The Vanishing Point

44

The funeral was a circus. A perfectly orchestrated circus, but a circus nevertheless. Scarlett had left detailed instructions which it fell to George and me to carry out. And carry them out we did, even though our teeth were gritted for most of the time.

The media were frustrated by the lack of a grieving relict. We knew they would dog our every step until they got something for the front page, so we arranged for them to have a single pool photographer take a series of shots of Jimmy carrying a posy of flowers into the funeral parlour where his mother was laid out. In his second black suit of the year, he walked in with bowed head, not quite five and already apparently master of his own public image.

Once the media had the pics they wanted, they decamped from the hacienda. There was nothing to see now Scarlett was gone, after all. Their place by the side of the country lane was swiftly taken by the tributes left by Scarlett’s army of fans. Bunches of flowers, cards and soft toys soon covered the verges and we all prayed that the rain would stay away. Banks of sodden tributes would be an eyesore that would provoke complaints to the council from the other residents of the lane, who had never approved of Scarlett or what she brought in her wake. It would be one more hassle we could do without.

The grown-ups went for a viewing before they closed the coffin. I barely glanced at her; I’ve never understood the need to mourn with the dead in your eyeline. From what I saw, they’d done a good job on her. She looked less gaunt than I expected, and Marina had chosen one of her signature hats to cover her baldness, the deep watermelon shade giving a welcome splash of colour to the interior of the woven willow coffin. ‘It looks like we’re sending her off in a giant picnic basket,’ George said.

‘It’s what she wanted,’ Simon said. ‘She cared about the planet. Even if she wasn’t going to be here, Jimmy’s got to grow up in this world.’

George sighed. ‘I know, I know. It just looks . . . odd, that’s all. I’m accustomed to a more traditional look.’

On the day of the funeral, George arranged for a driver to collect Scarlett’s mother and sister from King’s Cross Station. To her final days Scarlett had been adamant that she didn’t want Chrissie and Jade at her bedside. She didn’t want them to so much as set foot in her house. The instructions were to provide them with first-class return tickets from Leeds and a hotel room if they needed to stay overnight. George had booked them into a decent hotel near King’s Cross. In an act that would have made Scarlett smile, he’d chosen one that had no bar or restaurant.

Marina, Jimmy and I were taken from the hacienda to the nearby funeral home by 1940s black Rolls Royce. I couldn’t help feeling that Leanne should have been with us, but she hadn’t turned up. The day after Scarlett’s death, Simon said he’d called to try and persuade her to put the rift behind her and pay her last respects with the rest of us. But Leanne had been adamant that Scarlett hadn’t wanted her there, so she would stay away. She wasn’t going to be two-faced about it. It seemed a sad end to what had been one of the few important relationships in Scarlett’s life.

There were two other vintage Rollers in the cortège, one carrying Simon and George, plus the two assistants from the agency who had worked most closely with Scarlett. The third was occupied by the team from Scarlett’s TV chat show – her co-host, the producer, her stylist and a couple of others I hadn’t met before. Chrissie and Jade were in a black BMW bringing up the tail.

The hearse itself was a horse-drawn carriage, all four bay horses with black plumes on their headbands. They were preceded by two professional mourners, their silk top hats beribboned and their black Crombie coats perfectly fitting their burly frames. You could hardly see the coffin for the floral tributes. MUMMY from Jimmy, of course. SCARLETT along one side from the TV channel and SMILE in the style of the logo from the perfume company. I hadn’t seen a cortège that over the top since a fellow ghost writer had persuaded me to come with him to a Kray family funeral.

There must have been thousands of fans lining the half-mile route from the funeral home to the crematorium. They wept, they cheered. They threw flowers and, bizarrely, confetti at the hearse. Once we had passed, they abandoned the pavements and fell into step behind the cortège. The police, there to prevent any public order offences, were hopelessly outnumbered. They looked completely bewildered, taken aback by this outpouring of public sorrow for a Northern underclass underdog who had somehow won people’s hearts.

The Prime Minister himself had jumped on the bandwagon. The local MP had got to his feet in the House of Commons and asked if the PM had plans to extend breast screening to younger women in the light of Scarlett’s tragic death. The PM had put his serious face on and said, ‘I was saddened to hear of the death of Scarlett Higgins, a brave young woman who demonstrated how it’s possible in today’s Britain to triumph over adversity and build a successful career. She brought delight to us all and she will be sorely missed. I will ask the Health Secretary to write to the Honourable Member in response to his question.’ I hoped he was watching the live coverage on the satellite news channels, so he could see what popularity looked like.

