‘Do you have someone to be here with you?’ He turned towards her in the doorway, enough light on him that she could see the genuine expression of concern on his face, and abruptly Heather felt dirty, ashamed and more painfully attracted to him than ever. It was too easy to imagine what her mother would say if she were still alive, the ‘disappointed but not surprised’ tone of voice.

‘My friend Nikki is going to go with me, and half her family, I think. I’ll be fine.’

‘I can come. I …’

She made herself face him and tried a smile. ‘But thank you, anyway. I mean. For being here tonight.’

When he was gone, Heather put on a dressing gown and went back down to the living room. It was very late, and her body ached in a number of different ways, but even so she fired up her laptop and began typing. The story was coming together.

28

The day of the funeral dawned bright and sunny, although the house was still chilly and saturated with shadows. Heather, who had been up for hours, found herself caught in a state somewhere between exhausted and wired, repeatedly washing her face and drinking strong black coffee in an attempt to focus.

She chose a pair of jeans that could still charitably be called black rather than grey, and a simple black blouse, laying them out on the bed and then avoiding them all morning. Over and over she found herself going to the windows and looking out at the row of dark trees at the edges of her mother’s lawn, half expecting to see someone waiting there, and her mind kept returning to the note: I know what you are, and I think you do too. She told herself that it was important she go to the funeral. It was closure, a way of putting her mother and her spiteful notes behind her. But when she returned to the windows, she got the sense that she was missing something; that there was a message, kind or otherwise, that she was failing to get. In an attempt to take her mind off it, she emailed Diane the notes she had so far, along with the comment ‘this is a very rough draft, so don’t judge me too harshly’.

By the time Nikki called for her, she was desperate to get out of the house, and squeezed herself into the back of Nikki’s aunt’s car gladly. Nikki’s mother was there too, sitting in the passenger seat, and she reached over the headrest to pull Heather into an alarmingly fierce hug.

‘How are you, Heather? How you doing?’

‘I’m fine, Mrs Appiah, honestly. Will be glad to get this out the way, though.’