I don’t believe all that nonsense, by the way. There are no ghosts stalking these corridors and my mother was not whispering in the wind while I avenged her. But her memory was fresh while my rage was stoked, and now that it’s all over, I find myself thinking of her less. Her face is blurring and fading. Perhaps a therapist would call that closure. I suppose killing people and getting away with it is a kind of closure. But possibly not one that a medical professional can recommend in good conscience.
I have to explain how Simon died. I know that the final death is normally the icing on the cake in novels, the biggest and most dramatic. That’s partly why I’ve been putting off writing it all down. Because this is not a novel. I didn’t arrange it so that his death would be the most shocking. I didn’t push him out of a hot-air balloon or throw him off Waterloo Bridge at sunset. Perhaps I should have tried for a plan like that, just for the added dramatic flair, but I’ve never been one for needless stunts.
Once the final important member of Simon’s family had been dispatched, my need for urgency slackened. Like a marathon runner who knows there’s only a mile to go, I decided to enjoy the route for a little bit. That meant scoping out how Simon was doing. And given the circumstances, Bryony’s funeral felt like the best place to observe him. It was a risky one to try to attend, and I’d mulled it over for several days before deciding that there would be enough weeping women my age there for me to fit in OK. If there was ever a time to see Simon’s grief raw and up close, it was there. I’d just have to make sure I looked the part. The day before the funeral, I raided the company clothing cupboard, which held clothes and accessories that were ready to be loaned out to important clients for events. The array of stuff we kept in this dingy space was eye-watering – designer shoes stuffed on top of each other, bags which cost upwards of two grand forlornly lying on the floor. Above them were sequinned dresses and colourful jumpsuits on a rack, next to a sign which said ‘The higher the heel the closer to God.’ If eyeballs were capable of bleeding, the signs I had to see in this office every day would be the main trigger.
I knew how to dress for this kind of event. I’d spent my adulthood learning how to blend in no matter the situation. At work that means wearing clothes which walk the line of dull but avoid active frump. In the wider world, it means regular trips to Zara like every other woman my age to acquire the regulation armour of jeans, oversized jumpers and chunky boots. But in a crowd of uber-wealthy Instagram airheads, fitting in meant something else entirely. These girls didn’t just spend obscene amounts of money on clothes, anyone rich can do that. Walk down Bond Street and laugh at the idiots who think shearling-lined Gucci loafers and fur-trimmed puffer jackets are the epitome of style and you’ll see what I mean. No, these women were beady-eyed and specific about what they wore, and woe betide you if you got it wrong. It wouldn’t be enough to have just any Prada bag, it would have to be the one that a certain Italian Instagram star was gifted three months prior to it hitting the shops. I didn’t care about their judgement, of course, but I didn’t want to raise eyebrows or provoke any challenge about my presence. So I purloined a brand-new burgundy silk trouser suit made by an up-and-coming Italian designer I knew Vogue were currently championing, and boosted a snakeskin Celine clutch bag whose absence, if noticed, would certainly get me fired. For shoes, I went with a pair of yellow leather mules and spent the rest of the day fervently hoping that Bryony’s funeral wouldn’t be one where everybody wore solemn black.
The actual burial was a private event, and I didn’t even allow myself to entertain gatecrashing that. But the service of remembrance was a free-for-all, trailed in the Evening Standard as though it was the opening of a new bar. Nothing like a sombre event mourning the loss of a young woman for some pap shots. And maybe a performative sob on camera for your followers to see at the end of the day. The venue was a huge old church off the Marylebone Road, but there was nothing holy about this space. Years ago it had been turned into a private members’ space which could be rented out for tens of thousands of pounds and had seen everything from minor celebrity weddings to the twenty-first birthday party of a Ukrainian oligarch’s daughter which had to be shut down after the organisers allowed her to ride into the event on a horse spray-painted a pale blush colour. Even our equine friends cannot escape the proliferation of millennial pink.
I walked into the church sandwiched by throngs of other people, their dark glasses reflecting other dark glasses, their diamonds glinting in the sun and casting jewel-shaped shadows on the stone floor. The service was interminable. Ninety minutes of readings, songs, and even a slideshow of Bryony’s most memorable moments – if a bunch of fucking selfies can count as memories. The true low moment was when a very skinny girl wearing a transparent shift dress displaying her neon underwear walked up to the lectern and began to read an excerpt from Bryony’s favourite book – The Secret. The quivering vocal fry almost sent me over the edge, not helped by the next reading, the poem ‘i carry your heart with me （i carry it in my heart）’ by e e cummings – the patron saint of girls who want to appear to be deep but don’t know any other poets. Thankfully it wrapped up pretty quickly after that. A gospel choir sang ‘Stand By Me’ beautifully, as weeping mourners hugged each other. Not a lot of actual tears, I noticed. Carefully arranged expressions of sadness, dry faces.