When we reached the crematorium the funeral director emerged with a large wicker basket. As the pall bearers slid the coffin out and on to their shoulders, he opened the basket and released a dozen white doves into the blue sky in a flurry of feathers. The crowd gasped at the sight. A moment of pure theatre. I was making mental notes every step of the way; this would be the final chapter of the final Scarlett book, after all.

Outside the crematorium, there were giant screens relaying the service so the punters could share the grief. Inside, we followed the coffin down the aisle. Jimmy’s hand gripped mine so tightly I knew I’d have tiny half-moon bruises across my palm from his fingernails. He was my responsibility now, and it weighed heavily on me. Again, I wished Leanne was here to share it with me. Marina was all very well, but she wasn’t family. And besides, she would be leaving soon to take up the job Scarlett had promised her in Romania. I couldn’t afford the cousin she’d offered Scarlett, nor did I have room in my small house for live-in help. I was going to have to get used to doing this by myself.

Inside, there were more flowers everywhere and the air was filled with the fragrance of Scarlett Smile. I was rapidly reaching the point where I never wanted to smell that bloody perfume again. The crematorium was crammed with faces from the pages of the red-tops and the slag mags. It was a paparazzo’s C-list collezione. I hoped Maggie wasn’t going to work the room at the wake. I’d had enough celebrity biography to last me a lifetime. Over the past couple of weeks, I’d come to a firm decision about my future. No more books with people who were only famous for being famous. From now on, there would have to be genuine achievement on the table to garner my interest.

The service managed to deliver more dignity than I would have expected. Liam Burke, whose rich Irish brogue delivered the pronouncements of Big Fish to the Goldfish Bowl contenders, read Christina Rossetti; the producer of Real Life TV spoke movingly about working with Scarlett – her creativity, her sense of what would please the viewers, her willingness to work hard, her sense of humour; George spoke about her rise from humble beginnings and the pleasure she’d given to everyone who knew her (an exaggeration that nobody was going to quarrel with that day); and the lead singer of a boy band she’d interviewed on her first show sang ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’. And yes, I cried.

Jimmy clung to me throughout the service, his little body trembling with an overdose of emotion. In the end, I scooped him up into my lap and he threw his arms round my neck as if he would never let me go. I rubbed his back and made soothing noises. I didn’t know what else to do.

Once the service was over, George whisked us all back to the waiting cars. ‘I’m not doing a bloody receiving line,’ he said firmly. ‘If we do, we’ll have to include Jade and Chrissie and I am not having that.’

From a distance, they didn’t look too bad. I said as much to George. ‘I sent one of my girls up to Leeds to dress them and travel with them. So they’re relatively sober and relatively straight. I have no confidence that state will survive the wake, however. We need to keep the bloody media away from them in case it all gets grisly.’

‘What about Jimmy? Does he have to meet them?’

We’d reached the cars now. George looked around, uncharacteristically indecisive. ‘I’ll travel with you,’ he said, getting in alongside Marina and me. Jimmy was still attached to me like a baby monkey. ‘I’d like to keep him away from them if we can. My girlie said they’re making noises about claiming Jimmy.’ His mouth curled as if he’d encountered a bad smell. ‘They see him as a meal ticket, of course.’

‘I’ll take him home,’ Marina said. ‘I don’t need to be at the party.’ She shrugged one shoulder. ‘I don’t know anyone and it’s not necessary for me to remember Scarlett that way. Me and Jimmy, we’ll go back to the house and take off our funeral clothes and have ourselves some fun.’

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ George said.

‘I went to Joshu’s memorial and I hated it,’ Marina said. ‘It’s no loss to me. And better for Jimmy to go home and not be paraded like a prize pig.’

That wasn’t quite how I would have put it, but I saw her point. And it was a relief, I had to admit. The last thing I wanted was a public tug of war over Scarlett’s son. As it turned out, we couldn’t have played it better. I was barely in the door of the hotel ballroom where the wake was being held when Chrissie and Jade Higgins swaggered up to me, drinks in hand. A space cleared around us as if by magic. One thing about slebs – they can sense handbags at dawn at fifty paces and they always like to give the antagonists plenty of room to make a show of themselves.

