Following on from the mega success of her debut novel How To Kill Your Family, Bella Mackie is back with What a Way to Go, a hilarious and suspenseful whodunnit that follows the aftermath of the death of wealth obsessed Anthony Wistern.
As Wistern watches on from the afterlife, he sees his dysfunctional family squabble over their inheritance, as a social media sleuth watches on, intent on revealing the truth behind Wistern's murder. Read on for an extract from one of the book's early chapters...
OLIVIA
The night had gone in a flash. Drinks at seven, dinner at nine and speeches in between. The children gave an appropriately gushy one about what a fabulous father he was. It certainly sounded authentic, but that’s what a top-class speechwriter can do if you pay them enough. His mother gave a mercifully short tribute, where she quite clearly confused him with his older brother and kept referring to him as Andrew. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if Andrew hadn’t died at eight, traumatising Anthony for years, and I couldn’t deny it briefly soured the mood. Every other part of the evening went off perfectly, and I felt myself visibly relax once the guests were ushered through into the second marquee.
When the role of charming hostess overwhelmed me, I’d slip out for a cigarette, and at one point before dinner I went down to the lake to show Allegra the lights, since she’d arrived appallingly late and missed the whole show. I saw my husband smoking a cigar on the other side of the banks, in close conversation with Giles, and we nodded at each other, but that was really the extent of our interaction that evening. No doubt a large part of why I enjoyed the night so much.
It was well past midnight when I was made aware of what was happening down at the lake, just as the band was in full swing and most people were on the dance floor. I myself never dance. I have a horror of the drunk and unselfconscious, and find myself cringing whenever I see people I normally respect flinging themselves around a dance floor. Instead, I’d held court at the seating area by the grand piano, trying not to shudder every time Alex Lawson shimmied past me. The woman was one of London’s most celebrated QCs and there she was, trying to entice Roger Simons, who just happens to be a high court judge, to do the limbo. I hissed "dignity" at her as she stumbled by, but she was too far gone to pay me any heed.
I was talking to my dear friend Lou Molton about how well the night had gone. A very talented interior designer, but she’s terrible with keeping both money and husbands, and though she hides it better than most, I know she’s appropriately jealous of me. She was saying how beautiful the marquee looked when Lyra pushed her way through the crowd and stumbled up to me. I hadn’t seen any of my children since we finished dinner. None of them had been particularly excited about attending, but it was a three-line whip. I’d been firm they make an effort until the speeches were done, all with the promise that after that, they could do as they liked.
As usual with Lyra, my first emotion upon seeing my third child was one of annoyance. Despite my pleas, she’d opted to wear a black mini dress with trainers, and enough eye make-up as to render her faintly pandaesque. Clothes are a matter of respect and Lyra always dresses as if she’s mocking you. Or perhaps she’s merely mocking me.
"Something’s wrong – Fred and Giles are down by the lake, Dad’s hurt." She said it loudly, breaking through the sound of the music, causing several people around us to turn round. I made a low shushing noise to show that she was making a scene, but as usual, she ignored my wishes, tugging me by the arm until I had no choice but to follow her out. Lou was close behind, keen to be on hand for any potential drama, and by the time we found ourselves walking down the path to the lake, several others had joined us. I glanced round and saw Hamish McWhirter, and several women I knew by sight not name – the younger second wives and girlfriends club – were eagerly trotting behind. The journey only took a few minutes, but it felt much longer because my heels kept sinking into the damn gravel path Fred had insisted on laying. I’d wanted sandstone but he’d frowned and told me it was too violent a material for a garden, whatever that meant. Nobody was supposed to be down by the lake now. I’d organised a beautiful fireworks display on the formal lawns at the front of the house to signal the end of the evening, and I didn’t want people splitting off and ruining my carefully curated plan like this. They would light up the folly in a truly breathtaking way. There may be more beautiful houses in the Cotswolds, but everyone covets my folly.
