What to Do When Someone Dies

What To Do

When Someone Dies

NICCI FRENCH

To Rachel, Callum, Jack, Martha, Toby and Cleo

Chapter One

Moments when your life changes: there will always be a before and an after, separated, perhaps, by a knock at the door. I had been interrupted. I was tidying up. I had cleared up yesterday’s newspapers, old envelopes, scraps of paper, left them in the basket by the grate ready to make a fire after supper. I had just got the rice bubbling nicely. My first thought was that it was Greg and he had forgotten his keys, but then I remembered he couldn’t have because he had taken the car that morning. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t knock but shout through the letterbox. A friend, perhaps, or a neighbour, a Jehovah’s Witness, a cold call from a desperate young man trying to sell dusters and clothes-pegs house-to-house. I turned away from the stove and went through the hall to the front door, opened it to a gust of cool air.

Not Greg, not a friend, not a neighbour, not a stranger selling religion or domesticity. Two female police officers stood in front of me. One looked like a schoolgirl, with a block fringe covering her eyebrows and jug ears; one was like her teacher, with a square jaw and greying hair cut mannishly short.

‘Yes?’ Had I been caught speeding? Littering? But then I saw an expression of uncertainty, even surprise, on both their faces and felt the first small prickle of foreboding in my chest.

‘Mrs Manning?’

‘My name’s Eleanor Falkner,’ I said, ‘but I’m married to Greg Manning, so you could say…’ My words trailed away. ‘What is it?’

‘Can we come in?’

I led them into the small living room.

‘You’re the wife of Mr Gregory Manning?’

‘Yes.’

I heard everything, I noticed everything. I saw how the younger one looked up at the older one as she said the words, and I noticed she had a hole in her black tights. The older officer’s mouth opened and closed but didn’t seem synchronized with the words she was speaking so that I had to strain to make sense of them. The smell of risotto reached me from the kitchen, and I remembered that I hadn’t turned the ring off and it would be dry and ruined. Then I remembered, with a stupid dullness, that of course it didn’t matter if it was ruined: nobody would be eating it now. Behind me I heard the wind fling a few dry leaves against the bay window. It was dark outside. Dark and chilly. In a few weeks’ time the clocks would go back. In a couple of months it would be Christmas.

She said, ‘I am very sorry, your husband has been in a fatal accident.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Though I did. The words made sense. Fatal accident. My legs felt as if they didn’t know how to hold me up any more.

‘Can we get you something? A glass of water, perhaps?’

‘You say…’

‘Your husband’s car left the road,’ she said slowly and patiently. Her mouth stretched and shrank.

‘Dead?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry for your loss.’

‘The car caught fire.’ It was the first time the younger woman had spoken. Her face was plump and pale; there was a faint smudge of mascara under one of her brown eyes. She wears contact lenses, I thought.

‘Mrs Falkner, do you understand what we have said?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was a passenger in the car.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He was with someone else. A woman. We thought… Well, we had thought it might be you.’

I stared dumbly at her. Did she expect me to produce identification?

‘Do you know who that would have been?’

‘I was just cooking supper for us. He should have been home by now.’

‘Your husband’s passenger.’

‘I don’t know.’ I rubbed my face. ‘Didn’t she have her bag with her or anything?’

‘They couldn’t recover much. Because of the fire.’

I put a hand against my chest and felt my heart beating heavily. ‘Are you sure it was Greg? There might have been a mistake.’

‘He was driving a red Citroën Saxo,’ she said. She looked down at her notebook and read out the registration number. ‘Your husband is the owner of the vehicle?’

‘Yes,’ I said. It was hard to speak properly. ‘Perhaps someone from work. He sometimes took them when he went to visit clients. Tania.’ I found, as I was speaking, that I couldn’t bring myself to care if Tania was also dead. I knew that later this might disturb me.

‘Tania?’

‘Tania Lott. From his office.’

‘Do you have her home number?’

I thought for a moment. It would be on Greg’s mobile, which was with him. I swallowed hard. ‘I don’t think so. It might be somewhere. Do you want me to look?’

‘We can find out.’

‘I don’t want you to think me rude, but I’d like you to go now.’

‘Have you got someone you can call? A relative or friend?’

‘What?’

‘You shouldn’t be alone.’

‘I want to be alone,’ I said.

‘You might want to talk to someone.’ The younger woman pulled a leaflet out of her pocket: she must have put it there before they’d left the station together. All prepared. I wondered how many times they did this in a year. They must get used to it, standing on a doorstep in all weathers with an expression of sympathy on their faces. ‘There are numbers here of counsellors who can help you.’

‘Thank you.’ I took the leaflet she was holding out and put it on the table.

Then she offered me a card.

‘You can reach me here if you need anything.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Will you be all right?’

‘Yes,’ I said, more loudly than I’d meant to. ‘Excuse me, I think the pan might have boiled dry. I should rescue it. Can you let yourselves out?’

