Just like that. No preamble, no build-up: boom. Just like her mother. Unconsciously, Rachel drew her hand to her chest as if she was trying to hold herself together.
She couldn’t process it. He was dead? How?
‘What happened?’
‘He . . . he took his life yesterday.’
By now Rachel’s head was spinning. This was absurd.
‘He killed himself? Julian?’ She was shaking her head. ‘Why?’
‘Why would anyone take their own life?’ said her mother bluntly.
‘No, I mean what happened? Was he depressed? Was he having problems? What?’
‘No. He was happy. They were happy, no thanks to you.’ Her mother’s voice was quiet, the undercurrent of bitterness unmistakable. The jibe wounded her – as intended.
Rachel exhaled deeply. ‘How’s Diana?’
She realised what a stupid, futile question it was even before the words had left her mouth.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said her mother. Rachel could imagine her disapproving expression, her meaning clear: she’ll be fine without you.
‘How can she be fine?’ she pleaded.
‘Do you really care?’ Sylvia Miller’s tone was emotionless.
‘Of course I care.’ Her voice was disappearing into a croak.
She stared out at the sea, which was darkening to navy in the dusk light, and forced herself to stay strong.
‘How did he die?’ she asked quietly. ‘Who found him?’ For a moment, she was a young journalist, back on the beat, asking difficult questions, doorstepping, intruding into people’s grief, asking the questions that had to be asked to get the story.
‘Diana found him in the basement of the London house. He’d hanged himself.’
Rachel shut her eyes, imagining her sister making the discovery, but it was too grim to form a proper picture. ‘When’s the funeral?’ she asked in a more even voice.
‘We don’t know yet. Julian’s parents are organising it. I expect there will be procedure to follow. Lots of people to get there.’
‘So is Diana with you?’ she asked, trying another tack.
‘I’m staying with her at Somerfold. Charlie has come home from school, of course. The family are rallying round. We are all being there for one another.’
Rachel gripped the phone harder.
‘I want to come home,’ she said suddenly. ‘I want to be there for her too. Like I always was . . . before.’
Her words were stuck in her throat. She held her breath, waiting for her mother to speak, willing her to invite her back into the fold, to share their grief, to help in whatever small way she could. The silence told her that wasn’t going to happen.
‘I’ve got to go,’ said her mother in a brutally cold and efficient manner. ‘I just phoned to let you know. I thought you should know.’
‘Mum, don’t—’
But Sylvia had already hung up.
Rachel stared down at the phone. Her feet seemed to be welded to the sand but her mind was whirling with questions. It didn’t make sense. It was the same feeling of stunned disbelief that she had felt as a teenager when Princess Diana had died. Some people seemed immortal. Some people simply didn’t, couldn’t die. Julian was one of them.
Julian Denver. Sometimes it was hard to even remember his face. But she could vividly remember what he was like. Brooding, seductive, a little bit frightening.