I always knew Anthony was always going to spoil it somehow, he never could take anything seriously. I’d thrown the party for him, a celebration of our family and our success, and he’d gone off to play silly buggers down by the lake. I tried to tamp down my annoyance at seeing so many people hotfooting it to see what he’d done now, but the irritation had crept up on me and I couldn’t remove the scowl that had taken hold. So ageing, a scowl.
Someone behind me gasped. "He’s in the lake!" The bloody lake. The children had wanted a swimming pool, had begged and pleaded for one, but I find them too ugly to bear. Swimming pools are for villas in the south of France, not the Cotswolds where it rains a lot and doesn’t get really hot until July. Instead, I’d had the lake dug, stocked it with fresh water and maintained weekly by the groundsman. If they wanted to swim so badly, I’d told them, they could swim in that. My son, to his credit, rose to the challenge, taking a dip every morning, but the rest of them sullenly refused to go near it. Anthony especially was a wuss when it came to cold water, and only went in twice in his life. I wished I’d gone with my original idea and had a maze put in. I’d always thought a maze would be so chic, but Anthony had muttered that if he wanted to spend a weekend getting lost, he’d do it in Ibiza, and that was the end of that.
The scene looked almost like something out of a Renaissance painting. Giles and Freddy were both standing in the water, hands hovering as if conducting an invisible orchestra. In between them was my husband. He was positioned in an impossible way, almost suspended over the water. His face was submerged, his arms dangling like a child being stripped of his clothes. But his legs, his legs were in the air. "He’s been impaled!" wailed a woman wearing a rather revealing red dress. Hamish hushed her, but she was right. My husband had been lanced by one of the spikes used to hold up the beautiful orbs dotting the lake. Speared, just like a fish.
I stepped closer, noticing the watch on my husband’s wrist, the one I’d presented to him just the day before. The salesman had gone on at great lengths about how you could dive to 100 feet wearing it, but a Cotswold lake was nothing like the clear blue waters of the Med. Typical Anthony to treat it so carelessly. Several people were now screaming, and I whipped round and glared them into silence.
"He’s dead," Fred said, as if the bloody spike hadn’t tipped everyone off. He’s always one to state the obvious. A very literal brain, not quite what I’d hoped for in my only son but then the rest of them aren’t exactly Mensa members either. I couldn’t take my eyes off the orb, shimmering under the water, illuminating the blood. That was the worst part of it actually. You’d think it was the sight of Anthony suspended like a haunted doll on a metal pole, but the dark red water was somehow much more disturbing. A soft light, I’d insisted to the planners, this was anything but.
Hamish had stepped up to comfort the gaggle of second wives, rather too keenly I thought. Lyra ran towards her brother but stumbled to her knees as she reached the bank. Always the pragmatist, Giles had been doing his best to keep everyone away from the body, but he was quite safe there. Nobody was in any hurry to rush towards this horror. Those bloody orbs had done a marvellous job of illuminating the scene, almost like it was planned.
Lou turned on her heels and headed back towards the marquee, yelling over her shoulder that she’d get help. Coward. And me? I didn’t move. Not an inch. I’d wished my husband dead many times in my most angry of moments. I’d even thought about ways it might happen, carefully constructing scenarios where he was dragged into the sea by an angry wave, or burned to a crisp in a gruesome helicopter accident. But they were just the normal fantasies we women have during the many crisis moments of long marriages. After one too many martinis, my mother’s great friend Jessica De Palmer once told me she consoled herself that her husband would probably die from a violent heart attack like every other man in his family. She’d joked that she took great pains to make sure the housekeeper cooked the most unhealthy options to hurry the process along. As it happened, William De Palmer outlived his wife, and is now married to a much younger woman who put him on a health kick and doesn’t allow him to drink alcohol. I suspect he’d rather be dead.
