You Can Trust Me (7 page)

Wendy clears her throat. “Everyone's here to support Julia's mother, of course.” She shakes her head. “So selfish of Julia. Typical, really, to be attention-seeking even in death.”

My mouth drops open.

“That's too harsh,” Will says emphatically. I feel his hand squeezing my shoulder, and my heart swells with gratitude. “We don't know what was going on with Julia … why she would have—”

“
If
she would have,” I correct him.

Wendy offers up a contemptuous sniff. “Perhaps she wasn't as close to us all as we thought she was.”

This dig is clearly directed at me. I want to defend myself and Julia—to tell Wendy that we told each other
everything.
But I know it isn't true. I
did
let Julia down. I didn't call her back. I didn't know what was on her mind that night.

I wasn't there when she died.

The music starts up and Wendy wanders away. The funeral parlor is almost full. Trying to put the pointed remarks of Julia's sister-in-law out of my mind, I turn to the row behind and speak to some of her journalist friends. At least these people genuinely care that she is gone. The fashion writers are dressed in snappy black dresses with shiny white gold jewelry and designer handbags on their arms. Most of the others are in summer coats and high-heeled sandals. Plenty look shell-shocked, but I get the same line from all of them:

I had no idea she was depressed and drinking heavily. Did you?

She wasn't those things!
I want to yell at them. But it's no good. Even those people who are clearly devastated that Julia is gone still believe she took her own life. I am the only doubter.

It's a big relief when Paul, Becky, and Martha slip into the seats beside us. Paul met Julia through me, when we were all at uni. They even slept together once, though neither of them were ever interested in taking things any further and I'm not sure if Becky even knows their history. During the period when Will and I spent a lot of time socializing with Paul and Becky, Julia was often around—though we hadn't all hung out together for a long time. In contrast, Martha met Julia only a few times and is here, I know, simply to support me.

All three of them are as shocked as everyone else that she is dead.

“I wish I'd known her better,” Becky says softly. “But she was always quite private. A lovely person, though. Full of life. You'd never have any idea…”

I bite my lip.

Paul frowns. “I'm so sorry, Liv. This must be so hard for you.”

I smile gratefully at him. He sighs.

“Leo wanted to be here too, you know that, don't you?” Martha says.

Paul nods. “That's right, but it's hard with both me and Will out of the office. He sends his love, though.”

“Absolutely,” Martha adds.

“That's kind,” I say, not really listening. It is nice of Leo to think about Julia's funeral at all. After all, like Martha, he met her only a few times. And it's lovely of Martha, Paul, and Becky to have made the effort to come. Still, what does it matter who turns up to this funeral, if Julia's memory is so badly served by it?

Wendy, Robbie, and Joanie emerge from the waiting room and take their seats at the front of the room. The first two rows are reserved for
FAMILY ONLY
. I see this and feel like crying, even as I tell myself I'm being petty to care.

What matters is Julia. And yet being sidelined because I wasn't related to her by blood is heartbreaking. “I'm so glad Hannah isn't here,” I whisper in Will's ear. “She would be crushed.”

He nods.

Everyone is sitting down now. I'm at the end of a row, so it'll be easy for me to stand and speak. A few butterflies flit around my stomach. At least I'm involved. My name is here on the order of service, toward the end, after Wendy reads a poem and Robbie offers a short eulogy for his sister's life. I can just imagine Julia's verdict on this:
That dickweasel doesn't
know
anything about my life.
Still, that's where I come in, to fill in the gaps.

The service is going to feature two pieces of music—a song by one of those pop-classic Italian tenors I know Julia would have hated, and
Air on a G String
at the conclusion. Lovely, but not a piece of music I ever heard Julia listen to. Joanie walks past me as I think this. She's leaning heavily on Robbie's arm, her face pale and drawn. I sigh, feeling guilty. Maybe
Air on a G String
means something to them.

