Funeral Note

Paula Viareggio

I never thought I’d be a mum, but now that it’s going to happen I’m getting used to the idea. It’s going to be life-changing, that’s for sure, and so, while I’m looking forward to it with an intensity that frightens me at times, at the same time I’m grabbing every chance I can to be the old Paula, the one I’ll never be again.

That’s why I jumped at Aileen de Marco’s invitation to accompany her to that charity gig in Glasgow. Note: she and Bob are married but nobody ever calls her Aileen Skinner; that’s one thing she and I have in common, our insistence in clinging to our own family surnames. (The term ‘maiden name’ went out with the pill as far as I’m concerned. How many Western women these days come as maidens to the marriage bed?)

I don’t know her very well, so her call surprised me. I knew that I was third choice, at best, but I didn’t give a damn. It was a chance to glam up and put on my glad rags, and I wasn’t passing it up. I’d never imagined it was something I’d ever be doing with her, mind you. I have nothing against the woman, but she does strike me as something of a contradiction. As a politician, she’s articulate, outgoing, and assertive. I’ve seen her in parliament, live and on telly, and she seems to have the measure of everyone there, including the current First Minister, the man with the embarrassing waistcoat, without ever rubbing their noses in it. When she appeared on Question Time on BBC, the chairman described her as ‘the acceptable face of Scottish politics’; I’m sure that’s an image she’s been careful to cultivate. In private she’s much more reserved, much more internalised. I confess that I would never have her on the board of my company, because I could never be sure of what she was thinking.

Mario had just left when she rang again. ‘Hi, Paula,’ she began as soon as I answered. ‘It’s Aileen. I’m just calling to check that you’re all right for tonight. We’re front row centre and I’m sure Clive wouldn’t want an empty seat near him.’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘I’m still short of going into labour.’ Or voting for them, I thought, but kept that to myself. ‘The wee darling’s kicking the crap out of me, sometimes literally, but everything’s normal, they tell me. It’ll be a couple of weeks yet.’

‘That’s good. Small change of plan,’ she continued. ‘I’m in Glasgow already, doing constituency stuff, so, rather than make a double journey to pick you up as I’d intended, I’ve taken the First Minister up on his offer of a government car for you.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I could still fit behind the wheel of my own, when I remembered that my husband had taken it. With him, there’s never total certainty over when he’ll be back. ‘Thank him for me,’ I said. ‘Do they need the address?’

‘No, they’ve got it. What are you wearing tonight?’ she asked. A woman’s question.

‘The one and only evening dress I have that still fits me.’

‘Colour?’

‘Red.’

‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘Me too. I don’t really have a choice at public events,’ she explained. ‘It’s expected of me.’

‘Aileen,’ I offered, ‘I’d wear something else if I could, but I reckon it’s either that or a nightgown.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. Between us we’ll rub our Nationalist First Minister’s nose well in it. Hey, do you want to know about the guy we’re going to see? Clive told me all about him.’

‘I looked him up,’ I replied. ‘He’s third-generation Lebanese and he’s a Muslim. He’s a bit of a poster boy in his home country and in the Middle East in general. Famous for refusing to play in the Eurovision Song Contest because there was an Israeli entry.’

‘I thought he was classical.’

‘He is, but any bugger can turn up in Eurovision these days; he was supposed to play a piano break in the Swedish entry.’

‘Maybe ABBA will be on in the interval tonight,’ Aileen said. ‘But I won’t count on it. See you later.’

She left me wondering whether I had time to take a taxi up to Harvey Nicks and look for something classy, roomy, and in any colour other than red. I might have done that too, if the phone hadn’t rung again.

It was Sarah Grace: my morning for Skinner spouses. Sarah’s much more of a pal than Aileen though. We see each other regularly, and talk about anything but husbands.

‘You busy?’ she asked me. ‘Or are you just too pregnant to come out and play?’

When I thought about it, I realised that I was. Chauffeur or not, the evening might be taxing, so I reckoned I’d better rest up for it. I told her as much, and we agreed that she’d come to me for coffee. As soon as I’d heard her I realised that I was listening to a different Sarah. She sounded excited, a little hyper even, and happy, as if something good had happened in her life. With her, that could mean only one thing. I asked her as much. Her denial didn’t convince me and I looked forward to quizzing her some more when she arrived.

Only she didn’t. A couple of hours had gone by before she called to say she couldn’t make it, but by that time I knew it, and why. If Mario and I were charged for calls received as well as made, the bill would be horrendous. I was looking through my choicest coffee beans from our deli range. . the best in Scotland. . trying to pick one for Sarah’s visit, when the phone rang again.

‘Yes?’ I said as I picked it up.

‘Ms Viareggio?’ The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As I’ve said, even though it’s ex-directory, our number has some of the heaviest traffic in town. There was background noise but oddly I wasn’t certain whether it was on the line or coming through the window.

‘This is Paula,’ I admitted. ‘Your turn now.’

‘Sorry, it’s DI Pye; Leith. Is the boss in?’

Of course I knew him. ‘No, Sammy, he’s not. He’s working, as I take it you are too. He’ll be in the office, or if not, on his mobile. . if it’s urgent.’

‘If it wasn’t, I’d know better than to call him today. If I can’t raise him and he comes in soon, could you tell him that I’m at a major incident on the vacant development site off Newhaven Place.’

‘How major?’

‘A burned-out van and it’s not empty.’

‘Oh my God,’ I exclaimed.

Sammy panicked, just a little. I think he had visions of me being shocked into labour. ‘I’m sorry,’ he exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’

‘No reason why you shouldn’t,’ I told him. ‘I’m not squeamish. I reacted that way because I may have seen it.’

That squared him up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sleeping too well just now. I got up for a glass of water, early hours; half past one, maybe two a.m., I can’t be certain. We have a window that faces west. I looked out and I could see a fire, in the area you’re talking about. I just assumed it was kids, lighting a bonfire and having a few drinks. I went back to bed and thought no more about it, until now.’ I paused. ‘Not kids, though?’

‘No, not kids. Although to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what’s inside the thing. We’ll need to wait for the pathologist to tell us that. She’s on her way here now.’

I put the coffee beans back in the cupboard.