Free Deep Blue Sea by Tasmina Perry

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 Diana, 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