The only G-strings in my life get played with in bed, honeypie.
I can almost hear Julia's ironic drawl as the chatter in the funeral home dies down and Joanie, Robbie, and Wendy take their seats right at the front. And then the coffin is brought in. My breath catches in my throat to see it—to think that Julia's body is inside is both surreal and horrific. I'm so angry. This funeral shouldn't be happening. She shouldn't be dead. This is all so wrong.

A man from the crematorium leads the service, then invites Wendy to speak. She actually reads her poem well, her harsh voice carrying clearly across the room. There are a few mournful sniffs after the Italian tenor sings. Then Robbie stands. He scowls as he talks. At first I think he's just self-conscious about his grief; then I realize he's resentful. It's not apparent in what he's saying—all anodyne stuff about Julia being clever and successful as a freelance journalist—but in his tone of voice. He is furious with her. Wendy's earlier words drift back into my head.

So typically selfish of Julia to be attention-seeking, even in death.

Robbie is communicating the same, angry sentiment with every adjective. I can't believe it. He tells no anecdotes and recounts no instances of Julia's warmth or generosity. He speaks for less than three minutes outlining Julia's career and making a snide connection between her “many trips away from home” and her dislike of commitment in her romantic relationships. As he sits, it occurs to me that though he hasn't mentioned how Julia died, her suicide is all around us.

The funeral director calls my name. The weight of serving Julia's memory feels heavy on my shoulders. My legs tremble as I walk to the front of the room and take my place beside the coffin.

I gaze out over the faces. Some are in tears. They all think she killed herself, and somehow I have to make them realize she didn't.

The paper trembles in my hand. I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on Will. He smiles encouragingly. I have written down what I want to say about Julia, but now that I'm here, the words I've prepared seem hopelessly inadequate so I don't look at them, letting my feelings well up instead.

“It's hard to believe Julia is gone, when she was always so very much here,” I say. “People talk about people being full of life and energy, but Julia really was. She was the funniest person I ever met.” I pause. There's a story I wanted to tell, but I'm blanking on it, now that I'm in front of everyone.

“Sometimes being witty got Julia into trouble, but she hated meanness as much as she hated people being late.” There are a few nods here. Julia's impatience with unpunctuality was well known—she once walked out of an interview with a top designer because he'd kept her waiting while he took a phone call. “So … Julia had strong opinions.” I hesitate. This isn't what I want to say. “What I mean is, Julia was my best friend. We talked. All the time. She told me everything.” My voice cracks. “She wanted to talk to me the night she died, but I wasn't there.…” I gaze out over the mourners. Nearly everyone is looking at me. Most of the faces I see are full of sorrow and sympathy. I catch Becky's eye. She smiles at me. Paul squeezes her hand and smiles gently too. On his other side, Martha wipes away a tear and gives me a supportive nod.

Encouraged, I carry on. “What I'm trying to say is that Julia was generous—with her time, with her money, and with her love. She was brittle and acerbic and she didn't suffer fools, but she was also wise and kind and
fun
. We met when we were at college, so I've known her since she was eighteen, and she was always full of energy. Of course, she had down days, but she had such an appetite for life. Her work as a journalist, clothes and handbags … she loved those … and her home, her flat … Most of all, she was loyal to her friends. We talked about getting older together. How, if we ended up alone, we'd live in a flat together with a couple of smelly cats. And she adored my children.…” My voice cracks again, and tears well up. “There's just no way she would have done … what they think she did … it's … it must have been something else…” My voice is choked. I can't get the words out. The people in the mortuary swim blurrily before my eyes. Most are looking concerned, glancing at each other. Embarrassed.

And then Will is at my side. My knees buckle and I lean against him, letting him lead me back to my seat. There's a hushed silence. I catch sight of Wendy and Joanie and Robbie as I pass the front row. They are watching me with pity—and, in Wendy's case, contempt.

