‘God, it’s freezing.’ I shivered in my black coat. But what else had I expected for early March?
‘It’s not, though.’ Kate looked concerned. ‘Rachel, are you okay?’
‘Yeah. I – Is it really not freezing?’
‘It’s really not.’
‘It must be just me then.’ I was trying for a laugh but it didn’t work.
‘Come on, let’s go in.’ She took my hand.
Suddenly, there came a shift, a murmur, among the waiting officials. Here they are.
Stuck to the spot, I watched the hearse draw up, followed by two other black cars. Everything lapsed into slow motion as a cluster of Costellos, all dressed in black, got out. There were Luke’s two brothers, their wives and kids, his sister, her husband, their children – there had been a time when I’d belonged in that family.
One of the nephews looked so like a young Luke that, briefly, time collapsed and I was twenty-seven all over again.
‘Rachel …’ Kate whispered – and I realized I was digging my nails into the palm of her hand.
‘Sorry!’ I let her go.
Luke was nowhere to be seen … Then, oh my good God, there he was, lifting an old man – his poor dad, he’d got so frail! – into a wheelchair. Tenderly, he settled his father’s limbs and tidied his jacket.
It was shocking how little Luke’s appearance had changed. No tight jeans and leather jacket, of course; because of the occasion, he wore a dark suit and an even darker expression. His hair was as thick and shiny as ever but shorter than it used to be. Back in the day, I used to cut it for him; I wondered who was doing it now.
‘Rachel.’ Kate stroked my arm. ‘Stop staring.’
Too late, I noticed the woman who’d slipped her hand into Luke’s. Just a brief impression of a slim, black coat, bright lipstick and elegant shoes. Despite feeling cold, I was suddenly drenched in sweat.
Is this real? Is this actually happening?
From the back of the hearse, the coffin slid out and the able-bodied men of the family surged forward to shoulder it – Luke, his two brothers, his brother-in-law, the Luke-a-like nephew and another dark-haired lad.
‘We should go in,’ Kate whispered, guiding me forward.
Claire had said that the most important thing was to write my name in the Book of Condolences, which would be just inside the door. ‘So if anyone checks,’ she’d said, ‘they’ll know you showed up. You don’t even have to stay, you can just sign it and leg it.’
But with the coffin hot on our heels, there wasn’t enough time.
Claire had also advised sitting near a side door in case escape became necessary, but the place was packed and seating was at a premium. Kate and I hurried up the aisle, the heels of my boots like hammers on anvils as we desperately sought a couple of empty spots. Christ, if we didn’t find something soon, we’d be up at the front, alongside the family! The very thought … the ex-wife, crashing the funeral, like some heartbroken madzer.
‘In there,’ Kate hissed, jolting me into a spot about six rows from the front.
We shouldered our way through. ‘Excuse me, excuse me, sorry.’ There was really only room for one person, but any port in a storm.
Feeling as though this was all a dream, I noticed the group of men on the right side, a couple of rows up. Older but undiminished, the Real Men were out in force. My immediate impulse was to try to disappear down into my black coat. （Claire – who appeared to know everything there was to know about funerals – had told me that people didn’t really wear black these days but it had felt like the mannerly thing to do.）
From inside my collar, I took a stealthy look, wondering how the boys had fared in the last six years. Once upon a time, they had been my friends; when I’d lost Luke, I’d lost them too.
There was Narky Joey, the breakout star. （Back in the day, Brigit and I initially agreed that if you had to sleep with one of the Real Men – say, in a last-man-on-earth-style situation – the obvious one would have been Joey, who was sexy in an angular, sneery way. As it turned out, Brigit did sleep with him.）
These days Joey was looking moneyed and hot, in a beautifully cut elegant suit beneath a beautifully cut elegant head of hair. Not so Gaz, who was still rocking alarmingly tight black jeans, a black leather jacket and what looked like half a can of hairspray holding the back-combed knots in his straggly ’do. Fair play to him. Stayed true to his principles. Johnno, barely recognizable, had gone the full, baldy, someone’s-dad decline. And there was Shake, looking good, still sporting the excellent head of hair which had given him his nickname.