I left the room, with the two women still standing awkwardly in it, and went into the kitchen. I took the pan off the hob and poked at the sticky mess of burnt risotto with a wooden spoon. Greg loved risotto; it was the first meal he had ever cooked me. Risotto with red wine and green salad. I had a sudden clear picture of him sitting at the kitchen table in his shabby home clothes, smiling at me and lifting his glass in greeting, and I spun round, thinking that if I was quick enough I could catch him there.

Sorry for your loss.

Fatal accident.

This is not my world. Something is wrong, askew. It is a Monday evening in October. I am Ellie Falkner, thirty-four years old and married to Greg Manning. Although two police officers have just come to my door and told me he is dead, I know that can’t be true because it happens in a world meant for other people.

I sat down at the kitchen table and waited. I didn’t know what I was waiting for; perhaps to feel something. People cry when a loved one dies, don’t they? Howl and sob, tears running down their cheeks. There was no doubt that Greg was my loved one, my dear heart, but I had never felt less like crying. My eyes were dry and hot; my throat ached slightly, as if I was coming down with a cold. My stomach ached too, and I put my hand on my belly for a few seconds and closed my eyes. There were crumbs on the surface, from breakfast. Toast and marmalade. Coffee.

What had he said when he left? I couldn’t think. It had been just another Monday morning, grey sky and puddles on the pavement. When had he last kissed me? On the cheek or on the lips? We’d had a stupid argument on the phone that afternoon, just a few hours ago, about what time he was coming home. Had those been our last words? Little bickering phrases before the great silence. For a moment I couldn’t even remember his face, but then it came back to me: his curly hair and his dark eyes and the way he smiles. Smiled. His strong, capable hands, his solid warmth. It had to be a mistake.

I stood up, pulled the phone from its holster on the wall and punched in the number of his mobile. I waited to hear his voice and, after a few minutes, when I didn’t, I put the phone carefully back and went to press my face to the window. There was a cat walking along the garden wall, very delicately. I could see its eyes shining. I watched until it disappeared.

I took a forkful of rice out of the pan and put it into my mouth. It had no taste. Perhaps I should pour myself a glass of whisky. That was what people did when they were in shock, and I supposed I must be in shock. But I didn’t think we had any whisky in the house. I pulled open the drinks cupboard and gazed at the contents. There was a bottle of gin, a third full; a bottle of Pimm’s, but that was for lazy, hot summer evenings a long way from here, from now; a small bottle of schnapps. I twisted the lid off and took an experimental sip, feeling its burning thread in my throat.

Burst into flames. Burst into flames.

I tried not to see his face on fire, his body consumed. I pressed the palms of my hands into the sockets of my eyes and the smallest sound escaped me. It was so quiet in the house. All the noises came from outside: the wind in the trees, the sound of cars passing, doors slamming, people getting on with their normal lives.

I don’t know how long I stood there like that, but at last I went up the stairs, gripping the banisters and hauling my weight from step to step like an old woman. I was a widow. Who was going to set the video for me, who was going to help me fail to do the crossword on Sunday, who was going to keep me warm at night, to hold me tight and keep me safe? I thought these things, but did not feel them. I stood in our bedroom for several minutes, gazing around me, then sat heavily on the bed – on my side, careful not to disturb Greg’s space. He was reading a travel book: he wanted us to go to India together. There was a bookmark a third of the way through. His dressing-gown – grey and blue stripes – hung on the hook on the door. There were slippers with their heels turned down under the old wooden chair, and on top of it a pair of jeans he’d worn yesterday with an old blue jumper. I went and picked it up, burying my face in the familiar sawdusty smell. Then I took off my own and pulled Greg’s over my head. There was a bald patch in one elbow and the hem was fraying.

I wandered into the small room next door to our bedroom, which, for the time being, served as a junk room, although we had plans for it. It was full of boxes of books and stray objects we’d never got round to unpacking, though we had moved to this house well over a year ago, as well as an old-fashioned bath with claw feet and cracked brass taps that I had picked up from a reclamation centre and had planned to install in our bathroom once I had done something about the taps. We had got stuck carrying it up the stairs, I remembered, unable to go backwards or forwards and giggling helplessly, while his mother had shouted useless instructions at us from the hallway.

His mother. I had to call his mother and father. I had to tell them that their eldest son was dead. I felt breathless and had to lean against the door jamb. How do you break that kind of news? I returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed once more, picking up the phone that was on my bedside table. For a moment, I couldn’t remember their number, and when I did, I found it hard to press the buttons. My fingers weren’t working properly.

I hoped she wouldn’t answer, but she did. Her high voice sounded aggrieved to be called at this late hour.

‘Kitty.’ I pressed the receiver to my ear and closed my eyes. ‘It’s me, Ellie.’

‘Ellie, how –’

‘I’ve got some bad news,’ I said. And then, before she could draw breath to say anything: ‘Greg’s dead.’ There was complete silence from the other end, as if she had hung up. ‘Kitty?’

‘Hello,’ she said. Her voice had dwindled; she sounded very far away. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘Greg’s dead,’ I persisted. ‘He died in a car crash. I’ve only just heard.’

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Can you hold on a moment?’

