I still can’t believe El is gone. I may not have liked everything she represented, but I have known her since I was four. It feels like she has left a gaping hole and I am standing on the edge of it, peering down, my toes over the precipice and my body aching to lean forward and fall in with her.

Without El and Tracey, I am completely alone. But that’s fine.

I deserve to be.

*

The house is full as guests from the memorial service eat vol-au-vents and sip on brandy. There are bodies everywhere, sitting on the couch, knees touching; standing shoulder to shoulder in the hallway; handing coats to waiting staff and mingling politely. I have never seen so many people in Eloise’s house.

I can see Steph and Emily on the other side of the lounge, both dressed head to toe in black once more for maximum sombre effect. I am also wearing black, but this morning on an impulse I added a cardigan in pink, El’s favourite colour. Now my cardigan is standing out like an inappropriately bright neon sign and I regret wearing it.

El’s mother is perched on the couch, not moving, staring into space. Her eyes are lifeless and I resist the urge to go and check to see if she is breathing. Then her trembling hand raises the crystal tumbler to her lips and I know she is still with us. People lean down to talk to her, offer their condolences, but she stares resolutely ahead. El’s father is working the room, his voice gruff as he networks, thanking people, efficiently ordering the staff to bring more canapes, more tumblers.

I can hear my mother’s shrill voice from across the room where she is regaling an acquaintance with tales of her holiday. I cringe as her voice carries. She has come home with renewed energy, all smiles and laughter with my father, but it won’t last. He will return to London tomorrow and she will slowly descend into her usual spiral of paranoia, mistrust and chemically enhanced mood swings.

A tray of salmon blinis wafts in front of my nose and my stomach lurches and rolls over. I rush from the room to the downstairs loo, but it is occupied. I can feel vomit rising in my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth and rush up the stairs to Eloise’s room and her en suite bathroom.

I make it just in time before I collapse on my knees and throw up tea and not much else into the toilet. I remain on the cold tiles, breathing heavily, my eyes squeezing mascara drips onto my cheeks.

I have been sick for a couple of days now. Even the smell of toast is turning my stomach. I know what it means, but I can’t bring myself to verbalise it yet.