As the celebrant starts her spiel, there’s the usual rustling in seats as people shift to get comfortable. A baby cries and is removed by his or her father. A few guests fan themselves with the wedding booklets while simultaneously trying not to touch the person on either side of them （a challenge in the cramped space）。 Then, just as everyone seems to have settled, Pamela stands again. The energy of the room shifts from aggressive goodwill to scandalised breath-holding as she wanders onto the altar, observing her surroundings casually as if perusing produce at the supermarket. Stephen smiles, dispelling the panic in the room. ‘Carry on,’ he says to the celebrant.
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ she says uncertainly as Pamela charges past them. She appears to be interested in the stained-glass windows. They are quite beautiful. ‘You may kiss the bride.’
The kiss is chaste and imbued with what appears to be genuine affection. When they separate, Stephen, impossibly pleased with himself, gives a little fist pump and the crowd erupts in applause, with a few whistles thrown in for good measure. The noise spooks Pamela, who looks around worriedly. She grabs an ornate brass candlestick, holding it up in front of her like a shield. Stephen beams at the crowd. He’s a newlywed. An ex-wife with Alzheimer’s isn’t going to rain on his parade.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,’ the celebrant says, ‘I’m going to take the bride and groom into the sacristy to sign the register.’
She leads Stephen and his new wife into a room to the side of the altar. The trio is followed by the two little boys, plus Rachel and Tully and Pamela, who is still clutching the candlestick. Will someone take that poor woman home?
With the bridal party out of sight, the guests start chatting among themselves.
‘Wasn’t that lovely?’
‘What a beautiful bride!’
‘Isn’t it wonderful that he found love again?’
‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man!’
It seems as good a time as any to take my leave. I gather my handbag and do a quick scan for the nearest exit and I’m about to ask the young man next to me if he can let me by when I hear it. A young woman’s scream and, a fraction of a second later, a dense, meaty thud. I rise at the same time as every other guest. I peer towards the altar, but my view is obscured by large hats and bald heads. I am craning to see through the gaps between the guests when the celebrant reappears. Her face is ashen and her white pantsuit is covered in blood.
1
TULLY
One year earlier . . .
The moment she laid eyes on Heather Wisher, Tully knew this woman was going to destroy their lives. Tully was sitting in the restaurant, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, when she walked in, half a pace behind Dad. She looked exactly like Tully had pictured her: doe-eyed, soft-featured, chock-full of cunning. She was Rebecca De Mornay in The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A viper poised to strike.
Game face on, Tully told herself as she rose to her feet and beamed. That’s what Dad had always said to her. Game face on, Tully-girl. Smile, be courteous, keep it together. Don’t let them see any chinks in the ol’ armour. Fall apart later, when you get home. Tully was already looking forward to falling apart. She had it all planned – she was going to lock herself in the bathroom, where she would take a long, hot shower and cry until she slid down the wall, racked with those deep, guttural sobs that you saw in the movies. The catharsis of a shower cry could not be overstated for a woman in her thirties. Recently, Tully had taken to booking them into her schedule ahead of time – to get out in front of them, as it were. It was a form of self-care, really. Like personal training. And botox.
‘Natalie,’ Dad said, when he was close enough. He kissed her cheek. He smelled the same as always: Omo laundry detergent and a hint of toothpaste. No aftershave, no fancy deodorants. Dad had always been old-school in this regard. At least the new woman hadn’t changed that about him. Yet. ‘This,’ he said, glancing back over his shoulder, ‘is Heather.’
Heather smiled carefully. Up until that moment, Tully hadn’t known it was possible to smile carefully, but there it was: the perfect smile for someone in her position. It reminded Tully of the smile you flashed when you bumped into someone you hadn’t seen for a while at a funeral. Rob – it’s fantastic to see you . . . and Beverly, I heard about your new business venture . . . but yes, very sad occasion. It was a lovely service. Careful smile.
Heather looked like a New York fashion editor. She wore an uncreased white shirt with tailored black pants and flat gold sandals, and she carried a Burberry trench over one arm. Her dark hair was centre-parted and tucked behind her ears, her lips were painted a tasteful nude-pink. The most striking thing about her was her youth, which Tully had been warned about, yet still found herself inadequately prepared for. Thirty-four. Three years younger than Tully. One year younger than Rachel. Twenty-nine years younger than Dad. The funny thing was, Mum was six years older than Dad. ‘I like older women,’ he’d said for most of Tully’s life.