Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘No,’ I said, with a sharpness that surprised even me. Because I was wearing my Gwen-clothes: my black trousers again, the stripy grey shirt, a sleeveless jersey over the top, and slouchy black suede boots. ‘I can’t wear these. I’d feel all wrong.’

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Gwen said. ‘A birthday present.’ She held out a small packet. ‘Go on, open it.’

I tore off the wrapping paper and found a little box. Inside there was a plain silver bangle. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I slid it over my wrist and held up my arm so Gwen could admire it.

Her face changed, but not in the way I’d expected. ‘Ellie, you’ve taken off your wedding ring.’

I felt a terrible flush spreading over my face and down my neck as we stared at my bare finger. ‘Yes,’ I said finally.

‘Is that because -’

‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘It’s in my purse. I might put it back on. Shall I?’

‘God, Ellie, I don’t know. We’ll talk about it when everyone’s gone home. Now we’re going to choose your clothes.’

In the end I dithered and fretted in front of the mirror until Gwen chose for me: jeans and a thin white shirt that was quite new and I’d never worn because it was too nice, too crisp and clean, and I was always saving it for a special occasion. I brushed my hair and piled it on top of my head. ‘There, will that do?’

‘You look gorgeous.’

‘Hardly.’

‘No, you do. I invited Dan. Is that all right?’

‘Who’s Dan?’

Gwen blushed deep crimson. ‘Someone I met.’

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘As long as Dan knows how lucky he is to be invited by you.’ Gwen didn’t have much luck with men. I always told her she was too good for them and, in a way, it was the truth. Men, I thought grimly, go for women like Milena, who treat them badly, who don’t care. It’s caring too much that’s our downfall.

The doorbell rang.

‘Who’s that? Is it time already? I wish it was nine o’clock and everyone had gone home and it was just you and me again, discussing how it went. And Dan, of course.’

‘It’ll be Joe. He said he’d arrive early with the drink.’

Sure enough, it was Joe, his car parked by the pavement with the boot open. He gave me a bear-hug; his stubble scratched my cheek and his overcoat itched against my skin. ‘How’s the birthday girl?’

‘Doing fine.’

‘Right, I’ll put it in the kitchen, shall I? Twelve bottles of champagne – well, sparkling wine, to be honest. Twelve bottles of red.’

‘That’s twenty-four bottles, Joe!’

‘You can keep the rest for later. Let’s open a bottle now, shall we?’

He peeled off the foil and wire and eased the cork out of a champagne bottle, letting the foam rise out of its mouth and subside. Then he poured three glasses, which we lifted and chinked together. ‘To our dear Ellie,’ he said.

‘To Ellie,’ said Gwen, grinning at me fondly.

Why did I feel so much like crying? Why did my eyes sting and my sinuses ache and a block of sorrow lodge in my throat?

People arrived in dribs and drabs, and then a small flood, leaving umbrellas in the hall, tossing overcoats over the banister and on the back of the sofa. Soon my little house was full of people. They were in the living room, in the kitchen, sitting on the stairs. They’d all brought presents: whisky, biscuits, plants, earrings, a little ceramic bowl. Josh and Di arrived with a rocket that they set up in readiness in the garden, even though the instructions said it had to be fifty metres away from any building.

These are my friends, I thought, and this is my life now. Fergus was a bit subdued but very sweet and affectionate, Joe was in expansive mood, throwing his arms around people, pouring too much wine into their glasses. Gwen was talking to Alison, but glancing surreptitiously at her watch every few minutes because Dan had not yet turned up. Mary had cornered Jemma and was telling her what to expect from childbirth in every agonizing gory detail. Laurie and Graham were playing chess in the corner. I went from group to group with a bottle in my hand. That way I didn’t have to stay with anyone for long: just enough time to say hello and kiss them before I moved away. I didn’t drink and I didn’t talk to anyone properly – and no one mentioned Greg. He was the ghost in the house.

At seven thirty – just after Gwen had answered the door and returned, shy and pink, with a man I assumed to be Dan – Joe clinked his fork against a glass and stood on a rather flimsy chair, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. ‘Gather round,’ he roared.

‘Oh, no.’

‘Don’t worry, Ellie, this isn’t a speech, just a toast.’

‘Good.’

‘You don’t know what Joe means by “toast”,’ warned Alison, standing beside me.

‘No, really – all I wanted to say was you’ve had a terrible time and I know I can speak for everyone when I say that we’re always here for you, through thick and thin. Happy birthday, Ellie.’

‘Happy birthday,’ came the ragged chorus.

‘Speech!’ someone shouted.

‘Just… thank you,’ I said. ‘All of you.’

‘More wine,’ commanded Joe.

‘Here.’ At the other end of the room, Fergus pulled a cork out of a bottle and a spume of froth flowed over its neck and on to the small table by the window. ‘Oh, shit, I’ve spilt it – what is this, anyway?’

‘Oh,’ I said, cursing myself for not having put it away. ‘That’s – Well, it’s my chart.’

Fergus bent over it, dabbing at the wine with his sleeve. ‘It’s very colourful. Is it work?’

‘No.’ I hesitated. ‘Actually, it shows where Greg was during the last few weeks of his life.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck, Ellie.’ He seemed dazed. ‘It’s amazing. It must have taken for ever. But why?’

‘Because…’ I was glad I hadn’t put out Milena’s chart: it was still a work in progress.

‘What is it?’ Jemma had joined us and so, a few minutes later, had most of the others in the room.

‘There’s almost no time unaccounted for!’ Josh sounded either impressed or scared, I couldn’t tell which.

I took a deep breath. These were my friends, after all, and suddenly it seemed important to make a public declaration. ‘I did it because I wanted to work out when Greg would have been with that woman. And you see…’ I waved at the chart ‘…he wasn’t. There are barely any gaps. He simply didn’t have the time.’

I stared at them. Nobody was smiling or nodding; everyone was looking at me gravely, or with embarrassment. ‘So, something else was going on,’ I said ominously, hearing my words fall into the silence. ‘Something bad.’

‘Bad?’

‘I think he was murdered.’

You could have heard a pin drop.

‘Let me pour you some wine,’ said Joe at last, taking the bottle from Fergus.

‘No, thanks. You all think I’m mad, I can tell.’

‘No!’ said Fergus. ‘We think you’re…’ I could see him searching for the right word ‘… tremendously loyal,’ he concluded. Jemma, beside him, nodded urgently.

‘I made a cake,’ Mary said, into the awkwardness. ‘Is now the right time to cut it?’

Everyone made over-enthusiastic noises; I blew out the symbolic candle on top of the coffee and walnut sponge, then slid in the knife.

‘It’s bad luck if we hear it touch the plate,’ warned Di, just as the knife audibly clinked against the china.

‘Fuck that,’ said Joe, scowling at her as if she was a criminal. He wrapped an arm round my shoulders. ‘It’s only good luck from now on,’ he said, kissing the top of my head.

‘Do you think I’m mad?’

‘Not mad. Sad.’

‘And a bit of a party-pooper.’