Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

I chose a coffin made from woven willow because it didn’t look like a coffin. Mr Collingwood said approvingly that it was chosen by many people who were concerned about environmental issues. For some reason that irritated me and I suddenly wished I’d chosen one made of hazardous waste. Mr Collingwood excused himself and withdrew into a small office at the back. I heard the grinding sound of a printer and he returned with a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk towards me. ‘We believe it’s important to give a written estimate,’ he said.

I looked at it and gulped. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized…’ Then I stopped, suddenly ashamed. It didn’t seem a decent subject to haggle over but I had been startled. The estimate was more than we had paid for our car, and that hadn’t been particularly cheap. Mr Collingwood wasn’t disconcerted – he must have had worse cases than me. He assured me that the funeral could be as simple as I wanted.

I studied the estimate, item by item. ‘You will organize the whole funeral?’

Mr Collingwood nodded.

I took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ I said.

I meant to go straight home. There were so many things that needed doing, so many tasks and lists and duties. Instead I went into Kentish Town station, took a southbound train and got off at Kennington. When I came out of the station I felt, as I always did when I came south of the river, that I had emerged in a city in another country, even if the language was deceptively similar, as if I had arrived in New York or Sydney. I knew that the Livingstones had lived at number sixteen Dormer Road, so I went into a newsagent’s and bought an A-Z. It took only a few minutes to walk there – but in those minutes I went from one world, of high-rise blocks and dilapidated tenements, to another, of discreet wealth and cool grandeur.

The Livingstones’ house was large and white, set back from the road. I instantly disliked its pillared porch and raked gravel, and this helped me march up the short sweep of a drive and ring the bell before I had time to think about what I was doing or prepare an explanation. Only when I heard footsteps coming towards the door did I feel a tremble of anxiety go through me.

‘Yeah?’

Why had I assumed it would be Hugo Livingstone, Milena’s husband, who answered the door? The youth who stood in front of me was tall and skinny, all angles and joints. I thought he must be in his late teens. He had long, dark, unbrushed hair, eyes that were almost black. He was wearing boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt; as on the day of the inquest, he had a stud in his nose. I smiled cautiously at him but he stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a flat, assessing stare on his face.

‘Is Hugo Livingstone in?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘You’re his son, aren’t you? I saw you at the inquest.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He gave a mock bow, knees knobbly below his boxers, quite unembarrassed by his state of undress – indeed, I thought he was revelling in it. ‘Silvio Livingstone.’

‘Silvio?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an assertive tone, as if daring me to comment on it.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I said.

‘Stepmother.’ The way he said it was so blatantly contemptuous that I was startled. He must have seen my expression change for he gave a challenging grin.

‘I’m sorry all the same,’ I managed. ‘Do you know when he -’

‘No. He works from early to late.’ Everything he said seemed to have a sarcastic ring. ‘It’s only me that lounges around.’ He was obviously imitating someone when he said the last two words – his stepmother, I guessed.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’

I didn’t pretend not to understand who he was talking about, simply nodded.

‘What do you want here, then?’

‘I thought we should meet. Given everything.’

‘You want to come in?’

‘It was only if your father was here.’

‘He isn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘About them, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Did you?’

‘Not about your husband,’ he said.

For a reason I didn’t understand, I found I was more comfortable with this wretchedly sarcastic, angrily self-conscious young man than I had been with anyone else since Greg had died.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Unless you think your dad would be angry.’

‘It’s my house too.’

‘Just for a few minutes, then. Maybe you could make me some coffee.’

‘And you can ask me questions about her instead of asking Dad. At least I’ll be honest. I’m not the one she made a fool of.’

He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have – had – on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.

‘Black coffee?’ He was filling the kettle.

‘White,’ I said. ‘So, you had no idea about Greg – my husband?’

‘Why would we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.’ I was getting very tired of this phrase. ‘Milena liked secrets.’ He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. ‘It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumour.’

‘So it wasn’t a surprise?’

‘Not really. The dying was, of course.’

‘What about your father?’

‘I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.’

I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. ‘So you’re not really sure?’

For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘They died together,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty intimate.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you mean?’

‘I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?’

‘I haven’t looked. Why should I?’

‘And your father?’

‘My father?’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.’

‘I see.’

‘You probably don’t,’ he said.

‘I guess not.’ I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. ‘Thanks, Silvio.’ I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.

‘You’re not what I’d expected,’ he said, at the front door.

‘What you expected?’

‘Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.’

‘It sounds like you’re making fun of me,’ I said.

Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.

A thought struck before I walked away. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’

I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.

‘I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,’ I said.

‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’

He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.

There was one thing I knew I had to do before the funeral. I’d been thinking about it since the inquest, imagining what it looked like, and recently I’d even started dreaming about it – jerking awake from dreams of a deep pit in the middle of London, Greg’s red car hurtling to the bottom, bursting into flames there. Porton Way. I’d wake with images of his face pressed against the windscreen, his mouth open in a scream of terror. Or of his body crushed against Milena’s as flames licked them.