Heaven
The evening had felt almost indecently bright.
Clara had laughed more in the last two hours than she had in weeks, perhaps months. Her friends had clearly conspired behind her back. The restaurant had been one of those impossible-to-book places tucked discreetly behind an unmarked door in Mayfair, all low lighting and polished marble, where the staff seemed to appear before you realised you needed them. It was the sort of place that did not display prices on the menu and where the butter tasted faintly of sea salt and something floral, as though even the simplest details had been considered twice.
The taste of scallops — sharp citrus and warm saffron — remained with her as the car moved steadily through the city towards Heaven. The citrus glaze had lingered, sharp and clean, followed by the warmth of saffron risotto that had been almost embarrassingly perfect. Someone had insisted on ordering dessert for the table — a dark chocolate torte that had cracked beneath her fork like glass. Juan had raised his glass then and declared, with theatrical solemnity, that twenty-three only happened once. They had all toasted her, glasses clinking in the candlelight, and Clara had felt briefly and uncomplicatedly adored.
Now she leant back against the leather seat of the car, the city lights smearing across the windows like watercolour. Rachel sat beside her, shoulder brushing hers in easy familiarity. Opposite them, Juan was animated even in the dim interior light, recounting about a client who had demanded three different Hermès scarves and then returned all of them. Wills listened with the earnest concentration he brought to everything. Orla was already scrolling through photographs from dinner, promising to curate the best ones in the morning, while Carina, composed and observant as ever, had taken a candid of Clara mid-laugh and refused to show it.
“You’ll thank me later,” Carina had said.
Clara had believed her.
When they arrived at Heaven, they were met immediately. There was no queue, no lingering outside in the cold with the rest of the hopefuls. A host in black ushered them past the velvet rope and through layered corridors of light and sound, up to the VIP section where the music softened just enough to allow conversation without losing its pulse. Clara liked that small illusion of exclusivity. It felt frivolous and ridiculous and exactly right for a birthday.
They arranged themselves along the curved sofa: Rachel on Clara’s right, Juan next to Rachel, then Wills with his long limbs folded awkwardly into the low seating, Orla bright and restless under the shifting lights, and Carina at the end, surveying the room with a photographer’s detached interest. A waitress appeared almost instantly, immaculate and efficient, taking their orders with a professional smile.
A Long Island Iced Tea. A Brandy Alexander for Clara — always her favourite. A Strawberry Daiquiri to be shared. Scotch for Juan and Wills. Vodka for Rachel.
When the drinks arrived, the bass line had begun to press insistently against their chests. Conversation became fragmented, words half-lost to the rhythm. Clara lifted her Brandy Alexander and inhaled the sweetness of nutmeg and cream before taking a sip. It was indulgent and comforting, a small echo of the warmth from dinner. She laughed at something she had not entirely heard and did not mind that she had missed it.
Eventually speech became pointless. Orla mouthed “Dance?” and Clara nodded, rising with the others in a loose, excited cluster. They gathered their bags and glasses, weaving towards the dance floor where the music was louder, thicker, almost physical.
They had barely taken three steps when Clara noticed movement at the edge of the VIP area.
Frankie.
He was being escorted up the stairs by one of the club’s staff. Clara frowned instinctively. Frankie had been her father’s driver for years and had taken on a more informal role in her own life since she had inherited the mews property. He was steady and discreet. He did not turn up unannounced at nightclubs.
And he did not look like that.
Even through the lights she could see the set of his jaw, the seriousness in his expression. Rachel, closest to him, stopped immediately and leant in.
“What’s wrong?”
He bent forward, speaking low so the others could not hear. Clara watched Rachel’s face change, not dramatically but subtly, as though someone had turned the brightness down a notch. Rachel straightened and turned towards her.
“Clara, love… come and sit down a minute.”
Something inside Clara went cold.
She allowed herself to be guided back to the sofa. Around them the music continued to pulse, indifferent and relentless. Bodies moved and lights flashed; somewhere nearby someone cheered.
Rachel crouched in front of her. “It’s your dad.”
The words hovered for a moment without meaning.
“What about him?”
“There’s been an incident at home. He collapsed. The ambulance—” Rachel stopped and recalibrated. “Clara… he’s gone.”
Gone.
Clara stared at her, as though she had misheard. “Gone where?”
Rachel’s hand tightened around hers. “He had a heart attack. It was sudden.”
The music felt grotesque now, too loud, too alive. Clara’s mind tried to find a reasonable explanation. He was only fifty-five. He had been at a charity dinner three nights ago. He had laughed at something trivial about a planning application.
