To My Best Friends. Sam Baker

speech a dozen times in the last couple of days – but her eyes filled with tears, and the neat letters doubled and tripled until she couldn’t even see her words, let alone recall them.

      ‘And now, our beautiful Nicci . . .’ she heard Lizzie prompt gently from the front row.

      Jo blinked away her tears. ‘And now, our beautiful Nicci,’ she repeated, ‘our best friend, the love – I know he won’t mind me saying – of David’s life, is the first of us to die.’ Looking up, she pasted on a smile. ‘Taking this number-one thing to extremes a bit, I think.’

      A ripple of laughter echoed around the small church and Jo risked catching David’s eye. Misery, exhaustion and disbelief at finding himself in this place, for this unthinkable, unimaginable, reason . . . all her own emotions were in his gaze but ripped raw. He squeezed his daughters tighter. Was it her imagination, or was he sending a signal?

      Stop it, Jo told herself. Concentrate.

      ‘I met Nicci,’ she continued, ‘on my first day at university. She took me under her vintage-store-clad wing and I never looked back. Soon after, she found Lizzie and, for want of a better word, adopted her too. Then, by sheer fluke, Mona found us. And together we found David. The poor thing didn’t know what he was letting himself in for . . .’ Another ripple of laughter.

      ‘Nicci wheedled her way into David’s life, and his wardrobe!’ More laughter, louder now. ‘As she did for so many of us here.’

      Jo let her gaze roam the front pews where Nicci’s influence bloomed. How had Nicci known they would all be so obedient? Or were they all just too exhausted, too heart-broken, to greet Nicci’s instructions telling them what to wear to their best friend’s funeral with anything other than gratitude?

      Lizzie’s taupe cardigan was loosely belted over a beautiful floral Paul Smith tea dress that Jo knew for a fact had cost as much as half a month’s mortgage; the Burberry trench coat that had cost the other half lay over the back of the pew behind her. Mona wore a slick black Helmut Lang trouser suit, which just about made up for the four-inch heels Nicci had convinced her ‘cost per wear’ would be a bargain. At the last count, ‘cost per wear’ those boots still stood at six months’ Council Tax. David’s scuffed Church’s brogues, identical to the ones Nicci had bought him their very first Christmas together, already showed signs of missing Nicci’s care. And Jo’s own navy suit was nowhere near as frumpy as she remembered now the skirt was taken up, as per Nicci’s instructions.

      As ever, Nicci had been right. It might be her funeral, but her friends still looked a million dollars. In a subdued, funeral-appropriate, style.

      ‘I know this isn’t the done thing,’ Jo said, deviating from her script, ‘but I’d like to do a straw poll.’

      A bemused murmur rippled through the congregation. Lizzie glanced at Mona, who shook her head. This wasn’t planned.

      ‘How many here today are wearing outfits, or at least items of clothing, that Nicci picked out for us?’ Jo raised her own arm. She felt like an idiot. And from the way half the congregation stared at her, she knew she looked like one too.

      Widening her eyes at them, she willed Lizzie and Mona to join her.

      Mona raised her arm, then Lizzie. A second later, David joined them. Harrie and Charlie’s arms were raised by their granny and grandpa. Then, as if in a Mexican wave, arms rose around the church, rippling right to the back where, Jo realised now, Capsule Wardrobe’s most loyal clients stood, the pews too full to hold them.

      Laughter burst from her. Jo couldn’t help it; didn’t even try to suppress it. The sound of the first genuine laugh she’d managed in the two weeks since Nicci’s death pealed up into the apse.

      ‘How much would Nicci love this?’ Jo said. ‘She made clothes her life, she believed that what we wore spoke volumes more than anything words could say; that a T-shirt, or a dress, or a pair of shoes, really was a statement. That woman contributed in some way to the outfits of what must be over a hundred people here.

      ‘My friends . . . all of whom, like me, loved and trusted Nicci, there can be no better affirmation of her life. Because if there’s one thing I know Nicci would have wanted it’s this: no frumps at her funeral.

      ‘Nicci, we love you, we miss you, and we don’t yet know what we will do – how we will even begin to cope – without you. But you are forever in our hearts . . .’ Jo paused, locking wet eyes with Lizzie and Mona, strengthened by their tearful smiles.

      ‘. . . And in our wardrobes.’

      Chapter Two

      ‘Isn’t David going to wonder where we’ve got to?’ Lizzie asked, as she fumbled with the lock of the shed. In the fading light, she misjudged the distance and the key landed in the sludge at her feet. Bending, she noticed her high-heeled loafers were now crusted with mud. ‘Anyone got a tissue?’

      Mona shrugged, and Jo shook her head.

      ‘Where is David, anyway?’ Jo said. ‘I haven’t seen him for at least half an hour.’

      ‘Hiding, probably,’ Mona said. ‘Who can blame him? House full of total strangers feeding their faces at his expense. Anyway,’ she added, ‘it’s not as if it matters. It’s Lizzie’s shed now.’

      Lizzie didn’t look convinced. ‘I know that, but does David? Does David know any of it?’

      ‘Look,’ Jo said, turning back to the house. Every window in the Victorian terrace was ablaze and the kitchen was crammed with people. ‘It looks odd, doesn’t it? Wrong, somehow?’

      The others followed her gaze.

      ‘It’s not that the house is full – ’ Lizzie said – ‘it was always full – it’s those people. Who are they? Does anyone know?’

      ‘Someone must,’ said Mona. ‘David probably.’

      ‘Come on,’ Jo said, ‘you must recognise some of them? The girls from Capsule Wardrobe, some suppliers, a few clients. David’s mum and dad, his brother and his wife . . .’

      ‘There was an awful lot of family at the church for someone who didn’t have any,’ Lizzie said.

      Jo shrugged. ‘David’s, I suppose, like the wedding. And there are some old friends of Nicci’s from the drama group at uni.’

      ‘I can’t believe none of Nicci’s family bothered to show up,’ Lizzie persisted. ‘You’d think some would have wanted to pay their respects.’

      ‘You don’t know they didn’t,’ Jo said. ‘There were plenty of strange faces in that church. Not inconceivable one or two of them belonged to Nicci.’

      ‘You pair of romantics,’ said Mona. ‘Nicci didn’t have family, you know that. She was always saying so: “You’re my family. You, David and the girls. You’re the only family I need.”’

      ‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t have one. No one comes from nowhere,’ said Lizzie. ‘Much as they might want to.’

      ‘She fell out with her mum, we know that,’ Jo went on as if Lizzie hadn’t spoken. ‘I remember her talking about it one night – when we were pissed, of course. You must remember?’ Jo grinned. ‘Whisky night.’

      ‘Not sure I remember much from whisky night.’ Lizzie grimaced.

      Jo never forgot anything. It amazed Lizzie, and annoyed her slightly. Jo and Nicci always could riff off events, jokes and incidents she barely remembered at all. Most of her time at university was a blur. A blur then, and a blur now.

      ‘Think that was the only time she mentioned it. And you know how she always spent every holiday at uni, working in Sainsbury’s, when the rest of us went home. Said someone had to look after our house. Like we were going to fall for that.’

      ‘We did, though, didn’t we?’ Lizzie said.

      ‘Her