Page 7 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

Niamh picks me up at seven, on the dot. She is nothing if not punctual. I’m feeling a little frazzled having spent much too long trying to decide what to wear to the wake of my former best friend’s mother. Obviously my ‘Give Me Strength’ hoodie and leggings combo was a non-starter, but nor did it feel like the kind of smart casual work attire type of affair either. I needed something in between. In the end, I settled for a black jumper dress and red ankle boots. Red boots probably weren’t the most appropriate option but I didn’t want to dress completely in black in case I was mistaken for a chief mourner and God knows that would be awkward. I did not need or want people shaking my hand and offering condolences. I brushed my hair into a sleek ponytail only to look in the mirror and see an uncanny resemblance to Miss Trunchbull from Matilda staring back at me, so I immediately took it down. I gave my head a little shake in the hope it would fall into a perfect ‘just stepped out of a salon’ beach-wave style, but instead it just sort of limply fell into a frizzy helmet of a style and I ran out of time to try anything else.

I explain all this to Niamh in an epic bout of verbal diarrhoea as soon as I get in the car. To give her her dues, she lets me talk before gently placing one hand on my knee. ‘Becks, I think it’s possible you might just be overthinking all of this,’ she says softly. ‘I understand why you’re nervous, of course. I’m pretty much shitting bricks too. But we can do this. Kitty deserves this.’

‘I know,’ I say.

‘And Laura does too,’ Niamh says, and I nod but stay quiet because I’m not sure deserve would be the word I would use. I still have no idea how she will receive our arrival at her mother’s house. She’d be well within her rights to turf us out, or at least turf me out, on our ears.

‘I checked the death notices,’ Niamh says. ‘The funeral is at ten, from the Cathedral. We should go to that too, shouldn’t we?’

‘Let’s see how things go this evening first. I wouldn’t want to cause any further upset,’ I say and Niamh nods before we both fall into an uncomfortable silence as we make our way through familiar streets to the home where Laura grew up. Both sides of the street are lined with cars so we park a short distance away and walk over, arms looped together. I know I should say something just to break the tension we are both feeling but for once I’m at a loss for words. My stomach twists the closer we get to the O’Hagan house and I can’t help but wonder if it was just a very bad idea to come here at all. Even though it’s a cold night complete with an icy breeze that would cut through a person, the garden outside the house is filled with mourners standing in small groups, their chatter rising on their cloudy breath into the night sky. I search their faces to see if Laura is among them but if she is then she’s well hidden.

‘Maybe she’s not here,’ I whisper to Niamh.

‘We should still go in though,’ Niamh replies although it’s definitely more of a question than a statement. I think we might be playing wake chicken with each other – hoping the other will call our bluff and we can walk away safe in the knowledge it wasn’t us who made the final decision to just go home.

‘I didn’t bring any flowers,’ I say, spotting a row of floral tributes lined up against the front wall of the house, ready to be loaded into the hearse in the morning and placed on top of the grave. My heart thuds at the sight of them – something about funeral flowers makes me feel deeply uneasy. Watching them wilt and decay on a grave reminds me too much that beneath the soil there is more decomposition. My stomach threatens to turn. Niamh, picking up on my mood, probably because I’ve just squeezed her arm as if I’m trying to push a ten-pound baby out, squeezes gently back.

‘It’s family flowers only,’ Niamh says. ‘I checked. With donations in lieu to the Foyle Hospice. I made a donation in our name earlier. I figured that would be easier.’

I nod again and blink back the tears that are threatening to fall. She’s right, it is easier and I’m incredibly grateful for her thoughtfulness. When we reach the door I see Conal, Laura’s older brother, standing in the doorway greeting mourners and rehashing the same script over and over again.

‘Thank you. It was good of you to come.’

‘Yes, it was good for her in the end, you know. She’d been through enough.’

‘You can never really can prepare yourself, can you?’

‘Mum’s in the front room if you want to go on through.’

And repeat.

We shuffle forward, still clinging together. ‘Remember you used to have a mad crush on him?’ Niamh whispers in my ear and, eyes wide, I look at her, announcing, ‘I did not!’ probably a little too loudly. I’m lying, of course. I was absolutely mad about Conal but as my best friend’s big brother he was deemed off-limits. Not that he ever showed even an ounce of interest in me.

Heads turn to look at us, people I don’t know or only vaguely recognise. I nod an acknowledgement to them, grateful for the dark night that’s hiding my scarlet face. When they return to their conversations, Niamh whispers again, ‘You so did. You even had a photo of him Sellotaped in your diary. I remember.’

‘You remember wrong,’ I tell her, adopting the patented Shaggy defence. Just like his hit song ‘It Wasn’t Me’, I will deny all charges levelled against me until the bitter end.

She shakes her head, a cheeky glint in her eye – one that isn’t entirely appropriate as we reach the front door and the alleged object of my teenage affections is taking us both in.

There’s a slightly too long moment of silence before Niamh detaches herself from me and thrusts her hand forward. ‘Conal, I’m very sorry for your troubles. Your mum was a brilliant woman.’

‘Thank you, it was good of you to come,’ Conan says, almost robotically and I wonder, does he even register any more who he’s talking to? He looks absolutely exhausted; his skin is dull, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘She really was one of the best,’ I say. ‘She always welcomed us in as if we were part of the family.’

Conal blinks and looks in my direction and then to Niamh before looking back at me. ‘Becki?’ he asks. ‘And Niamh?’

We nod in unison like two absolute day-release cases.

‘God, it’s been years. Sorry, I’m not quite myself at the moment, you know,’ he says with a nod towards the inside of the house. ‘I think we’re all just existing on fumes at this stage.’

We nod again and I will myself to speak but find I’ve reverted to the version of myself who became tongue-tied every time he walked into a room. He must’ve thought me to be a complete eejit.

There’s a pause before Conal breaks the silence. ‘Well, I imagine you’re here to see my sister,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ we chime in unison and I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. ‘She’s with Mum, I think,’ he says. ‘In the front room. Go on through.’

After yet another awkward pause we move on down the hall, Niamh whispering in my ear, ‘Well, that went well and wasn’t at all humiliatingly awkward.’ I have to hold in a snort of laughter, my nerves doing what they normally do in situations like this and threatening to bring on a fit of the giggles – which would be absolutely atrociously timed. The worst of it is, I can tell that Niamh is on the verge of a full-on nervous laugh fest herself and we absolutely cannot allow that to happen.

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