I am very practical when I have to be. Some might call it cold, more than one newspaper has referred to me as ‘icy’, but it’s useful to be able to shut down unnecessary emotions if they threaten to get in the way of action. Two things went through my mind. The first was a vow not to cry or wail in front of these caterwauling women. I knew all too well how the second wives liked to gossip about those who’d come before them, they’d enjoy going over my unspooling devastation if I showed an ounce of feeling. And at the same time, my maternal instinct kicked in. It might be somewhat slower than some women’s, I’ve never been one to obsess over my children like other women – your offspring don’t constitute a personality after all – but it’s in me somewhere.
"Come here," I barked at Lyra and Freddy, so sternly that despite their shock, they immediately stood up and walked towards me. Back to the house, we’re going back to the house, I said, grabbing them by their hands. We pushed through the second wives and girlfriends, many of whom were actually crying now, presumably mourning an opportunity lost, and headed back down the gravel path. I remember seeing the twinkling lights of the marquees and hearing the band start playing ‘Oh What a Night’ as we neared. How grimly appropriate.
"Don’t go this way," Lyra pleaded. I understood the urge, the thought of having to go and face hundreds of people, most of whom were drunk, felt almost impossible. But I wouldn’t let Clara and Jemima find out from some minor acquaintance, or worse, from one of the wait staff. The therapy bills I’d shelled out for my children were already extortionate, why exacerbate it?
We powered across the dance floor, knocking over revellers as we went. Freddy was still caked in mud, and much of it had transferred onto Lyra, which made her look even more like a vagrant than usual. I was trying to smile as we walked, as though this might assuage my guests in some way. Anthony’s PA was dancing with a man I didn’t recognise, shimmying her hips in a vaguely obscene way. She caught my eye as I walked, and I saw her expression change from one of seduction to one of surprise. My smile dropped in response. I disliked Lainey intensely and the last thing I wanted was for her to follow us, offering help in that slightly breathless voice which always made my blood pressure rocket. I shook my head at her quickly, and her attention returned to the man in front of her. He was certainly fixated on the woman, staring at her cleavage with the kind of dedication that might leave him with a migraine if he wasn’t careful.
Eventually we found Clara. Being the youngest, she was sitting at the bar with her friend Willa, clearly over the party and using the opportunity to try and get drunk as quickly as possible. "We’ve got to go," I told her, yanking her off the stool and ignoring the immediate angry protestations. Finally, Lyra, who’d disappeared as we’d marched, reappeared beside me. She’d brought Will, who was looking unusually flustered. I suppressed annoyance. He was Jemima’s husband and as such would have to be included as close family, but I’d never fully accepted it. The man was a drip, and I resented that people saw him as a Wistern, something I’m sure he encouraged.
He didn't know where his wife was, he babbled, and I shot him a look of such annoyance that I actually saw him flinch. At another time, I’d have felt a jolt of satisfaction but it was sadly wasted that night.
I knew we couldn’t tarry much longer in the tent. From the corner of my eye, I saw Richard Price stalking towards me, clearly deciding that whatever was going on should involve him in some way. I held my arm up to him and pushed my family out of the marquee. We almost ran the last yards back to the house, Fred with his arms around his sisters, Will offering me a hand and quickly rescinding it when I ignored him. As we reached the French windows to the living room, Jemima entered, wearing a robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. As she looked up at us in surprise, I heard police sirens coming down the driveway.
What a Way to Go is published by HarperCollins on 12th September
Lydia Venn is Cosmopolitan UK’s Senior Entertainment and Lifestyle Writer. She covers everything from TV and film, to the latest celebrity news. She also writes across our work/life section regularly creating quizzes, covering exciting new food releases and sharing the latest interior must-haves. In her role she’s interviewed everyone from Margot Robbie to Niall Horan, and her work has appeared on an episode of The Kardashians. After completing a degree in English at the University of Exeter, Lydia moved into fashion journalism, writing for the Daily Express, before working as Features Editor at The Tab, where she spoke on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour and Talk Radio. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of Gilmore Girls and 00s teen movies, and in her free time can be found with a margarita in hand watching the Real Housewives on repeat. Find her on LinkedIn.
