Page 9 of Under Your Spell

On that thought, the organ pipes up again. This time it’s playing something cheerier, as a pair of curtains close around Carl’s coffin. I realize it’s ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by the Beatles, and I feel another twist of sadness, but it’s too late now – the funeral is over, and heaving a collective sigh of relief, the crowd begins to make its way out into the weak spring sunshine.

‘How many of this lot are heading back to ours?’ Serena asks as we join the throng.

I shrug. ‘Mum said just a handful of close friends.’

Serena grimaces. ‘So about two hundred gawpers then.’

‘I guess so. Where are the mums anyway?’ I ask, craning my neck.

‘They were up near the front,’ Lil says from behind me. ‘They said to just meet them back at the house.’

‘What on earth are you wearing?’ My eyes widen as I finally take in Lil’s full funeral attire.

‘What?’ Lil asks from behind the black lace veil she has pulled down over her face. The rest of her is swathed in an oversized black tent. She appears to be wearing elbow-length black gloves. ‘We’re all in mourning, you know.’

‘She’s cosplaying as a Mafia widow,’ Serena whispers.

‘I heard that,’ Lil snaps. ‘I don’t understand why you two are so unconcerned with honouring the dead.’

‘Lil, I swear, if this is about that bloody bird again…’ Serena starts.

‘He had a name.’ I can only assume the expression behind Lil’s veil is fierce.

‘NO, HE DIDN’T,’ Serena yells. ‘I REFUSE TO REFER TO A DEAD BIRD AS PETER THE PIGEON.’

I smile wanly at the people around us whose interest is understandably piqued by this outburst. ‘Come on, you two,’ I say, my voice low. ‘We’ve got a wake to get to. And our bloody father is going to be there.’

Without another word they link their arms through mine.

‘I hope there’s wine,’ I mutter.

‘I know there’s tequila,’ Serena smirks, opening her handbag and pulling out a bottle.

‘God bless you,’ I breathe as we head for the cars.

Chapter Four

When I reach the house, I pull up alongside Serena’s sleek Mercedes and Lil’s custom lilac Toyota hybrid. Unsurprisingly, they have both arrived before me. Chugging stoically along the motorway, watching them nimbly dip and weave around traffic and disappear into the distance had felt like a rather heavy-handed metaphor for my life.

The house, welcoming and lopsided, looks the same as it always does, apart from the mess of parked cars and the discreet security presence. I wonder if the handful of burly men with rigid posture – who are trying to blend into the bushes in the front garden like that Homer Simpson meme – are here with one of the guests, or if Mum organized them. Either way, I’m glad. At least the paparazzi won’t feel it’s an invitation with the front gate standing open.

The atmosphere is already carnivalesque, with guests spilling out the doors, drinks in hand. I reflect for a moment that aside from the fact that everyone’s draped in black, it could be one of the coven’s legendary happenings.

The mums didn’t throw a lot of parties when we were little, but every once in a while something impromptu would occur – they’d have a group of friends to stay and then a few more people would join and suddenly there was music and dancing and pale green cocktails in empty jam jars. The crowd would always be an interesting mix of artists, musicians, writers and other creative types, and that made for extremely fun parties.

The mums didn’t tolerate any really bad behaviour, and the odd joint or bit of skinny dipping in the river was the most scandalous thing we ever saw, though we were never left unsupervised so I can’t speak to what else went on behind closed doors. I can say with confidence that it wasn’t the RIPP’S LADIES’ CULT SEX-ORGY that one headline claimed.

(‘Just say orgy,’ Ava had sighed, shaking her head. ‘The word sex is redundant here.’ She tapped at the paper with one scarlet nail. ‘Remember girls: words, when used precisely, are weapons. You don’t need to slobber over them.’)

Now, I see – as I push my way through the kitchen doors – that most of the people at Carl’s funeral have taken the opportunity to get a look at the site of all those years of scandal. It makes my skin itch seeing them all here. I don’t think it is my imagination that several faces I pass display disappointment. Where, I can almost hear them wonder, are the sex dungeons and piles of Class-A drugs? I see one man examine Mum’s Orla Kiely sugar cellar hopefully, but after lifting a casual finger to his mouth his expression drops. It must be devastating to discover that Dee Monroe doesn’t sprinkle her porridge with cocaine.

The kitchen is my favourite room, right at the centre of the house. It’s massive and full of light, made up of three of the original rooms knocked together, with wonky stone walls, sanded beams on the ceiling, and a wall of French windows that open up onto the garden. There’s an ancient Aga, glass-fronted cupboards bristling with mismatched china, two large, squishy sofas, and a wide oak kitchen table which has all our initials carved into the legs, as well as the word FUK emblazoned on the underside in wonky, sloping letters added by a daring six-year-old Serena.

Hidden, badly spelled swear words aside, this room is the opposite of rock ’n’ roll. It’s the centre of our family – it’s where the six of us spent most of our time: it’s where we shared family dinners, where we did our homework, it’s where we played games on the floor, where we drooped over the sofas when we had tonsillitis while Mum fixed us steaming mugs of honey and lemon.

Speaking of Mum, here she finally is, drifting into the room shrouded in a black silk kaftan-style dress. She’s holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, which she uses to top up people’s glasses as she passes, pausing to commiserate and offer comfort.

‘Clementine!’ Her face lights up when she sees me. Dee Monroe is irresistible and even I, after so much exposure, am not immune. She looks like a pixie, full of mischief – heart-shaped face, huge grey eyes, a wide, infectious smile. She has pale, porcelain skin that burns easily, and her auburn hair is cut short, showing off her slender neck and killer bone structure. She moves like a dancer and has the husky singing voice of a French chanteuse who chain-smokes Gauloises.