Will she turn up today?

The car crawls along the High Street, through the lunchtime traffic. I’ve only been at Mulberry for a few days but the world outside, it feels too big. Too overwhelming. Brighter and louder than I had remembered it.

I clasp my gloved hands tightly together on my lap and keep my eyes lowered. Already I’ve started Acceptance and Commitment therapy at Mulberry and I don’t want to negate the scant progress I have made with a sighting of him, real or imagined.

Simon.

My father.

I haven’t spoken to Mum but when she wrote to tell me she’d like to be the one to make the arrangements today, she reassured me that Simon wouldn’t be at the funeral out of respect for me.

Respect.

We park. It takes several deep breaths before I can climb out of the car and walk towards the church. The sight of Marie’s name in white flowers is a blow to the abdomen and I fold into myself. If my arm wasn’t linked through George’s I would have fallen to the ground.

I can’t cope.

I’m caught between panic and utter despair.

‘Let’s do this,’ Marie had said, hands on her hips, preparing to dance.

I count in my head five, six, seven, eight over and over again as I shuffle forward, staring at my feet, until somehow I am in the church. The smell of beeswax and roses fills my nostrils. I raise my face and my eyes meet Marie’s. She’s smiling out of the photo resting on her coffin. It’s an old picture, her hair is still red. We look identical.

I have lost a piece of myself.

Sorrow is a solid weight in my chest. It’s hard to move.

George grasps my hand as we take a slow walk past the pews – not as empty as I’d feared; hordes of theatre people have come to pay their respect.

Marie was loved. She just hadn’t known it.

Carly is loved but she doesn’t know it.

And me? I slide into a row beside my husband. He hasn’t once let go of me.

The vicar speaks of Marie’s life. Her achievements. The roles she played, but he doesn’t mention the most important role of all.

The sister that she was.

It is unspeakable to me that everyone might leave not knowing that, but the thought of standing up, walking to the lectern is unimaginable. I can’t.

Let’s do this.

I can’t, Marie. I’m not brave enough.

Acting is easy. You just pretend.

And so I pretend to be braver than I feel. My legs are paper-doll precarious as I shuffle to the front, feeling the tear-bright eyes of the mourners on my back.

‘I just…’ I clear my throat. ‘I want to say a few words about my sister. Marie. We were twins but she never stopped reminding me that she was twelve minutes older than me. She took her role of big sister very seriously, as did Carly who…’ – I scan the faces in front of me hopefully, just in case – ‘who… isn’t… can’t be here today. You all know what we went through twenty years ago. The Sinclair Sisters. The Stolen Sisters, the press called us – but we were so much more than that. Marie was so much more than that. I was frightened. Terrified… much as I feel today, but Marie… Marie made up games while we were trapped in that room. Made up stories of dragons and princesses.’ Grief is my dragon with fiery breath and scorching heat. Beads form on my top lip. I wipe them away. ‘In Marie’s stories we always ended up with medals for courage, and that is what I wish her to be remembered for. Her courage. Her kindness. The way she always tried to protect the people she loved.’