Page 11 of The Mother-in-Law

Only Patrick looks at me, shrugs slightly. ‘Depends when we get the body, I suppose,’ he says.

Nettie visibly stiffens.

I sit on the arm of the sofa, next to Ollie. ‘When will that be?’

‘They still have to do the autopsy,’ Patrick says. ‘That’ll take time.’

‘But . . . why are they doing an autopsy?’ Nettie asks. She glances around the room, half-dazed, like she’s just woken up.

‘The police said they are treating it as a homicide,’ Ollie explains.

Nettie’s eyes widen. Everyone seems to have forgotten that we’re not supposed to be making eye contact and we all look intently at each other.

‘They said theyhaveto treat it as a homicide,’ Patrick says, ‘they don’t actually think it was one. It sounded pretty clear-cut to me. The letter, the . . . materials.’

‘What kind of materials are they talking about, do you think?’ Ollie says. His face is the image of bafflement. ‘A rope? A gun?’

‘Ollie!’ I say.

Nettie has gone so pale she looks like she might faint. Somewhere in the next room, Ollie’s phone begins to ring. Eamon, Ollie’s business partner, would be the only one to call this late. I’m relieved when Ollie makes no move to answer it.

‘If they think it could be a homicide,’ Nettie says, her eyes searching, ‘will they be questioning people? Investigating?’

Patrick looks at his lap. ‘I guess they’ll have to.’

‘But who would they investigate?’ Ollie says. ‘Who’d want to kill Mum?’

It’s a slow process, but one by one, Patrick, Ollie and Nettie all turn to look at me. I drop my gaze and stare into my tea.

6

LUCY

The past . . .

‘Idon’t have something borrowed,’ I say to Claire, my matron of honour. She sits in the armchair in my Dad’s bedroom with her three-year-old daughter, Millie, in her lap. Millie is going to be a flower girl at the wedding, a role that delighted her until about two minutes ago when she realised she’d have to have her hair brushed. Now Claire grips Millie between her knees as she drags the brush through her curls, but Millie is twisting and wriggling like someone being tickled with a thousand feathers.

‘Leave her,’ I say, watching them in the reflection of the mirror. ‘Her hair is fine the way it is.’

‘How do you not have something borrowed?’ Claire exclaims, releasing Millie from her thigh-grip and putting down the brush. ‘It’s yourwedding day. Speaking of which, are you having any Runaway Bride feels? Will I need to winch this window open and saddle up a horse so you can make a run for it, Julia Roberts style?’

‘No chance of that,’ I say, fanning my dress out around me.

‘Are you sure? I could have a mare waiting in case you want to make a quick getaway. From your mother-in-law, perhaps?’

I check my teeth for lipstick. Fire engine red is a risqué colour for one’s wedding day, but I think I can get away with it. ‘Maybe keep the car running just in case.’

My friends and I have unpacked my relationship with Diana at length, from her calling mefine, to insisting she wasn’t my mother while bridal-dress shopping, to intimating that the wedding dress I selected was frivolous and over the top. Admittedly, she had a point about the dress. I knew I’d gotten carried away with the moment, but it’s a rare bride who couldn’t say the same. And at least I was big enough to admit it! After Diana’s outburst at the bridal store, I convinced Dad—much to the sales woman’s horror—that I needed time to think about the dress. It had taken a few days, but I’d realised Diana was right, it was ludicrously overpriced—daylight robbery even, just as she’d said. And a few days later, while looking at my parents’ wedding album, I noticed how beautiful Mum’s dress was. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t thought of it. I’d always loved wearing Mum’s clothes. Barely was there a day when I wasn’t wearing a coat or a scarf or a piece of jewellery from her collection. Having something of hers wrapped around me made me feel close to her, and on days when I really missed her, I wore multiple items of Mum’s.

I take a few steps back from the mirror and look at my reflection. Mum’s dress is my something old. A 1970s ivory silk dress with a high neckline, long sleeves and an empire waist, with covered buttons travelling from the left shoulder to just under the chin. When I asked Dad about it, he produced the dress from the attic, lovingly wrapped in acid-free tissue paper over thirty years earlier. There were a few yellow stains, but they were on the waistline and were hidden by the wide, mint green sash I’d added. My pillbox bridal hat with birdcage veil, which Ididpurchase from the bridal store, is my something new. My sapphire earrings that Ollie gave me for my birthday are mysomething blue.

‘Right then,’ Claire says. ‘Something borrowed.’ She points to the diamond studs in her ears. ‘How about my earrings?’

‘But the sapphires in my earrings are my something blue.’

‘My shoes?’

Claire’s feet are a size and a half larger than mine. Also, her shoes are pink, the same colour as her dress.