I waited and then another voice came on the line, in a kind of gruff, no-nonsense bark. ‘Ellie. Paul here. What’s this?’

I repeated what I’d said. The words were becoming more and more unreal.

Paul Manning gave a short, nervous cough. ‘Dead, you say?’ In the background I could hear sobbing.

‘Yes.’

‘But he’s only thirty-eight.’

‘It was a road accident.’

‘A crash?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if they told me; maybe they did. It was hard to take everything in.’

He asked me more questions, detailed questions, none of which I could answer. It was as if information would give him some kind of control.

Then I dialled my parents’ number. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Even though you may not be close to them, that’s the right order. His parents, then my parents. Chief mourners. But there was no reply and I remembered that Monday was quiz night at the pub. They would stay until closing time. I depressed the button and sat for a few seconds listening to the dialling tone in my ear. The alarm clock on Greg’s side of the bed told me it was thirteen minutes past nine. Hours to go before morning came. What was I supposed to do until then? Should I start calling people, telling them the news in descending order of importance? That was what you did when a baby was born – but was it the same when a husband had died? And who should I tell first? Then it came to me.

I found her home number in Greg’s old address book. The phone rang several times, four, five, six. It was like a terrible game. Answer the phone and you’re still alive. Don’t answer and you’re dead. Or perhaps just out.

‘Hello.’

‘Oh.’ For a moment I couldn’t speak. ‘Is that Tania?’ I asked, although I knew it was.

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘It’s Ellie.’

‘Ellie. Hi.’

She waited, probably expecting an invitation. I took a deep breath and said the nonsense words again. ‘Greg’s dead. In an accident.’ I cut into the expressions of horror that came down the line. ‘I rang you because, well, I thought you might have been with him. In the car.’

‘Me? What do you mean?’

‘He had a passenger. A woman. And I assumed, you know, that it was someone from the office, so I thought…’

‘Two of them died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ellie, how awful. God, I can’t get my head around this. I’m so incredibly…’

‘Do you know who it could have been, Tania?’

‘No.’

‘He didn’t leave with anyone?’ I asked. ‘Or go to meet anyone?’

‘No. He left about half past five. And I know he’d said earlier he was going to get home in good time for once.’

‘He said he was coming straight home?’

‘I assumed that. But, Ellie…’

‘What?’

‘It might not mean what you’re thinking.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘Nothing. Listen, if there’s anything, anything at all, I can do, you only have to –’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and put the phone down on her.

What was I thinking? What might it not mean? I didn’t know. I only knew it was cold outside, and that time moved sluggishly on, and there was nothing I could do to make it go faster. I crept downstairs and sat on the sofa in the living room, Greg’s jersey pulled down over my knees. I waited for it to be morning.

Chapter Two

The sound of the newspaper and then, a few minutes later, a bundle of post being pushed through the letterbox and hitting the mat was a reminder that the world was outside, trying to get in. Soon there would be things to do, duties to fulfil, responsibilities, observances. But first I phoned Tania again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I wanted to catch you before you went to work.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it all night,’ she said. ‘I’ve hardly slept. I can’t believe it.’

‘When you get in, could you check who Greg was seeing yesterday?’

‘He just spent the day at the office, then left to go home.’

‘He might have called in on a client on his way, dropped something off. If you could have a look at his diary…’

‘I’ll do anything, Ellie,’ said Tania, ‘but what am I looking for?’

‘Ask Joe if Greg said anything to him yesterday.’

‘Joe wasn’t in the office. He was on a visit.’

‘It was a woman.’

‘Yes, I knew that. I’ll try.’

I thanked her and put the phone down. It rang instantly. Greg’s father had questions he wanted to ask me. He sounded formal and rehearsed, as if he had written them down before speaking to me. I wasn’t able to answer any of them. I had already told him everything I knew. He told me that Kitty hadn’t slept the whole night and I wondered if he was making a point about who was mourning most. When he put the phone down, I felt I had failed a test. I wasn’t being an adequate wife. Widow. The word almost made me laugh. It wasn’t a word for people like me. It was for old women with headscarves, pulling shopping baskets on wheels, women who had expected widowhood, had prepared for and accepted it.

I played over in my mind the exact moment when the policewoman had told me the news, that moment of transition. It was a line drawn across my life and everything after it would be different. I wasn’t at all hungry or thirsty but I decided I ought to have something. I walked into the kitchen and the sight of Greg’s leather jacket draped over one of the chairs hit me so that I could hardly breathe. I used to complain about that. Why couldn’t he hang it on a proper hook, out of the way? Now I leaned down and tried to smell him on it. There would be a lot of moments like that. As I made myself coffee there were more of them. The coffee was Brazilian, a kind he always chose. The mug I took from the cupboard was from the gift shop of a nuclear-power station; Greg had got it as a joke. When I opened the fridge door, I was bombarded with memories, things he had bought, things I had bought for him, his preferences, his aversions.

I realized that the house was still almost as it had been when he had left it, but with every action I took, every door I opened, everything I used or moved, I was eliminating his presence, making him that little bit deader. On the other hand, how did that matter? He was dead. I took his jacket and hung it on the hook in the hall, the way I’d always nagged him to do.