‘Where’s my grandson?’ Chrissie wasn’t about to bother with details like introductions. Up close, I could see the damage that distance had obscured. Her skin was rough, broken veins imperfectly covered by foundation. Too much mascara and shadow wasn’t enough of a distraction from the yellow tinge to the whites of her eyes or the pouchy bags beneath them. Her teeth were yellow and chipped, and the closer she got, the more her rank breath sickened me. Her arms and legs were skinny, but her torso was round and hard, like a little barrel. If you’d been looking for Scarlett’s mother, you wouldn’t have picked her out of a line-up.

‘You must be Mrs Higgins,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry we’re meeting in such sad circumstances.’

She looked baffled by my politeness, like a bulldog confronted with a kid blowing bubbles. Not so Jade, who was hovering at her mother’s shoulder, stick-thin and pale, junkie chic from head to toe. The sort who always looks grubby, even straight from the shower. ‘Don’t come the toff with us, you posh bitch,’ she snarled. ‘Where’s our lad? What have you done with our Jimmy?’

Luckily for me, George was at my shoulder, the perfect mixture of urbanity and steel. ‘In no sense is Jimmy yours,’ he said. ‘Scarlett made her intentions perfectly clear. If you are unhappy about that, I suggest you employ a lawyer.’

‘A fucking lawyer? You think I need a fucking lawyer to tell me who my own family are? That boy’s my grandson.’ Chrissie pointed at me dramatically. I could hear cameras clicking all around me. ‘She’s got no claim on him. She’s only after our Scarlett’s money.’

‘Greedy bitch,’ Jade echoed.

I knew I was lost if I engaged with them. I’d be dragged down to their level and frankly they had more experience at the scummy end of the argument. But it was tempting. As if sensing this, George put a hand on my arm. ‘I doubt you could even tell me the boy’s birthday,’ he said dismissively.

‘Shut your yap, arsehole.’ This from Jade. ‘It’s not you we’re talking to. It’s the scheming conniving bitch here that needs to answer to Jimmy’s family.’

George shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time. If you’re trying to screw some hard-done-by deal out of a tabloid, let me say loud and clear, Scarlett put a roof over your heads and paid your bills for the last six years. In exchange, all she wanted was for you to stay away from her. The boy is nothing to do with you. Now either you behave like civilised people or I will have you thrown out of here.’

Chrissie threw herself at him, fists flailing. Before she could make contact, Simon grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her side with the ease of practice. ‘Time to walk away, Chrissie,’ he said, backing her away from George. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink and a little talk about Scarlett.’

She gave in ungracefully. But as Simon started to turn her away from us, she hawked up a gob of smoker’s phlegm and spat it full force towards George. Startled, he stepped back just in time and it splatted on the wooden boards centimetres from his shiny black lace-ups. He looked at the disgusting gobbet then stared at Chrissie and Jade in retreat. ‘Excellent,’ he said softly to me. ‘Spitting is not a good look for the tabloids. Dear Chrissie’s blown her chance of getting one of them in her corner. They know that moment’s going to be all over YouTube by bedtime.’

‘Do you think they will try to get custody of Jimmy?’

‘They don’t have a leg to stand on, which any lawyer worth their salt will tell them.’ He sighed. ‘Christ, I need a drink. This is like one of Dante’s circles of hell.’

Nothing I could argue with there. Nor could I see much point in us being there. I was with Marina. I didn’t need this in order to mourn Scarlett. It was an ordeal that had to be endured. And always at the back of my mind as I scanned the room and made Scarlett small talk with people I barely knew was the fear that Pete would use this event the same way he’d used Joshu’s memorial – to get his claws back into me.

So I was only half-listening when one of the hacks button-holed me and started in on how wonderful it was of me to take Jimmy on. ‘He’s my godson,’ I said. ‘I was there when he was born and I’ve been part of his life ever since. I’m the lucky one here.’

‘All the same,’ she persisted. ‘To take on someone else’s kid when there’s no financial provision is a big ask. You get top marks in my book.’

I must have looked puzzled, for she gave me a look of transparently fake concern. ‘You didn’t know? She’s left everything to her charity. Every last penny. The kid doesn’t get a shilling.’