100TWC - Day 100: Endings

[ this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Introductions" earlier in the writing challenge ]

"Steven? It is Steven, isn't it?"
"Yes."

Steven looked puzzled, in that way people have when trying to put a name to a face. Like their brain is so occupied with the task it forgets to hold any kind of expression in the facial muscles and they adopt a default position which usually looks either vague or cross.

"Gerald, is it?"
"Nigel."
"Ah yes, of course. Nigel. And we met...?"
"At her book launch. Seems impossible to believe it was only nine months ago, give or take. And now--"

He stared at the coffin lying under a scarlet velvet blanket at the other end of the chapel. His eyes widened.

"Scarlet? Hardly appropriate, is it?"
"Appropriate? What could be more appropriate! You did read her book did you? Or are you just another one of those hangers-on?"
"Oh, I see. Scarlet as in Scarlette. Scarlette Mendellsohn. Well, I suppose that clears up any debate about whether her heroine had an autobiographical element."
"Good grief," exclaimed Steven, tossing his head. "It does nothing of the sort. Look here, what are you doing here? Are you related, or something? I find it hard to believe she would have anyone so... obtuse... as a friend."
"No, not related. I did mention it when we last met, but I could hardly expect you to remember. We worked together on a magazine once. Fellow writers. Kept in touch. Occasionally."
"So you just thought you'd come along to see off a rival, did you?"

Nigel took a step back.

"I don't know why you're being so aggressive. This is a funeral, for God's sake. I remember you now. You were the same at the launch. I thought at first it was nerves, or you didn't like crowds, or something like that. But you're just an obnoxious twerp really aren't you?"
"Yes, it is a funeral. So you might take your own advice and relax a bit. I'm sorry if my attempt at humour fell on stony ground. It does get me into trouble more often that not. To my mind a funeral's exactly the right place for black comedy."
"Well, really!"
"Oh don't get all upset. She wouldn't want that. What do you think that scarlet blanket is all about. It's not just an homage to her heroine, who she invested with every strength she aspired to in life. It's a statement. A declaration that today is not about mourning, it's about celebrating."
"Celebrating her life? How predictable."
"Not just her life. Ours. The fact that life goes on."
"In the midst of life we are in death?"
"It's more the other way round. Even though we're surrounded by death, we're all still alive. Yes, we'll all miss her, of course we will. Some more than others," Steven said, looking sharply at Nigel, "but we shouldn't get lost in grief when there's so much to be grateful for."
"Like what?"
"Are you serious? Look around! To take one obvious example: her book. She's left that for us. It's full of life lessons you know, if you could but read between the lines."
"I haven't."
"I didn't think you had."
"No, read the book I meant. You asked me earlier if I'd read it. I haven't."
"Well you should."
"It's a bit late now."
"What for? You wouldn't be reading it to tell her what you thought."
"I probably wouldn't have done that anyway if I'm honest. I never really liked her writing when we worked together. I always found it a bit twee."
"Twee? Twee!?"
"Sorry, maybe it's just me."
"I'm pretty sure it is just you. Everyone we know loved her writing and took every opportunity to tell her so."
"That's nice."
"You don't sound convinced."
"Don't mind me. I have a particular sensitivity to sycophancy."
"Now who's being aggressive?"
"I'm not being aggressive, just stating a fact. I can smell it. Makes my nose itch to tell you the truth. Did you really like her writing?"
"Yes!"
"Really?"
"Well, not all of it maybe. But most of it was good."
"Most?"
"Well, some."
"How much?"
"Oh, all right. I hated it. But she was one of my best friends. I could hardly tell her the truth now, could I?"
"And exactly what gives you the right to call yourself one of her best friends if you couldn't tell her the plain truth?"
"It's only my opinion. Everyone else loves it!"
"Or they're all in the same boat as you. They hate it really, but they think you love it."
"Hardly matters now anyway, does it?"
"That depends very much on what you believe. Because if there's an after-life then she'll be up there right now, seething about the fact that you hated her writing and you never had the guts to tell her."
"I'm an atheist."
"And yet here you are, in church."
"It's expected."
"What is?"
"Coming to the funeral. Singing a few songs."
"Saying a few prayers."
"I mumble through that bit."
"I expect you mime to the songs too, do you?"

Steven blushed.

"Thought so. So you pretended you liked her book, pretend to sing and pray at her funeral. And you reckon you were her best friend. God help her, she's better off dead."