To My Best Friends

‘I’ve told Gerry,’ Lizzie coloured as she rushed the words out. She couldn’t help herself; never had been able to. If there was a crease Lizzie had to iron it out. A silence – awkward or not – she had to fill it.

Jo’s eyes flicked open. ‘About our bequests?’ she asked, her voice tight. ‘Didn’t we agree to keep that between ourselves for now, just while we work out what to do? Whether we have to, you know, comply with Nicci’s wishes.’

‘Not yours and Mona’s, just mine.’ ‘Oh,’ snorted Mona. ‘That’s hardly the same, is it? At least Nicci left you something—’

‘Just out of interest,’ Jo interrupted, hearing Mona’s voice rise and seeing Lizzie’s lip quiver, ‘what did Gerry say, about your bequest, I mean?’

Lizzie’s mouth twisted. ‘What d’you think he said?’

‘Let me guess,’ Mona said. ‘I bet it had something to do with cheap labour.’

Lizzie’s laugh burst out over the hush of voices and the wheeze of the organ. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but not before earning a scowl from an elderly woman sitting on the other side of the aisle. ‘That’s about the sum of it. Gerry said . . .’ she put on his voice. It was posh Yorkshire. He used being northern when it suited him and hid it when it didn’t, ‘. . . “Don’t you usually have to pay someone to do that?”’

Jo and Mona exchanged glances. They loved Lizzie but, despite years of trying, they still didn’t get Gerry. If he hadn’t married one of their dearest friends their paths would never have crossed. Nicci had barely tolerated him, declaring him smug and materialistic, and nowhere near good enough. But once Lizzie announced a date and flashed a rock that – as Nicci muttered later – cost a fortune and still looked as if it belonged in an Argos sale, she backed off. If Gerry was what Lizzie wanted then, like him or not, he was what they wanted for her too.

As ‘Dido’s Lament’ segued clumsily into Albinoni’s ‘Adagio’ Mona mimed sticking her fingers in her ears. ‘Clearly there are some things even Nicci’s ghost can’t control. Now That’s What I Call Funerals.’

‘Still,’ said Lizzie, ‘what are the alternatives? Westlife? Celine Dion? Bette Midler?’

‘That, and the self-invited guests,’ said Jo. ‘Guess it’s what you get for being popular.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mona. ‘Can you imagine having loads of people you hardly know turn up for your wedding?’

‘I did,’ Lizzie said. ‘Remember? My mother insisted on inviting a bunch of aunties and cousins three times removed.’

‘Nicci did too,’ Jo said. ‘But weren’t they all distant relatives of David that he said he hadn’t seen since his christening?’

A sudden hush cut them short. The organ music had died and all around them people were getting to their feet as the pallbearers entered the church. Si slid in beside Jo, Gerry behind him.

‘Here we go, love,’ Si said, slipping his arm around Jo’s shoulder . . .

‘Ready or not,’ she agreed, reaching for Lizzie’s hand . . . ‘Not,’ Lizzie whispered, squeezing Mona’s hand in turn . . . ‘Never will be,’ Mona replied, squeezing it back.

‘Nicci had to be first at everything,’ said Jo, trying to raise her quavering voice so it was audible at the back. The flowers seemed to muffle it, each petal, leaf and stamen cushioning the sound. Who knew flowers buggered up your acoustics? Not even Nicci could predict that.

Think of this as a business presentation Jo coached herself. Imagine those red eyes and puffy faces belong to financial backers, not fellow mourners at your best friend’s funeral.

Her best friend’s funeral.

How had she got landed with this? She hadn’t known Nicci any longer than the others. Well, no longer than Lizzie. A day, maybe a week, certainly no more. Why did Jo always have to be the grown-up?

Gripping the lectern to steady herself, she took a deep breath. ‘You name it,’ Jo continued, ‘Nicci beat the rest of us to it. She was the first to meet The One – her lovely David.’ Jo ventured a smile at where Nicci’s widower sat in the front pew, two tiny blonde girls in mini-me coats held close on either side of him, confusion on their small faces. David’s parents sat either side of the three, creating a protective barrier around their son and granddaughters.

‘The first to marry, the first to have children . . .’ Jo swallowed. That last bit wasn’t strictly true. Mona had had her son long before the others even started thinking about kids, but they’d discussed it the night before and agreed that simply didn’t count. Mona had gone away, and when she came back there was Dan. It was different. They didn’t really know why, it just was.

‘. . . her adorable and much-loved Harriet and Charlotte. Harrie and Charlie to their besotted godmothers – Mona, Lizzie and, of course, me . . .’

Did David know about the bequest, Jo wondered. Of course, he knew about the letters; he’d delivered them. But was he aware of their contents; that he was handing over grenades? He had to, didn’t he? Nicci wouldn’t have done that without telling him . . . would she?

Seeing a hundred faces gazing up at her, Jo forced herself on.