My mobile was on the shelf there and I saw I had a text message – and then that it was from Greg, and for a moment I felt as though someone had taken my heart in their two hands and wrung it out like a flannel. With thick fingers, I called it up. It had been sent yesterday, shortly after I’d got upset with him for staying later at the office than he’d promised, and it wasn’t very long: ‘Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. Im a stupid fool.’ I stared at the message, then pressed the phone against my cheek, as if there was a bit of him left behind in the message that could enter me.

I took the coffee, his address book, my address book and a notebook and started to think of who I should call. I was immediately reminded of the party we had given earlier in the year, halfway between his birthday and mine. Same address books, same table and much the same sort of decisions. Who absolutely had to be invited? Who did we want? Who didn’t we want? If we invited X, we had to invite Y. If we invited A, we mustn’t invite B.

I felt as if my mind wasn’t working properly and that I had to write everything down, so that I didn’t forget someone or ring someone twice. There were close friends I would have to try to reach before they left for work. First of all, though, I rang my parents once more, dreading the call but knowing they would both be there at that time of morning.

My father answered and immediately called my mother so they were both on the line. Then they began telling me about a friend of theirs – did I remember Tony, who had just been diagnosed with diabetes and it was all because he ate too much, wasn’t that a ridiculous thing and why couldn’t people exercise control over their lives? I kept trying to interrupt them and finally managed to insert a loud ‘Please!’ between two sentences and blurted it all out.

There was a sudden outpouring of emotion and then of questions. When had it happened? Was I all right? Did I need any help? Should my mother come over right now? Should they both come over? Had I told my sister or should she do that for me? And what about Aunt Caroline – she had to know? I told them I had to go, I would speak to them later, but right now I had calls to make and things to do. When I put the phone down, I thought about that. What were the things I had to do? There were death certificates to be signed. Wills to be read. A funeral. Did I have to do all that or did it happen automatically?

I needed to speak to Joe, Greg’s partner and his dear friend. But I only got through to his answering-machine, and I couldn’t bear to break the news like that. I imagined his face when he heard, his blazing blue eyes; he would be able to cry the tears I didn’t yet seem able to. Tania would have to tell him for me. I thought she’d want to anyway; she was new to the company and adored Joe, as a schoolgirl adores a movie star.

I went through Greg’s address book and mine and wrote out a list of forty-three people. It was a more select group than had been at our party. Then we had invited plenty of people we hadn’t seen since the previous year’s party, some neighbours, people we were gradually losing touch with. They would find out on the grapevine, or when they got in touch with me, or perhaps some would never find out. They would wonder occasionally what had happened to old Greg and Ellie and then they would think of something else.

I got the phone and started calling the people roughly in the order they had come out of my address book and then out of Greg’s. The first was Gwen Abbott, one of my oldest friends, and the last was Ollie Wilkes, the one cousin Greg had stayed closely in touch with. Making that first call, I could hardly punch out the number, my hands were trembling so much. When I told Gwen and heard her cry of shock and surprise, I felt that I was experiencing it all over again, except that it was worse because the blow was struck on bruised and broken flesh. After I had put the phone down I simply sat, almost gasping for breath, as if I was in thin air at high altitude. I felt I couldn’t go through with it, reliving the moment through other people over and over again.

But it got easier. I found a form of words that worked and practised it before making the calls. ‘Hello, this is Ellie. I’ve got some bad news…’ After a few times, I became quite calm about it. I managed to steer each conversation and bring it to a fairly quick close. I had a few set phrases. ‘I have things to do’; ‘I’m sorry, I can’t really talk about him at the moment’; ‘That’s very kind of you.’ It was worst with his dearest friend Fergus who had loved Greg for much longer than I had. He’d been his running companion, confidant, surrogate brother, best man. He said, ‘What will we do without him, Ellie?’ I heard his dazed, cracked voice and thought, That’s how I’m feeling too; I just don’t know it yet. I felt about grief as if it was crouching out of sight in hiding from me, waiting to spring out and ambush me when I least expected it.

Halfway through the list, there was an urgent knocking at the door and I opened it to find Joe standing there. He was in a suit and carrying the familiar slim briefcase that Greg used to tease him about, saying it was always empty and just for show. But although there were no bruises or injuries on him, he looked like a man who had been in a punch-up and come off worst, reeling, pale and glassy-eyed. Before I could speak, he stepped over the threshold and enveloped me in his embrace. All I could think of was how different he felt from Greg, taller and broader, with a different smell as well, soap and leather.

I wanted so badly to break down and cry in his arms, but somehow I couldn’t. Instead Joe cried, tears coursing down his lived-in face, as he told me how wonderful my husband had been, and how lucky he was to have known me. He said I was family to him and that I must lean on him over the next few weeks. He kissed me on both cheeks and held my hands in his and told me very solemnly that I didn’t have to be strong. He scoured the pan I’d burned the rice in, wiped the kitchen table and put out my rubbish bin. He even started trying to clear up some of the mess, lifting piles of paper and putting books on shelves in a frantic, utterly ineffectual way until I told him to stop. Then he left and I continued with my task.

