Free High Tide by Veronica Henry Page A

mourning, it seemed. She wasn’t sure whether that was a comfort or not.

6
     
    The last time Vanessa had walked up the aisle to the front of St Mary’s was the day she had married Spencer. The little church had been as full then as it was today. A lot of the people were the same, too. There was just one notable difference. None of her family was here.
    Her father wasn’t, of course, because she hadn’t seen him since she was four years old. Nor was her mother. She and Squirrel had agreed to differ on Spencer a long time ago.
    ‘I’ll come if you want me to, of course, darling,’ said Squirrel.
    But Vanessa couldn’t face the extra tension. Even though Spencer was dead, it would still be there. Far better to have a stress-free send-off and spend some time with Squirrel afterwards.
    So here she was, outnumbered by Spencer’s family. She slid her way into the front pew that had been reserved for her. Mary Mac was already there, the only other person she wanted with her. She was in a smart navy jacket and skirt with lipstick on. Vanessa didn’t think she’d ever seen Mary in anything but a sweatshirt and jeans, make-up free.
    Mary took her hand. Her warm sausagey fingers were a reassurance. Vanessa smiled her thanks. She knew everyone was looking at her but trying to pretend they weren’t.
    Karina, Daniella and Aiden were in the right-hand pew: Karina in a sleek black suit which she would have spent hours on Net A Porter choosing; Daniella pale and red-eyed in a too-tight, too-short dress and Aiden awkward in a suit, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. Vanessa thought he was probably wondering where his next spliff would come from. She’d caught him smoking more than a few times when he’d been to stay. Her silence hadn’t bought Aiden’s respect or affection, though – he still treated her with utter indifference, although she had never blown the whistle on him. Daniella was equally hostile, as if it was somehow Vanessa’s fault that their mother had left their father, three years before she’d even appeared on the scene. They had bought into the gold-digging myth perpetuated by their mother.
    Vanessa had been as kind as she possibly could to them – why wouldn’t she be? – but they still treated her with suspicion and disdain. In the end, she came to the conclusion that they were so spoiled they treated everyone like that. She never heard Spencer reprimand them for their manners or discuss their schoolwork or give them any guidance whatsoever. He just gave them whatever they asked for. At best this was guilt; at worst, indifference and laziness.
    If they’d had children, she thought …
    The vicar came to the front and looked out over the congregation with a benign smile. Vanessa looked down at her order of service, at the picture of Spencer at the helm of Poseidon . Mary squeezed her fingers again. A bubble started in her tummy and wormed its way up to her throat. She swallowed it down in panic. She couldn’t lose it. Not in church. Not here. Not now.
    With a huge effort of will, she fought down the terrible, overwhelming schoolgirl desire to laugh.

7
     
    Joy’s funeral tea was held in the church hall, a draughty old building round the back of the graveyard. Courtesy of the fundraising committee, it had recently been painted a rather jolly yellow inside, and so felt more welcoming than it had last time Kate had ventured in. Probably, she thought, for the Christmas bazaar her mother had run for years: endless trestle tables filled with festive crafts that nobody really wanted but bought anyway, because it was all in a good cause and that’s what you were supposed to do.
    Today, those same trestle tables had been laid out with a spread that on any other occasion Kate would have forced herself to resist. Almost every single item was off her list. An array of fresh sandwiches cut into triangles: cucumber, roast beef, salmon. Tiny bridge rolls filled with egg mayonnaise. Next