it.
Everything is so different all of a sudden, she just wants everything back the way it was. She wants John to be here, taking care of things like he always did. At the very least, she needs him here taking care of his shouty brothers.
As Paula mounts the creaky stairs, more than ready to hide in her bedroom for as long as it takes, she hears the front door bell. Somewhere in among the noisy din of men – and Tilly – shouting in the kitchen about how the tenth generation iPad isn’t modern enough, Paula catches the sound of Seb opening the door and speaking. Curious, she turns back down the stairs, just as her son appears. He’s holding a box and looking a little dazed.
‘What is it?’ Paula asks and he looks up at her.
He holds up the item in his hands. Paula stares at it. She suddenly knows what it is, what it must be.
‘Dad’s home,’ her son says simply, gingerly putting down the box. The box carrying John’s ashes.
4
The high-pitched wailing has not stopped all day. It didn’t stop once as they brought in John’s casket, it did not stop during the eulogies, and it has not stopped even here at the upmarket pub where they’re hosting a wake. Not even as the wailer in question consumed five and a half cucumber and salmon sandwiches.
‘Do you think she’s all right?’ Paula asks Tilly, concern in her voice.
Tilly huffs. ‘Oh, she’s bloody well fine, Mum. There’s always someone at a funeral who makes everything about them. It’s not actually about mourning, or even celebrating the deceased, it’s about having all eyes and attention ontheirgrief. She’s a grief thief!’ She regards her mum curiously. ‘You should be the one crying, not her.’
‘John did always say Bridget was prone to hysterics,’ Paula whispers, glancing anxiously across the room at her husband’s former secretary. As if on cue, Bridget’s wailing inches up yet another octave. It is now that very special pitch employed by Bond villains to kill secret agents’ brain cells.
Tilly winces at the sound, then tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Mum. You wouldn’t call a man hysterical.’
Paula looks flustered, murmuring an apology. She’s always saying the wrong thing around her daughter.
‘Here,’ Seb appears from the bar, holding two glasses. ‘Mum, I got you your usual.’ He hands her a Malibu and Coke and she sighs, accepting it. More fabric softener.
Seb swigs his beer, his eyes bloodshot. Paula would like to believe it’s from the stress of the day. Or that maybe he’s been up all night, weeping the loss of his father. Except that rather strong smell of marijuana wafting around him would indicate otherwise.
‘Can we leave yet?’ her thirty-year-old-going-on-thirteen son asks.
‘No!’ Tilly hisses at her little brother. ‘There are still sandwiches to be eaten. And none of the uncles are even drunk yet. They’d be furious. Everyone has to have time to grieve properly.’ Her eyes slide across her mother’s face. ‘Grief has tentacles, have I mentioned that?’ Paula nods, trying not to grimace at the imagery.
‘Ugh, fine,’ Seb shrugs, then rubs his sore-looking eyes. ‘Well, can someone at least tell that crying woman to chill?’
‘John used to say there was no point trying to calm a woman down,’ Paula observes solemnly. ‘It’s best to let her get it out of her system.’ She shoots a fearful look at Tilly. ‘Am I being sexist again?’
Her daughter nods disapprovingly, then sighs, placing a conciliatory arm around Paula. ‘It’s not your fault, Mum. It’s your upbringing. You just agreed with everything Dad said. It’s a generational thing.’ She releases the arm, moving to face her mother. ‘But it’s high time you started embracing the new world. I know it’s been a difficult time for you, but you’re . . .’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘You’rerichnow, Mum! Super rich!’She checks behind her shoulder for eavesdroppers before hissing, ‘You’ve won the bloody lottery! This is your chance to have fun and enjoy your life. It’s your chance to make friends and meet new people.’ She waves her hands excitably. ‘You can doanything you want. Absolutely anything! It’s time for a fresh start. For an adventure.’
The background wailing drowned out some of Tilly’s speech, but what she caught makes Paula fearful. She doesn’t want a fresh start or an adventure. Losing her husband in a car accident was as close to being in a soap opera as she ever wants to come. And she couldn’t care less about being rich. Yes, not having to worry about paying the heating bill will be very nice, and maybe she’ll even be able to get someone out about that ceiling stain, but otherwise, she hasn’t a clue about budgeting or how to spend her money. John always looked after all that. She wouldn’t even know where to start with twenty-one million pounds.
‘Look, I know your life has been on pause for the last month, while we waited for the ashes and made arrangements.’ Tilly looks earnest. There are new wrinkles around her eyes that weren’t there before all of this. ‘But this is it, Mum. This is the funeral. After this, you’re allowed – you’resupposed– to start moving on. To start living your life again.’
‘What life?’ Paula asks, but she’s drowned out by sudden yelling, over at the bar.
‘Oops,’ Seb nods towards the noise, blinking red eyes. ‘Looks like the uncles are rectifying that sober situation.’
Paula follows his eyeline to where Pete, Tom and Leonard are roaring loudly with each other over what looks like more whisky. They’re laughing over a childhood spent torturing one another.
‘And then we held John’s head down the loo and flushed it five times!’ yells Pete, and Paula feels the room’s eyes turning in the direction of the booming men.
‘Bloody idiots,’ Tilly murmurs, as twenty feet away, Bridget the Secretary is forced to wail even louder to outdo the uncles.
