Page 19 of Deep Blue Sea

‘So long as the other pallbearers aren’t four feet tall.’

Sylvia shot her grandson a disapproving look, but Diana just smiled, grateful that Charlie was intuitive enough to know not to let things become too sombre.

Stepping out of the car, she felt her whole body prickle, and she had a sudden urge to just run away.

‘Diana.’

She spun around at the sound of a familiar baritone, for a split second expecting to see her husband calling her name. But it was only Adam, Julian’s younger brother. He stood there, as handsome as his sibling, but a little taller and a little darker in every sense. He was something of a black sheep in the family; either a breath of fresh air or a layabout playboy, depending on your point of view. Right now, she had never been more disappointed to see anyone’s face.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

At that moment Elizabeth marched through the church gates and began ordering everyone around, directing pallbearers, guests, even the vicar.

‘I feel like a spare part,’ Diana said quietly, noticing that her sister-in-law had ignored her.

‘You’re the most important person here.’

‘That would be Julian,’ replied Di

ana, glancing over at the hearse.

Her breath faltered, the sight of the spectacular spray of red and yellow flowers almost knocking her sideways. She didn’t want to look at the coffin, but it was impossible not to be drawn to the gleam of the polished wood, the shine of the gun-metal handles.

‘We should go in,’ ordered Sylvia, slipping her hand into Diana’s as Adam leant forward.

‘I’ll look after Charlie,’ he whispered, and Diana nodded gratefully in return.

The church was packed, a sea of faces; some she recognised, others she had no clue as to who they were. It had been the same on her wedding day almost seven years earlier, when everyone had been smiling encouragement at her as she walked down this very aisle in her Caroline Castigliano dress the colour of a South Sea pearl. But today all she could see were dozens of wan, sympathetic smiles and sombre, apologetic expressions.

She could feel her pulse quickening. Diana hated being under the spotlight. It was precisely the sort of occasion that Julian would have guided her through. In the early days of their romance she had laughed and called him Professor Higgins. Whenever she felt out of her depth – when she didn’t know what to do or say, when she was stuck at a party with an interminable bore, or at the Cheltenham flat races being patronised by someone who guessed she was not part of the horsey set – Julian was always there for her. They didn’t even need a secret code. He would always know when to step in, when to leave. Today she needed him more than ever. And today he wasn’t here.

She took her seat in a front pew and studied the order of service. An operatic aria sung by a world-famous soprano, readings by a Cabinet minister and a senior ambassador, the sermon by a vicar who was new to the church and whom Diana had met only briefly. It was all beautifully choreographed, but if Diana hadn’t spent the entire hour in a grief-stricken haze, she would have recognised that there wasn’t a great deal of Julian’s soul in the service. Only the eulogy, read by Charlie, a brave boy walking to the lectern to become a man, struck such a powerful chord that even the captains of industry were reaching for their handkerchiefs.

By the end of it Diana felt almost too weak to stand, and when Adam and Charlie, who had been on either side of her during the service, got up to lift the coffin, she had to be helped out of church by Elizabeth and Sylvia like two stiff sentries.

Two generations of Denvers were buried in the grounds of St Michael’s church. The graveyard was overflowing, but the family had apparently purchased a parcel of surrounding land to ensure that they could all rest in peace together.

It was a warm, sunny morning that half made Diana wonder whether Elizabeth’s money and contacts had been able to wangle the weather. There was a low breeze that infused the air with the smell of honeysuckle and roses. They walked behind the coffin to the grave, Diana dodging the patches of grass to avoid her heels sinking into the soil. Only close friends and family had been invited to watch the burial, but there was an enormous trail of mourners behind her – clearly this congregation did not consist of the sort of people used to being excluded from anything.

There was a row of chairs for the family at the graveside. Diana sat down, hot in her fitted black Balenciaga suit, fixing her eyes on a point on the ground. After a while, her gaze wandered to the crowd of people assembling around her. There was no one here from the climbing club.

Across the coffin she could see Patty Reynolds smiling sadly at her. Her husband Michael, one of the pallbearers, retreated to a spot next to his wife, and as he clasped her hand, Diana felt a sharp stab of injustice that the Reynoldses could share their grief together. In fact she felt envious of all Julian’s friends around her. Today they would be sad. Today they might even cry. But tomorrow they would all go back to their normal lives, and that was something Diana could never do.

Why are we here? She almost wanted to ask everyone the question out loud. Why was he taken away from us?

Behind Patty she could see a face she didn’t recognise, but one that stood out because of its obvious beauty. Blond hair, fine-boned features.

Someone knows something . . .

The phrase was going over and over in her mind as the casket was finally lowered into the ground and the vicar said a few last words.

Charlie led her away, although the walk to the car was slow. Everyone wanted to stop and offer their condolences, but Diana just wanted to get out of view. As Charlie moved away to talk to Adam, she began to feel dizzy and undid the top button on her silk blouse, which had started to claw at her neck.

The Mercedes was in sight when a tall blonde woman approached her. Diana saw immediately that it was the woman who had been standing behind Patty. Up close she was quite beautiful, although she was doing what she could to disguise her looks. Her pale hair was tied back and her face looked free of make-up, not that anyone with such remarkable bone structure needed war paint. Diana did not know the woman, but she recognised the look in her eyes: grief.

‘I’m sorry to approach you like this. I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘We haven’t.’