When I had broken the news to someone, I ticked off their name on my piece of paper. Sometimes a child answered or a partner I didn’t know or didn’t know well enough. I didn’t leave a message, I didn’t even say who had called. I did less well on Greg’s part of the list. By the time I got to them, people had started leaving for work. I didn’t phone people’s mobiles. I couldn’t bear the idea of talking to people on trains, of them having to keep their voice down, getting embarrassed about their reactions in front of strangers.

I also got slowed up because by then the phone had started ringing. People I’d talked to had digested the news and thought of things they needed to say, questions they wanted to ask. Friends had rung other friends and some of those friends immediately rang me and if they couldn’t get through, they rang my mobile, which I switched off. Later I discovered that if they couldn’t get through to my mobile, they’d sent me an email. But a lot of them did get through, one expression of grief after another, so that they seemed to merge into a continual howl. After each call, I wrote the name at the bottom of the list so that I wouldn’t call them again by mistake.

One of the calls wasn’t from a friend or relative, but from WPC Darby, one of the women who had broken the news to me. She asked how I was and I didn’t really know what to say. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘but did I say anything about identifying the body?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I said.

‘I know it’s a difficult time,’ she said, and there was a pause.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You want me to identify the…’ I stopped. ‘My husband. But you came here. You told me about it. You know already.’

‘It’s a requirement,’ she said. ‘You could always nominate another family member. A brother or a parent.’

‘No,’ I said immediately. The idea was impossible. When Greg had married me, he had become mine. I wasn’t going to let his family reclaim him. ‘I’ll do it. Should I do it today?’

‘If you can.’

‘Where is he?’

I heard a paper rustle.

‘He is in the mortuary of the King George V hospital. Do you know it? Is there someone who can take you?’

*

I phoned Gwen and she said she would drive me to the hospital, even though I knew it meant she would have to phone in sick. I realized I was still in the clothes I had put on the previous morning. Greg had seen me put them on. Maybe he hadn’t actually seen it. He was too used to me and too busy in the morning to sit and watch me but he had been bustling around when I was getting dressed. I took them all off, another bit of my life with Greg gone, and I stood in the shower under the very hot water, my head lifted into the jet and my eyes closed. I turned the water up hotter still as if it could scorch away what I was feeling. I dressed quickly, glanced in the mirror and saw that I was entirely in black. I took off my sweater and replaced it with a rust-coloured one. Sombre, but not like a Mediterranean widow.

Some people know instinctively how to respond to your moods. Gwen is like that. Greg and I once had a conversation about who of our friends never irritated us and she was the only name we both agreed on. She senses when to stand back and be dispassionate, even critical, when to come close, hug you, show you love and physical affection. Mary and I regularly argued, but Mary argues with most people, almost for the sake of it – you see a contrary gleam come into her eye and you know she’s in one of her itchy, confrontational, emotionally volatile moods and there’s nothing to be done about it except ride out the storm – or leave the room. I usually leave the room. But Gwen, with her soft mop of golden hair, her grey eyes, her quiet clothes, her calm and reflective manner, doesn’t like to raise her voice. At university people who knew her called her ‘the diplomat’, a tag that was both admiring and sometimes slightly resentful, because she seemed to hold back from intimacy. But I had always liked her reserve; it felt like a privilege to be let into her tiny circle of friends. Now, when I answered the door to her, she didn’t open her arms, inviting me to step into them to cry and be comforted. Instead she looked at me with a grave tenderness, putting a hand on my shoulder but letting me decide if I wanted to break down or not. And I didn’t. I wanted, needed, to hold myself together.

As she drove me towards the hospital in King’s Cross, she didn’t speak and allowed me to stay silent. I stared out of the window at passers-by, suddenly fascinated by the idea of people who were doing today what they had planned yesterday. Didn’t they realize it was temporary? It might all seem to be going smoothly, but one day, tomorrow or the day after or in fifty years’ time, the charade will come to an end.

We arrived at the hospital and discovered that we had to pay to park. I got suddenly and pointlessly angry. ‘If we were going to the supermarket instead of to the morgue, we wouldn’t have to pay.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Gwen. ‘I’ve got the change with me.’

‘What about people who come day after day?’ I said. ‘People with dying relatives.’

‘You probably get a discount,’ said Gwen.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ I said, and then I stopped, aware that I was behaving like those people I see shouting in the street, arguing with voices in their own head.

I experienced the hospital mainly as a succession of smells. Near the front desk there was a coffee shop of the kind you find in every shopping centre and high street. I could hear the hiss of cappuccino being frothed. There was a café as well. As we walked, the aroma of frying bacon gradually gave way to the smell of floor polish, air-freshener, then the sting of cleaning fluids, carbolic and bleach, with an under-smell of something nasty. I hadn’t been able to take in the instructions that the receptionist had given us but Gwen led me along corridors, down in a lift to a basement and another reception, with nobody in attendance.