“He can’t have,” she said quietly.
Frankie stepped closer. “Miss Clara, I’ll take you home. If your friends would like to come, they’re very welcome.”
She nodded because that seemed like what one did. Nodded because standing felt precarious. Her friends gathered around her, no longer vibrant but protective. Carina collected her bag. Juan placed a steadying hand at her back. Wills hovered, pale and uncertain.
The journey back felt longer than usual. The city continued as though nothing had shifted. Traffic lights changed. Buses rolled past. Pedestrians laughed on pavements. Inside the car, silence pooled heavily. They tried to introduce different conversations to keep her mind occupied, small threads of ordinary life, but it was difficult. Clara answered in fragments. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Her thoughts felt disjointed, slipping away before she could catch them.
The mews house looked the same as always when they arrived. Brick façade. Clean white door. Two neat windows glowing softly from the lamps she had left on. It felt absurd that it should still be standing. The property had been passed on to her two years earlier when she turned twenty-one, along with a trust fund and an investment portfolio her father had insisted would give her security and independence. He had presented it as a gift of adulthood.
Now the word security felt fragile.
Inside, the house was warm. The living room airy and tastefully understated. The open-plan kitchen gleamed in soft light. The faint scent of her perfume — Idôle — lingered in the air, woven into the fabric of cushions and curtains. Rachel and Wills moved automatically into the kitchen, filling the kettle and searching for mugs, while Orla stayed close to Clara.
“Let’s get you changed,” Orla murmured gently.
Clara nodded. Nodding seemed easier than speaking.
In her bedroom she removed her dress slowly, fingers clumsy at the zip. Orla handed her a soft jumper and wide-legged trousers. The fabric felt unfamiliar against her skin, as though she had never worn anything comfortable before. When she returned to the living room, the doorbell rang.
The sound cut through everything.
Frankie answered. Dr Miranda Forfax stepped inside, coat buttoned, expression composed but kind. She had been the family doctor for years; Clara had known her since childhood. The sight of her made something in Clara’s chest both loosen and tighten at once.
They sat together. The lights felt too bright now, though perhaps it was only Clara’s eyes. Dr Forfax spoke gently. It had been a heart attack. Sudden. Quick. He had not suffered.
Clara listened as though the words were travelling a long distance before reaching her.
“He was only fifty-five,” she said eventually, her voice thin. “Mum hasn’t even been gone five years.”
“I know,” Dr Forfax replied softly.
There were practicalities. Tomorrow would be busy. Official meetings. Arrangements. Paperwork. Clara absorbed none of it properly. The words felt procedural and unreal. Dr Forfax studied her for a moment.
“You’ve had a shock,” she said. “Would you like something to help you sleep tonight?”
Clara shook her head instinctively. “No. I’ll be all right.”
Rachel’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
After a brief hesitation, Clara nodded.
Dr Forfax reached into her bag and withdrew a small white plastic container, unremarkable and clinical, with a printed label wrapped neatly around it. “I brought this with me in case you needed it. It’s a mild sedative. Only take it if you feel you must.”
The container felt strangely heavy when Clara accepted it. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Dr Forfax squeezed her hand once more before standing. Frankie showed her out, the front door closing with a soft, final click. The house felt smaller after that.
Her friends gathered round, quietly supportive. No one quite knew what to say. Rachel cleared her throat. “I’ll stay tonight. You lot check in tomorrow?”
There were murmured agreements and subdued hugs. Juan kissed Clara’s cheek. Carina pressed her fingers briefly into Clara’s palm. Wills looked as though he wanted to say something more and thought better of it.
Upstairs, Rachel followed her into the bedroom. They moved through the small rituals of bedtime without speaking much. Toothbrush. Water glass. Curtains drawn. Clara sat on the edge of her bed, the small white container in her hand. She opened it and tipped the single tablet into her palm.
Just in case.
She swallowed it with a sip of water. Rachel kissed her temple. “I’m right here.”
Clara lay back, staring at the pale ceiling. Her grandmother’s amethyst ring caught the bedside light as she adjusted the duvet. She tried to summon her father’s face clearly — white hair, green eyes, the way he had stood at the head of a table — but the images blurred and slid away. The medication worked quickly. The edges of the room softened. Rachel’s quiet movements in the spare bedroom receded into distance.
Clara drifted into sleep believing that tomorrow would bring explanations.
She did not yet understand that tomorrow would bring structure.
