RACHEL OPENED HER SHOP ON THE DAY OF DIANA’S funeral, although the sun-drenched Brighton streets were near-empty and it seemed everyone was staying at home to watch television.
Amongst the items she had found in her charity-shop trawl the previous day was a bias-cut silver and gold lamé evening gown with a handkerchief hem and two panels that knotted just below the hip line. There was no label, but it looked similar to a 1926 gown by the great French designer Madeleine Vionnet that was pictured in one of her fashion history books. Some of the seams were frayed and the ornamental knot had come loose, but Rachel had a reel of silver thread and she sat down to repair it, using her old Singer sewing machine controlled by a foot pedal.
As she worked, her mind was on Diana. The thought that had haunted her in the week since the crash was whether Diana had had any idea she was dying while she was trapped in the car. She hoped not. The papers said she had been due to see her sons the following day after two weeks’ separation. Maybe she was thinking about them, hoping her injuries would not prevent her getting home. But she must have felt very alone, especially if she realised her lover was dead beside her.
Just before eleven, the door opened and Nicola popped her head in, her expression nervous. She was wearing navy jogging bottoms and a grey T-shirt, her dark hair wet and straggly from the shower.
‘You’ve opened up, I see?’ She glanced around at the half-empty clothes rails and sparsely filled shelves. ‘Rachel, I can’t forgive myself for what I did. I’m so sorry. Have you heard from the insurers yet?’
‘Not yet. But don’t beat yourself up about it. We all make mistakes.’
She didn’t feel cross with Nicola. It was her own fault for leaving the shop in someone else’s care. Nicola was warm, creative, sensitive, a good friend, but she was prone to flakiness. Details escaped her notice, and she was perpetually running late for something or other.
‘Is there anything I can do to help? I wish you would let me make amends.’
Rachel glanced around. ‘I ordered new glass panels for the display cases and they were delivered yesterday. Do you want to try and slot them in?’
Nicola bounced into the shop, pleased to be given a task. ‘Are you not watching Diana’s funeral?’ she asked, as she crouched on the floor to pull the first pane of glass from its cardboard covering. ‘You missed Wills and Harry walking behind the coffin. It was really moving.’
Rachel thought of the tiny portable television set she kept in a cupboard to watch on slow days. Had the thief taken it? She got up to look, and there it was, nestled on a low shelf. She placed it on the counter, plugged it in and switched it on with mixed feelings. The funeral was bound to be a media circus, but she supposed it was history in the making.
‘Looks as though they’re just arriving at the Abbey,’ Nicola remarked, and she called out names as the cameras homed in on celebrities: ‘There’s Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman . . . And Tom Hanks with Rita. Diana would be pleased.’
Rachel smiled and carried on with her sewing, wondering if Alex was filming the Hollywood contingent.
The ceremony began and they listened in silence to Diana’s brother’s speech, in which he called her the most hunted woman of the modern age. Rachel got goose bumps thinking of those loathsome photographers clamouring around the Princess’s dying body. It seemed fitting that he had commented on the paparazzi. As the camera panned round the Abbey, she kept an eye out for Susie Hargreaves, but couldn’t see her.
‘You should stock up on Diana clothes in the shop,’ Nicola suggested. ‘They would go like hot cakes. Think shoulder pads, tiaras . . . Di liked a good tiara.’
Rachel made a face. ‘No chance. I draw the line at the 1950s. I have an uneasy relationship with acrylic.’
Too late she realised that Nicola’s jogging bottoms were acrylic, but it seemed no offence was taken.
From time to time the television showed the scene in the streets outside the Abbey, and Nicola suddenly shrieked, ‘Look! There’s Alex!’
Rachel glanced up from her sewing to see him standing behind a cameraman, giving directions. In the crowd around them, several people were sobbing openly: men and women of all ages, faces red and distorted with grief, leaning on each other for support. The few children present looked baffled by the outpouring of emotion, and Rachel felt the same way. They hadn’t known Diana. What was it really about?
‘I hear Alex is making a documentary about the crash,’ Nicola said. ‘He thinks there was something suspicious about it. Do you agree?’
Rachel didn’t want to be disloyal so kept her response neutral. ‘It seems to me that if you were going to bump someone off, there are easier ways. But I’ll see what he digs up. You never know.’
‘I hope it didn’t spoil your romantic weekend when he suddenly slipped into producer mode. I know what he can be like.’
Rachel put down her sewing and, with a grin, held out her left hand to show Nicola the ring. ‘Au contraire . . . He asked me to marry him. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before, but we were waiting till our news wasn’t overshadowed by Diana.’
For a fleeting moment, an unguarded expression flickered across Nicola’s face: surprise, possibly alarm, maybe even horror. It was very quick, and afterwards Rachel wondered if she had imagined it.
‘But that’s wonderful!’ Nicola exclaimed, her mouth curving into a broad smile. She jumped up and rushed over to hug Rachel, almost knocking a cup of tea onto the lamé dress. ‘How on earth could you keep a secret like that all week?’
‘How could you not notice my ring last Monday? I kept waiting for you to ask about it – but I guess we had other things on our minds.’
Nicola grabbed her hand for a closer look. ‘You know me – observational powers of a mole. It’s gorgeous. I’m so happy for you.’ She touched the twin diamonds with a fingertip. ‘Truly I am.’