A terrible grief swells inside me. I have convinced no one. If Julia were here and the situations were reversed, she would have found the words to tell the world I could never have killed myself. But I have failed to make anyone see the truth. I have failed Julia. Tears stream down my face. Those we pass avert their eyes, unwilling to witness the rawness of my pain. Will stops as we reach our seats. I glance to the back of the room. People are standing behind the last row of seats, packed in on either side of the exit. All of them are watching me, not quite meeting my eyes.

All except one. He is tall and ruggedly handsome in a dark suit. Even before I clock the giveaway shaggy blond hair and the fact that he's clearly a few years younger than most of the other guests, I know instinctively that this is Julia's Dirty Blond.

Our eyes lock on to each other. His burn with fury. His whole body radiates it. As I stare at him, he tears his gaze away and leaves the funeral parlor. Will presses me into my seat. I feel flushed. Will doesn't seem to have noticed the man.

He leans over, his hand on mine, whispering in my ear. “Are you okay, Livy?”

I nod, wiping my eyes. The undertaker offers us the chance to take a minute's silence to pray or to reflect on our time with Julia. Then
Air on a G String
begins and the curtains in front of the coffin close. I look around again, but the blond young man has definitely gone.

Before I know it, the service is over and everyone is leaving the mortuary. Will puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me outside. The air out here is fresher than before, the sun fighting to emerge from behind the clouds.

Julia's family avoids me, but several people do come over: friends and colleagues of Julia and both the ex-boyfriends. Martha, Paul, and Becky are particularly sweet. They offer me sympathy and hugs and reassurance that I didn't let Julia down in any way. I hate that this is how my supposed eulogy has come across—a plea for exoneration. None of the mourners here allow for the possibility I might have been right about Julia's death. I ask a few if they know the name of the blond guy who was standing by the exit, but no one does. That furious look he gave me stays in my mind's eye, sending anxious shivers down my back.

What was he so angry about?
Does
he know something about her death?

I try to explain my suspicions to Will, but he won't listen. He thinks I'm wrong about Julia—that my perspective is skewed by guilt and grief. He also points out that I am only guessing that the man at the service at the funeral was Julia's Dirty Blond.

“The state you were in, you could easily have imagined the angry look,” he suggests.

“I didn't imagine it,” I say, stung.

“Okay, if he really was involved with Julia, why didn't he introduce himself to anyone, Liv?” Will asks quite reasonably.

I don't have any answers. I look around as the crowd thins out, people heading to the hotel where Joanie has organized a small-scale wake. There's definitely no sign of Dirty Blond here.

Will and I give a couple of Julia's journalist friends a lift to the hotel. The talk is light and polite, with only passing mentions of Julia. It's ironic that someone with so much personality should have so little influence over her own funeral. I feel heavy and alone with my grief and my misery continues at the hotel, which is nondescript: beige and modern, the sort of place Julia would have hated. There are a few complimentary bottles of wine, which disappear fast, leaving only tea and coffee—and the cash bar. The room is hot. Soon, all the men have taken off their jackets, which only adds to the informal, lighthearted atmosphere of the wake. Most of Julia's journalist friends have disappeared. I see a couple of girls I recognize from uni in a corner, but they are engrossed in their conversation and don't notice me.

I speak to Paul and Becky for a while. They are concerned and attentive, almost making me cry with their kindness. After a while it emerges that Becky's teaching term has just ended—the private schools always break up before the public ones—and she is leaving for Spain the next day. On hearing this news, I insist the pair of them head home so she can pack and they can spend a last evening together, and after some reluctance, they go, taking Martha with them.

Alone for the first time since the service ended, I look around the room. Will is over by the window, talking to Robbie and Wendy. After the pitying looks they gave me in the mortuary, and Wendy's words about Julia's selfishness, I can't bring myself to join them. As I watch, Will's phone rings—I recognize the ringtone, one Hannah downloaded for him, coming from the pocket of his jacket, which is slung over the chair beside me. I glance across the room. Will is still deep in conversation. He hasn't heard his mobile. I fish it out of his jacket pocket, still ringing.