‘There’s probably a bell or something,’ Gwen said.

There wasn’t. Gwen pulled a face. ‘Hello?’ she called.

There was the sound of footsteps and a man emerged from an office behind the reception desk. He was wearing a green coat, like someone at the counter of a hardware shop. He was very pale, as if he spent all his time down there underground, away from the sun. His stubble stood out plainly. While shaving he had missed a patch under his jaw. I thought of Greg shaving, holding his nose as he did the area beneath his nostrils. The man looked at us inquiringly.

‘My friend is here to identify a body.’

He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I’m Dr Kyriacou,’ he said. ‘I’m a senior registrar. Are you a relative?’

‘He’s my husband,’ I said. I wasn’t ready to use the past tense yet.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ he said, and for a moment I thought he really was sorry, as sorry as you could be when you expressed it every day, except for weekends and holidays.

‘Do you need my name?’ I said. ‘Or his?’

‘The deceased’s,’ said Dr Kyriacou.

‘His name is Gregory Manning,’ I said.

Dr Kyriacou rummaged through some files piled in a metal tray on the counter until he found the one he wanted. He opened it and examined the papers inside. I tried to lean across and see but I couldn’t read anything.

‘Do you have any identification?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a regulation.’

I handed him my driving licence. He took it and wrote something on his form. He frowned. ‘Your husband’s body was badly burned,’ he said. ‘This will be distressing for you. But may I say that in my experience it’s better to see the body than not.’

I wanted to ask if that was really true, even after plane crashes, people hit by trains, but I couldn’t speak.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Gwen asked.

Suddenly I felt possessive of the experience. I shook my head. She sat down and Dr Kyriacou led me along the corridor and into a room that looked as if it were full of filing cabinets with drawers four deep, but with handles like old-fashioned fridges. He glanced at the clipboard he was carrying, then walked to one and turned to me. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

I nodded. He pulled open the door and there was a rush of cold air into the already cold room. He drew out a tray. There was a body lying on it, covered with a sheet. Without hesitating he lifted a corner of the sheet. I couldn’t stop myself gasping because now I knew, finally, decisively, that there was no mistake and that he was dead, my darling Greg, whom I’d last seen rushing out of the house, a half-eaten piece of toast between his teeth, so we hadn’t even kissed.

I made myself look closely. His face was blackened by the fire, some of his hair was burned away and his scalp scorched. The only real damage was above his right eyebrow where there were signs of a terrible collision. I reached out and touched some of his hair, then leaned forward and touched it with my lips. There was a strong smell of burning. ‘Goodbye,’ I whispered to him. ‘My love.’

‘Is this Gregory Manning?’ said Dr Kyriacou.

I nodded.

‘You need to say it aloud,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and wrote on his clipboard.

Dr Kyriacou took me back to Gwen and then a thought occurred to me. ‘The other person in the crash. Is she here?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

I paused. I hardly dared ask the question. ‘Do you…’ I began. ‘Do you know her name?’

Dr Kyriacou rummaged through the files. ‘Her husband came,’ he said. ‘Yes, here we are.’ He looked at the front of the file. ‘Milena Livingstone.’

Gwen looked at me. ‘Who is she?’

‘I’ve never heard of her,’ I said.

Chapter Three

My little house filled with people. Filled with forms, with tasks, with long lists of what I had to do. Friends made me cups of tea and pushed pieces of toast at me that I tried to eat. The phone rang and rang. Gwen and Mary must have set up a rota between them, because as soon as one left it seemed that the other arrived. My parents turned up with an overcooked ginger cake in a tin I remembered from childhood, and bath salts. Joe came with whisky. He sat on the sofa, shook his head slowly from side to side in disbelief and called me ‘darling’. Fergus arrived, his face ashen with shock; he called me ‘sweetheart’. Everyone tried to hug me. I didn’t want to be hugged. Or, at least, I didn’t want to be hugged by anyone except Greg. I woke at night out of dreams in which he was holding me in his warm embrace, keeping me safe, and lay with dry, sore eyes, staring at the darkness, feeling the space in the bed beside me.

I needn’t have worried about what I had to do for at every stage there were plenty of people to tell me. I had become part of a bureaucratic process and was channelled smoothly and efficiently towards the end point, the funeral. But before there could be a funeral, the death had to be registered, and for that, I discovered, there needed to be an inquest to establish the cause of death.

We used to talk about dying. Once, while drunk, we answered a questionnaire online that then provided you with your date of death (me at eighty-eight, Greg at eighty-five), because death seemed ludicrously far away, a joke and an impossibility. If we had ever thought about it seriously, we would have assumed that when it came we would be old, and one of us would be holding the other’s hand. But I hadn’t been holding his hand and someone else had been with him. Milena Livingstone. The name crackled in my head. Who was she? Why had he been with her?

‘Why do you think?’ asked my mother, grimly, and I ordered her out of the house, slamming the door so hard behind her that little bits of plaster flaked to the floor.

