At times, that was something Nola also said.
‘Have you anything for a headache?’ Helen asked.
‘A good, hard whack in the skull with my stick,’ Mum replied, and they both creased with laughter. Then, ‘Margaret, go out to the fruit bowl and get your sister some tablets.’
A question had been playing on my mind. ‘Do you think Joey told me about the funeral out of the goodness of his heart?’
This caused a spirited and united response. ‘Narky Joey? Joey Armstrong? He isn’t a goodness-of-his-heart person! He’s one of the most terrible men I’ve ever met!’ （Said by Helen. With admiration.）
‘Maybe Luke asked him to tell you?’ Claire said.
In which case … ‘I might go. Don’t judge me but it might be good to be back in touch. The way it ended was horrible –’
‘That’s all on him,’ Helen interjected.
‘But we were happy for such a long time … Shouldn’t we at least be civil?’
Margaret had returned, carrying the fruit bowl, which bristled with boxes of tablets, pipette-bottles of drops, tubes of ointment, three blackened bananas and a wizened mandarin orange. ‘You’ve everything. Can I have this tube of Fucibet? There are three here.’
‘Work away.’
‘Headache,’ Helen reminded her.
‘Tablet, caplet or soluble? Aspirin-based or ibuprofen? Codeine –’
‘Surprise me.’
‘If Rachel’s going to the funeral,’ Claire announced, ‘we need a plan.’ She was a great strategist, a big high-up in a charity – which often confused people into thinking she was kind-hearted. Giant mistake. Claire could fire people without having to go to bed for a week with guilt and she got really pissed off if the Crimson Ribbon Day collection was disappointing. （‘Lazy bastard volunteers! All they had to do was stand in the rain, shaking a bucket in people’s faces, it’s hardly rocket science.’）
After subjecting me to a dispassionate appraisal, Claire was thoughtful. ‘You look good. That weight you lost, I thought you might put it back on now that you’re happy again, but fair play, you haven’t.’
Only Claire could turn the greatest trauma of my life into a positive.
‘Could she get Botox?’ Mum asked.
‘I have Botox!’ While I’m nowhere near as bad as Claire, I too have my pride.
‘Where?’ Mum lunged at my face. ‘But you can move your eyebrows!’
‘Botox has improved. Frozen foreheads are a thing of the past.’
‘But then how are people to know you’ve got it?!’
‘Hey!’ Claire exclaimed. ‘Nice earrings!’
It had taken her a while. Granted my hair was long and loose enough to act as camouflage but Claire had an instinct for fancy things. At first glance they were just triangles of orange Perspex. What made them special was that each sported a not insignificant diamond.
‘Give me a look.’ Claire was tucking my hair behind my ears and coming in for a close-up. ‘Christ,’ she breathed. ‘Quin?’
Of course, Quin.
Helen and Margaret were also on top of me, trying to see.
I twisted my face from side to side so they all got a look, then I was told to take the earrings off, so they could be examined at closer quarters.
‘Are the diamonds … real?’ Helen’s tone was sceptical.
‘But why would you put a diamond in a cheap piece of orange plastic?’ Margaret sounded confused enough to cry. ‘I don’t get Quin’s taste at all.’
There were times I agreed with her. Quin was gas. He didn’t really care that gifts were supposed to be what the person on the receiving end liked. If something appealed to him – and his taste was nuanced and niche, not for everyone – that was usually enough for him to reach for his credit card.
‘They’re horrible,’ Mum said.
‘They’re so not.’ Claire was adamant. ‘Quin is really cool. What’s the name of the jeweller? Text me when you know, so I can find out the price.’
‘Oh, do!’ the other three exclaimed.
Sometimes Quin got it so right – a fifties bracelet in chunky, blue Lucite was one of my favourite things. These orange Perspex earrings, though? Diamonds or no diamonds, I’d never have picked them. But because I cared about him, I wore them.
‘So this is what you do,’ Claire said. ‘Go with Quin. Waltz into the church with him.’
‘It’s a funeral,’ Mum snapped. ‘No one’s waltzing anywhere. Don’t go with Quin.’