The Men in her Life by Imogen Parker

counter.
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Mo had turned to the next man in the queue who handed over a miniature green and red tartan kilt with a matching red jumper.
    Jack had been waiting for her outside the staff entrance that evening. It was freezing cold. The thin soles of her court shoes stuck momentarily to the pavement with each step. His smile was so dazzling it turned her insides upside down for a second before caution returned.
    ‘You’re looking good, Mo,’ he said, falling in with her step.
    ‘Why are you here, Jack?’ She wouldn’t look at him.
    ‘Could we have a coffee somewhere?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘A drink?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Oh come on, Mo,’ he grabbed her arm. She stopped walking for just one moment, staring at his hand on her coat. He withdrew it.
    ‘Are you married, Mo?’ he asked, looking at her gloveless, ringless, left hand.
    She should have known not to underestimate Jack, she realized then.
    ‘There’s a pub up there,’ she pointed across Knights-bridge. ‘Not very nice. And I’m only having one,’ she told him, trying to regain control of the situation.
    She told him about Holly over Britvic Orange topped up with lemonade. There was no point in pretending. He’d already guessed, and if he hadn’t, then he soon would. In the moments that followed her revelation, his expression changed from angry to delighted to ashamed.
    ‘You should have told me,’ he said eventually.
    ‘And what would you have done?’ she asked him.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said, sighing and putting down his empty pint glass, paying her the compliment of not lying, ‘I just don’t know.’
    ‘Well, here we are then,’ Mo had said, surprised by how good she felt. It was a relief that he knew, ‘And now I must be getting back.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, putting up no fight.
    She left him sitting staring at the little round table with its puddle of beer, but at the door he was behind her again.
    ‘When can I see her?’
    ‘Jack, you can’t. It wouldn’t be fair on her...’
    ‘I don’t agree.’
    ‘Think about it.’
    He had let her be for a week. She was surprised. It made her feel more kindly towards him. Then, when he appeared again, she kicked herself for forgetting how he could break down your defences when he wanted to.
    ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he had said, simply, categorically. Mo could lay down the ground rules, but he was not going to be denied access to their daughter.

    ‘If I had said you thought he was dead, it wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Mo told Holly, ‘it would just have made him more determined.’
    She looked up and saw her daughter nodding.
    ‘I wonder when the funeral will be,’ Holly said.
    ‘We can’t go...’ Mo said.
    ‘I’m going,’ Holly said. She shot Mo a glance that was pure Jack. She had the same pale blue eyes.

PART TWO
One Week Later

Chapter 12

    Jack Palmer’s funeral had given everyone who was anyone the excuse to go out and buy the season’s little black suit and the weather was perfect for the kind of wide-brimmed black straw hat that would have been over the top in winter and disastrous in rain. The women were wearing bright red lipstick and tragic expressions, the men skulked around in charcoal grey, exchanging tight little smiles of relief that they had not been the first of their generation to die.
    Holly stared at the coffin and its flawless arrangement of white lilies as the pallbearers dragged it out of the hearse, trying to feel appropriate emotions, but her mind kept returning to the troubling thought that he might not be in there at all. How often did undertakers cock it up, she wondered, how often did they bury people who wanted to be cremated or take the wrong box to the wrong funeral?
    She stood holding the little hand-tied bunch of bluebells and ivy in front of her like a bridesmaid, then swapping it into her left hand, casually, so that it wasn’t quite so visible. It was her first funeral. She