‘Why do you think?’ asked Gwen, and I laid my head on the table, on top of all the bits of paper, and said I didn’t know, I had no idea. But I knew Greg. He would never… I didn’t finish the sentence.

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Who?’ Joe looked at me with a grave, attentive expression.

‘Milena. Who was she?’

‘Ellie.’ His voice was kind. ‘I’ve already told you. I’ve no idea. I didn’t know about her.’

‘She wasn’t a client?’

Joe and Greg were partners in their own business. Accountants are supposed to be thin, grey men in suits and glasses, but that certainly wasn’t true of those two. Joe was flamboyant and charismatic. Women always gravitated towards him, drawn by his blue eyes, his wide smile, his air of utter attention. He was rather handsome himself, but Greg and I used to say that the real secret of his charm was that he made other people feel beautiful, special. He was older than us, in his late forties, so he seemed like an uncle or a much older brother. And Greg – well, Greg was Greg. He used to say that if I’d known what he did for a living, I’d never have gone out with him. But I couldn’t have known. We’d met at a party, a mutual friend of a friend’s, and if I’d had to guess, I would have said he was a TV director, a writer, even an actor or a professional activist. He looked raffish and stylishly unkempt; there was a slightly dreamy, unworldly air about him. I was the one who was methodical and practical, whereas he was enthusiastic, untidy, boyish. Certainly not what I thought of as an accountant.

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve looked through everything. Twice.’

‘There must be an explanation.’

‘Can’t you think of anything?’ This time his kind voice, pushing me gently to acknowledge the obvious, made me shudder.

‘I would have known.’ I glared at him. ‘You would have known.’

Joe put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Everyone has secrets, Ellie. Both of us know how wonderful and adorable Greg was but, after all –’

‘No,’ I repeated, cutting him off. ‘It’s not possible.’

‘Who was Milena?’ I asked Fergus.

‘I have no idea,’ he replied. ‘I swear he never mentioned anyone called Milena.’

‘Did he mention…’ I hesitated. ‘Did he ever say he was… you know?’

‘Having an affair?’ Fergus finished the sentence I couldn’t.

‘Yes.’

‘He adored you.’

‘That’s not the question.’

‘He never mentioned he was having an affair. Nor did I ever suspect that he might be. Not for a single second.’

‘And now?’

‘Now?’

‘Do you suspect he might have been?’

Fergus rubbed his face. ‘Honestly? I don’t know, Ellie. What can I say? You know I was in his office with him the day he died, working on the computers. He seemed completely normal. He talked about you. He never said anything that would make me suspect. Yet he died in a car with a strange woman whom no one seems to have heard of. What’s your explanation?’

The inquest was set for ten o’clock on Tuesday, 15 October, in the coroner’s court off Hackney Road. I was to attend and, if I wanted, I could ask questions of the witnesses. I could bring family and friends if I wished. It was open to the public and to the press. After the inquest, Greg’s death could be registered, I could collect the appropriate forms, E and F, and could set a date for the funeral.

I asked Gwen if she and Mary would come with me. ‘Unless it’s difficult for Mary to arrange childcare,’ I added. Mary had a young son, nearly a year old now. Until Greg’s death, the conversations between us had been dominated by nappies, first smiles, teething problems, cracked nipples, the swamping pleasures of maternity.

‘Of course we’ll come,’ said Gwen. ‘I’m going to cook you something.’

‘I’m not hungry and I’m not an invalid. Does everyone think she was another woman?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What do you think?’

What did I think? I thought I couldn’t survive without him, I thought he had abandoned me, I thought he had betrayed me. I knew, of course, that he hadn’t. I thought when I woke up at night that I could hear him breathing in the bed beside me, I thought a hundred times a day of things I needed to say to him, I thought I could no longer remember his face and then it returned to me, teasing and affectionate, or scorched into its death mask. I thought he should never have left me and it was his fault because he had chosen to go with her, and I thought, too, that I would go mad with not knowing who the woman was and yet if I discovered I should very likely go mad as well. Mad with sorrow, anger, or jealousy.

‘I’ve heard he was having an affair.’

My sister Maria’s voice sounded solemnly sympathetic. I could hear her baby crying in the background.

‘You’ve got to go.’ I banged the phone back into its holster.

An affair. Like death, affairs happen to other people, not me and Greg. Milena Livingstone. How old was she? What did she look like? All I knew about her was that she had a husband who had identified her body at the same morgue as Greg was in. Perhaps she’d been lying in the drawer above him. In death as in life. I shivered violently, feeling nauseous, then went upstairs to my laptop and turned it on, then Googled her name. There aren’t many Milena Livingstones around.

I clicked on the first reference and the screen was filled with an advertisement for a business, though at first I couldn’t make out what it was. Something about everything being taken out of your hands and no detail left unattended to. Venues. Meals. I scrolled down. It seemed to be a glorified catering and party-arranging business for people with lots of money and no time. A sample menu. Tuna sashimi, sea bass marinated in ginger and lime, chocolate fondants. And here, yes, were the people who ran it, the hostesses.