‘She was the first of us to have it all. To juggle her new family, her beloved husband and our little business: her other baby, Capsule Wardrobe. And now . . .’ Jo tried to concentrate on the neat capitals printed on the index cards in front of her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the words off by heart – poor Si had listened to this speech a dozen times in the last couple of days – but her eyes filled with tears, and the neat letters doubled and tripled until she couldn’t even see her words, let alone recall them.

‘And now, our beautiful Nicci . . .’ she heard Lizzie prompt gently from the front row.

Jo blinked away her tears. ‘And now, our beautiful Nicci,’ she repeated, ‘our best friend, the love – I know he won’t mind me saying – of David’s life, is the first of us to die.’ Looking up, she pasted on a smile. ‘Taking this number-one thing to extremes a bit, I think.’

A ripple of laughter echoed around the small church and Jo risked catching David’s eye. Misery, exhaustion and disbelief at finding himself in this place, for this unthinkable, unimaginable, reason . . . all her own emotions were in his gaze but ripped raw. He squeezed his daughters tighter. Was it her imagination, or was he sending a signal?

Stop it, Jo told herself. Concentrate.

‘I met Nicci,’ she continued, ‘on my first day at university. She took me under her vintage-store-clad wing and I never looked back. Soon after, she found Lizzie and, for want of a better word, adopted her too. Then, by sheer fluke, Mona found us. And together we found David. The poor thing didn’t know what he was letting himself in for . . .’ Another ripple of laughter.

‘Nicci wheedled her way into David’s life, and his wardrobe!’ More laughter, louder now. ‘As she did for so many of us here.’

Jo let her gaze roam the front pews where Nicci’s influence bloomed. How had Nicci known they would all be so obedient? Or were they all just too exhausted, too heart-broken, to greet Nicci’s instructions telling them what to wear to their best friend’s funeral with anything other than gratitude?

Lizzie’s taupe cardigan was loosely belted over a beautiful floral Paul Smith tea dress that Jo knew for a fact had cost as much as half a month’s mortgage; the Burberry trench coat that had cost the other half lay over the back of the pew behind her. Mona wore a slick black Helmut Lang trouser suit, which just about made up for the four-inch heels Nicci had convinced her ‘cost per wear’ would be a bargain. At the last count, ‘cost per wear’ those boots still stood at six months’ Council Tax. David’s scuffed Church’s brogues, identical to the ones Nicci had bought him their very first Christmas together, already showed signs of missing Nicci’s care. And Jo’s own navy suit was nowhere near as frumpy as she remembered now the skirt was taken up, as per Nicci’s instructions.

As ever, Nicci had been right. It might be her funeral, but her friends still looked a million dollars. In a subdued, funeral-appropriate, style.

‘I know this isn’t the done thing,’ Jo said, deviating from her script, ‘but I’d like to do a straw poll.’

A bemused murmur rippled through the congregation. Lizzie glanced at Mona, who shook her head. This wasn’t planned.

‘How many here today are wearing outfits, or at least items of clothing, that Nicci picked out for us?’ Jo raised her own arm. She felt like an idiot. And from the way half the congregation stared at her, she knew she looked like one too.

Widening her eyes at them, she willed Lizzie and Mona to join her.

Mona raised her arm, then Lizzie. A second later, David joined them. Harrie and Charlie’s arms were raised by their granny and grandpa. Then, as if in a Mexican wave, arms rose around the church, rippling right to the back where, Jo realised now, Capsule Wardrobe’s most loyal clients stood, the pews too full to hold them.

Laughter burst from her. Jo couldn’t help it; didn’t even try to suppress it. The sound of the first genuine laugh she’d managed in the two weeks since Nicci’s death pealed up into the apse.

‘How much would Nicci love this?’ Jo said. ‘She made clothes her life, she believed that what we wore spoke volumes more than anything words could say; that a T-shirt, or a dress, or a pair of shoes, really was a statement. That woman contributed in some way to the outfits of what must be over a hundred people here.

‘My friends . . . all of whom, like me, loved and trusted Nicci, there can be no better affirmation of her life. Because if there’s one thing I know Nicci would have wanted it’s this: no frumps at her funeral.

‘Nicci, we love you, we miss you, and we don’t yet know what we will do – how we will even begin to cope – without you. But you are forever in our hearts . . .’ Jo paused, locking wet eyes with Lizzie and Mona, strengthened by their tearful smiles.

‘. . . And in our wardrobes.’

Chapter Two

‘Isn’t David going to wonder where we’ve got to?’ Lizzie asked, as she fumbled with the lock of the shed. In the fading light, she misjudged the distance and the key landed in the sludge at her feet. Bending, she noticed her high-heeled loafers were now crusted with mud. ‘Anyone got a tissue?’

Mona shrugged, and Jo shook her head.

‘Where is David, anyway?’ Jo said. ‘I haven’t seen him for at least half an hour.’