Page 8 of Under Your Spell

I take two wrong turns, and when I finally squeal up to the church I realize the hearse is right behind me. Grabbing my phone and my handbag, I sprint through the doors. The place is packed and hundreds of heads swing in my direction as I stumble in, pulling my coat over my too-tight black dress and casting around for my family.

A hissed ‘Clemmie!’ directs me to where Serena and Lil are saving me a seat, and I fall into the pew beside them not a moment too soon.

‘Cut that a bit close,’ Serena whispers as some sombre organ music starts up.

‘Had a nightmare finding the place,’ I say, slumping wearily in my seat. I don’t have long to reflect because the signal is given that means we are all supposed to rise to our feet. I stand and turn with everyone else to watch the coffin being carried in.

It’s hard to believe that Carl, who was after all a very alive person, is inside that small box. I feel a lump in my throat and tears sting my eyes. Lil hands me a crumpled tissue.

As the procession draws level with us I realize that my father is one of the pall-bearers and I feel my body tense. Even though he and Carl were close, I think part of me had expected Ripp to flake on the funeral.

I haven’t seen him for at least a year – the last time had been the one and only occasion I introduced Ripp to Len. They had hated each other instantly. At the time I thought that was probably a good sign for my relationship.

Now he spots me and gives me a jaunty little wink. Of course Ripp Harris wouldn’t let a little thing like the dead body resting on his shoulder interfere with his charm offensive. I keep my own expression stony, and my stomach sinks as I realize I’m going to have to see him later at the wake.

The discordant groans of the organ get louder, but suddenly I’m aware that there’s another sound fighting for attention.

‘YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION,’ a voice intones solemnly, cutting through the music. A few heads lift, and I exchange a look of confusion with Serena.

‘YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION,’ the voice thunders again, and it seems louder this time. More heads swivel.

‘God?’ Lil mouths, casting her eyes up at the high stone roof.

As the six of them continue up the aisle past us and the voice calls out, I notice a hitch in the step of one of the pall-bearers – a man with his back to me. I can’t see anything apart from his broad shoulders, dark hair curling over the collar of his perfectly tailored suit.

‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE,’ the voice yells now, and the truth begins to dawn on me in painful increments.

‘No, no, no,’ I murmur, closing my eyes as if I can will myself to sink through the floor. As if ignoring the problem will make it go away.

‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE,’ the voice comes again.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I mutter, fumbling with my bag.

There’s a horrified gasp from the lady in front of us, who glares at me before rather pointedly looking at the enormous crucifix hanging on the wall in front of us. Frankly, I think Jesus has bigger problems. I know I do.

My hand closes around my phone and, as I pull it from my bag, the Maps app takes one last opportunity to scream, ‘MAKE A U-TURN IF POSSIBLE’ at top volume as though directing the coffin back towards the land of the living.

The organist stumbles; everyone in the congregation is looking at us now. The dark-haired pall-bearer’s shoulders are shaking as the coffin finally reaches the altar.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper, muting my phone with trembling fingers while feeling the sort of heat in my cheeks that could power a nuclear facility.

Serena and Lil have collapsed in silent giggles beside me – the occasional unhelpful snort issuing from them as I consider finding a nice open grave to fling myself into.

The service passes off without a hitch after that, not that I am able to pay attention to much of it. There is some music, and a reading from the Bible. Finally, Ripp swaggers up to give the eulogy.

He’s tall, lean, with improbably dark shaggy hair, but his face looks more crumpled than the last time I saw him. His jaw, I notice, is softening, his whole face starting to sag, just a little. His black shirt is unbuttoned at least one – if not two – buttons too far for respectful funeral attire, but the disapproving lady in front of me doesn’t seem to have an issue with that. Instead she is staring at my father with that look… the one that mixes adulation with awe and a stomach-churning pinch of lust. It’s a look I am all too familiar with, having seen it on everyone from my own friends to my year-eight Maths teacher.

‘Carl Montgomery,’ Ripp says now, with a slow, sad shake of his head. ‘What a guy. What a loss.’ He doesn’t speak loudly, but everyone shifts forward, hanging on his words, focussed on the rough rasp of his famous voice. Something happens to Ripp Harris when you give him an audience: he’s absolutely magnetic. It’s one of the things I’ve always found difficult about being around him – it feels like he sucks all the air out of a room.

‘Some of you probably know who I am,’ Ripp says with faux-humility, and the dragon-lady in front gives a breathy little sigh, clearly falling for it hook, line and sinker. ‘But no one would have heard of me if it hadn’t been for Carl. He discovered me, I suppose you’d say, in a pub basement in Sheffield many, many years ago.’ He pauses here, flashing his perfectly even, white teeth. ‘Although for the sake of our vanity, I’m sure Carl would want me to say “not that many”.’

There’s a quiet chuckle that moves through the crowd and Ripp goes on with the eulogy, which no one else seems to notice is actually all about himself. By the time he’s reached his second Grammy win, my attention has drifted, and I find myself absently scanning the congregation looking for my mum.

My gaze snags instead on a man near the front. It’s the pall-bearer again, though I don’t know why I’m so certain when I’ve only glimpsed the back of his head – surely the backs of people’s heads are all quite similar, nondescript things? He’s turned to the person beside him, clearly saying something in a low voice, and I notice that his profile is even nicer than his back. I see a slash of cheekbone, the square edge of a jaw, soft, dark hair falling over his forehead, and curling around the shell of his ear.

Something hot and peculiar lances through my body and it takes me a queasy moment to identify it as lust. It’s been a while, and I’m actually going to have to give myself a stern talking to. Lusting after a stranger? In church? At a funeral????

While I’m sure Serena and Lil would be delighted by this turn of events, I am not. I tell myself I am not repressing my sexuality; I am demonstrating good manners as I fasten my gaze instead on the sad Jesus dangling from the crucifix on the wall. He looks a bit like a melted candle and there’s absolutely nothing sexy about that.