The Men in her Life

been able to resist turning on the television.

    The sister did well, but she felt Tony Blair tried to stay a bit too long in the limelight. Holly sat staring at the screen unmoved by the Prime Minister’s words.
    And then Elton was sitting at the piano and, hearing the first so-familiar chords, Holly’s heart began to beat very fast, pounding with vicarious stage fright, but he sang out, the professional he was, his voice rising to the occasion. As Holly let herself breathe again, suddenly something very strange happened. A flood of unstoppable tears began to pour down her cheeks, and her shoulders began to shake as her whole body was racked with grief, and she did not even hear the end of the song because the room was filled with great gasping howls.
    On her own for the first time since Diana had died, Holly wept for the Princess who had done so much good, and for the princes who had walked behind the coffin refusing to cry for the world, and most of all she wept because even with all those clothes and all that money, surrounded by all those celebrities, Diana had been lonely.
    Earl Spencer began his oration, standing like Mark Antony on the biggest stage on earth. Holly suddenly stopped crying, unable to believe that she was hearing the words he was speaking and the extraordinary insult to the Royal Family contained in them. As his speech unfolded, she drew closer to the television, now eager to participate in history being made, suddenly understanding the significance of the week’s events — that things would never be the same again. When the applause of the people rushed through the doors of the Abbey like the sound of a torrential hailstorm, Holly found herself on her feet applauding too. And then, as the ethereal notes of Tavener swept the coffin along the aisle, Holly was filled with remorse at the shameful way she had behaved.
    The coffin paused inside the Great West Door of the Abbey for a minute’s silence. Holly stood with tears rolling down her cheeks wishing that she had bought flowers, lit a candle, or done something, just something, to recognize the life of this woman, whose death had changed the life of a nation for ever. She watched silently as the hearse drove through London ’s streets and people applauded the Princess on her last journey, and threw flowers in her path. She watched the car all the way to the gates of Althorp, where it suddenly, unceremoniously, disappeared, carrying the Princess towards the island in a lake where she would remain alone for ever.

PART SIX
September

Chapter 31

    Clare stood on the doorstep holding Tom’s hand, waiting for the bell to be answered. Tom thumped the shiny black paint with his fist, and then discovered the polished golden letter-box.
    ‘Does Postman Pat put the letters in here?’ he asked.
    ‘I expect so.’
    Clare could hear footsteps tapping across the polished wooden boards of the hall and her heart began to thump in her chest as she braced herself for the meeting. The imposing Georgian house with its eccentric battlements topping the white stucco facade had always been a place of confrontation. Then the door opened and Philippa was smiling. Her hair had turned completely white.
    Tentatively, Philippa opened her arms and it was such an uncharacteristically vulnerable gesture, Clare responded, clasping her mother, feeling the boniness of her ribcage against her own. After a couple of seconds they disengaged, embarrassed to be so close.
    ‘Hello Tom,’ Philippa said.
    ‘Are you my grandma?’ he asked.
    She looked surprised and Clare calculated that her mother had not seen him since he had started talking.
    ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, that OK then,’ he replied stepping over the threshold uninvited, eager to see what was inside.
    Philippa exchanged a glance with Clare as they followed him in.
    There was a sadness in her eyes that Clare had not seen before and her body, which had always been slim but very strong, had lost its confidence. Philippa had been the epitome of presence, facing down the world with a glare, or pulling adoring men into her orbit with a look, but now she seemed partly absent. Clare found herself fighting an almost maternal urge that rose spontaneously as she watched her wander into the kitchen, as if she did not really know where she was.
    ‘Coffee? Or a drink? What would you like?’
    ‘I think Tom is hungry. Have you got anything in?’ Clare opened the fridge and found it completely empty.
    ‘I only