The car park was a sea of colour when I arrived: pink and orange, purple and red. It was obvious people had ransacked their wardrobes and pulled out the brightest thing they could find. Zinging hues. Clashing shades. A crazy kaleidoscope of stripes and patterns.
Mick was right of course, Jen would have loved it. You only have to look at her paintings to know how she felt about colour. Bright and bold. Full of vitality. Like her.
Mick’s email said he wanted it to be a celebration of her life. She wouldn’t have wanted it to be a mournful occasion, so let’s make it a party for Jen he said. No-one had any thought of disagreeing with him. Why would we? It was so right, so appropriate.
But I still felt so raw. Couldn’t believe she’d gone. My best friend. No more phone calls late at night. No more zany emoji-strewn texts about nothing in particular. No more long lunches. No more boozy nights with a box set. Life without Jen suddenly felt so bleak.
Heads turned as I stepped out of the taxi at the crematorium in my new black coat, shoes and handbag, black gloves clutched in my hand. I saw Mick looking across at me, his surprised expression and in that moment I saw that he understood – that I knew he was responsible for my best friend’s death and that I wouldn’t stop until I’d proved it.