They talk of terrible chat-up lines and something they got up to as students called ‘naked stair diving’. There’s much appreciation for the latter – it’s something a good chunk of the congregation seems to know about. We’re invited to look up to the white screen set up on the altar. A video montage begins, with ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen as the soundtrack. People whoop and cheer at various moments – Jack downing a shot or bombing into a swimming pool – and there’s a group ‘ah’ for old clips of him as a kid with a dog or pecking his mum on the cheek. A short video game animation slots into the mix, made by work colleagues: ‘Jack’ the avatar running through a desert with a machine gun. As Freddie Mercury finishes up with the slowed-down ‘da’s of his song, the montage goes into slow motion too, ending with a familiar face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, raising a pint of Guinness …
Familiar to everybody in this church bar one.
Me.
I barely recognise him. Of course, it looks like Jack. But it’s not Jack. A lad who was apparently into Moby and The Mighty Boosh? I mean, Jack? My Jack? Never in a million years. And as for the choice of song for the montage – well.
As the vicar rounds up the service, Trish gets to her feet. A ripple of applause begins, more and more people standing, until I have to follow suit or I’ll be the only one sitting down. As the coffin is carried past me, I look at the mahogany wood and think, ‘You’re not in there – you’re not.’ Because if Jack’s in there, I won’t be able to cope. I’ll die right here on the spot from pain. Instead, I’m just going to feel ashamed that I’ve just crashed some fella’s funeral.
I’m an intruder.
Outside, I stand beside Florrie as the coffin is placed back into the hearse. It’s off to the crematorium where, the vicar had informed the congregation, only immediate family could attend. Florrie is wailing, as is the pal she’s arm in arm with. The girl with the baby in the sling says she has to nip off, pick up her other kid from preschool. They air kiss.
‘Pub?’ Florrie asks around to nobody specific, but her eyes find mine.
I don’t know.
Should I go?
I suppose Trish and John will be expecting to see me there later.
‘I’ve got space in my car,’ a fella says, and another says, ‘Me, too.’
One of them is Ross Robson. Here we are, finally meeting. He’s the tallest of the men here; a fifty-fifty mix of smart and scruffy, with wild curly hair and a sweet baby face for a fella in his late thirties.
‘Ross?’ I say. ‘I’m Chloe.’
He looks at me, blank. He’s not being rude though – I can sense his embarrassment, his panicked search around his mind. Who is Chloe? Did I sleep with her once? Is she a crazy fan? Was she the fat girl in school?
‘Jack’s girlfriend,’ I help him out.
‘Chloe!’ he sings. ‘Ah, mate. We finally meet.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ I say, sadly.
Florrie muscles in. She’s got that whole look going on: the forties dress, the victory roll. Up close, the fascinator is more of a pillbox hat, with a peachy net veil covering half of her face.
‘Flo, this is Chloe,’ Ross says, introducing me.
‘Oh, hi,’ Florrie says, and meekly shakes my hand with the tips of her fingers, all decorated in an assortment of silver rings.
‘As in Chloe,’ Ross tries to spell it out. ‘The girl Jack was dating.’
‘Ohhhh, hiiiiiiiiii.’
Another fella joins, skinny-fat with enormous teeth.
‘I didn’t know Jack was dating someone,’ he snorts, but kindly. ‘What a dark horse!’
‘Actually, we were living together,’ I say.
Ross slaps his hands to his face.
‘Ah, mate,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know it was that serious.’
‘You mustn’t have been together long,’ Florrie suggests.
I shrug. ‘Almost half a year.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Florrie cries. ‘That’s hardly any time at all.’
Fuck. I’d meant for that to sound like a long time.
The skinny-fat fella reiterates. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I better dash,’ Florrie taps my arm, then everybody else’s individually, as if she’s playing bongos. ‘I promised Trish I’d check on the caterers.’
Ross puts his arm around Florrie – little willowy Florrie – and gives her a shake. Well done to her, helping Jack’s mum out. That should be my job. The skinny-fat fella is rounding up the troops, sorting out lifts.
‘You coming to the pub, Chloe?’ he asks.
‘I’ll follow on.’
And I watch them all leave the churchyard, down the path towards various parked cars. Their spirits are higher than they were before the service, an obvious warmth of friends being reunited, although for a most dreadful reason. I’m not one of them – it’s likely I’m already forgotten.
I’ll swerve the whole pub ordeal. The wake. The one with in-jokes about naked stair diving and Jack’s ex. Fucking Florrie. I need to get back to my flat; my Jack.
Because, you see, my Jack can’t be dead yet.
We only just got started.
As I start my walk down the country lane, barefoot, carrying my heels in my hand, I hear my name being called, as clear as the church bells striking one. It’s a sound full of love and warmth, and most importantly, familiarity. A white Audi waits outside the church, its driver door open. The driver is standing and waving me over.
‘Chloe babes!’
It’s Beth.
10
We hit the pub.
Not the one where the wake is happening – we’re in the next village; long, winding roads apart. It’s a posh one with an outdoor decking area overlooking the Thames, framed by weeping willows. A couple of barges are moored up across the river; the expensive sort. There are a few old age pensioners inside, enjoying a leisurely lunch of fish and chips; the waft of vinegar is strong. I imagine this sort of place only ever gets busy on Sundays. I take a seat outside and Beth goes to the bar, returning with a bottle of Sauvignon in an ice bucket and two glasses.
‘Who’s driving us home?’ I ask.
‘We’ll worry about that later, babes.’
We clink. My first sip is large, satisfying, and goes straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day and probably didn’t eat anything last night, either. I can’t remember. This is just what I need.
‘Your mum rang me,’ Beth says.
‘Was she dramatic?’
‘So-so. She wants you to go home.’
I roll my eyes and Beth grins. She gets it.
‘I found an article online,’ she says, ‘about the accident.’
‘Beth, don’t—’
‘Such a tragedy. And the driver—’
‘Can we not go there? Please?’
Beth massages her temples with her fingertips, releasing a sigh.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.
‘Look, you didn’t have to come. You’ve wasted a day’s holiday.’
‘Your Kit’s beside himself, you know. Said he’s been trying to ring you all week.’