Two photographs smiled at me from the screen. The face on the left was pale and triangular, with dark blonde hair cut artfully short, a straight nose and a restrained smile. She looked attractive, clever, classy. It wasn’t her. No, it was the other one, with a tawny mane (dyed, I thought spitefully, and I bet she tosses it back all the time with one ringed hand; I bet she pouts), high cheekbones, white teeth, grey eyes. An older woman, then. A rich woman, by the look of it. A beautiful woman, but not the kind of beauty I’d ever expected Greg, who had fallen so heavily for me, to fall for. Milena Livingstone had a glamorous, artful look to her; her eyebrows were arched and her smile knowing. She was sure to have long, painted nails and immaculately waxed legs. A man’s woman, I thought. But not my man. Surely not Greg. Bile rose in my throat and I turned off the computer without looking through any more references and went into the bedroom where I lay face down on my side of the bed. It was almost dark outside; the nights were getting longer and the days shorter.

I don’t know how long I lay there like that, but at last I got up and went to the wardrobe. Greg’s clothes hung on the right-hand side. He didn’t have many: one suit that we’d bought together for our wedding and he’d hardly worn since, a couple of casual jackets, several shirts. What had he been wearing when he died? I screwed my eyes shut and forced myself to remember – dark trousers and a pale blue shirt; his favourite jacket over the top. That was it: his non-accountant’s accountant’s outfit.

I started systematically to go through everything in the cupboard. I felt in each pocket, and found only a receipt for a meal we’d had in an Italian restaurant two weeks ago. I remembered: I’d been upset and he’d been patient and optimistic. A crumpled flyer for a jazz night that had been put under our windscreen wipers a few days ago. I pulled open the drawers where he kept T-shirts and underwear, but I didn’t discover any lacy women’s knickers or incriminating love letters. Everything was as it should have been. Nothing was as it should have been.

I stood in front of the mirror, examined myself and found myself wanting. I weighed myself and realized I was shrinking. I boiled myself an egg, broke open the top, then dabbed my spoon into the yellow yolk. I made myself eat half of it before I felt so sick I had to stop. I had stomach cramps, a grim, familiar backache, so I ran a bath and lowered myself into it, hearing the phone ring. I couldn’t bear to answer it and heard Mary’s voice saying into the answering-machine that poor little Robin was running a fever, she’d be round as soon as she could. I lay in the hot water and closed my eyes. Then I opened them and watched a curl of red blood run out of me and spread, then another.

So.

It wasn’t to be, after all. Once again, as with all the other months of trying and hoping and praying, I wasn’t pregnant, and Greg had died in his car with another woman and left me alone, and what on earth was I going to do now?

Chapter Four

It was drizzling. Gwen and Mary arrived early, when I was still in my dressing-gown trying to decide what to wear. The pair of them were dressed in almost identical clothes, and I could see they’d been aiming for the casual but smart, sober but not sombre look I was intending for myself. Mary had brought some Danish pastries, which were warm and sticky in their paper bag, and I made us a big pot of coffee. We sat round the kitchen table, dunking the pastries, and I was reminded of when we were students together, sitting just like this in the kitchen of the house we’d shared together in our final year.

‘I’m so glad the two of you could be here,’ I said. ‘It means a lot.’

‘What did you think?’ said Mary, heatedly. Her face was flushed with excitement. ‘That we would let you go through this alone?’

I thought I might cry at that, but I didn’t, although grief felt rather like a fishbone that was gradually working itself loose in my throat. I asked Mary how her son was and she replied in a constrained, self-conscious way, very different from the eager assumption she had made in the past that I would be interested in every belch and gurgle he made. I had crossed into a different country. No one felt able to have an ordinary conversation with me, no one was about to tell me their petty anxieties and daily fears in the way they would have done a week ago.

I went upstairs and chose my clothes: black skirt, stripy grey shirt, black woollen waistcoat, flat boots, patterned tights, hair tied back. I was so nervous that it took me three attempts to thread my earrings through the lobes of my ears; my hands trembled so that I smudged my lipstick. I felt as though I was about to be put on trial: what kind of wife were you, anyway, that your husband was with another woman? What kind of fool, that you never had the slightest idea?

When we reached the coroner’s court, a low, modern building that looked less like a court than an old people’s home, the feeling of unreality continued. At first we couldn’t find the entrance, but pushed uselessly against glass doors that refused to budge until a policeman on the other side mouthed something at us and pointed, indicating we should try further on, the next entrance. We went into a corridor that led through a series of swing doors into a room where lines of chairs faced a long table. The air-conditioning hummed loudly and the fluorescent light shimmered overhead. I had been expecting something impressive, wood-panelled perhaps, with an air of formality, not this blandly cheerful room with louvred blinds. Only the crest of the lion and the unicorn, squeezed between the two windows, gave any hint that this was a court. Several people were already there, including a couple of middle-aged men wearing suits and ties, with folders on their laps, and two police officers in the second row, sitting up stiff and straight.

To one side there was a table with a piece of lined paper taped to it, reading ‘PRESS’. Behind it a bored-looking young man was reading a tabloid newspaper.

A grey-haired man in a suit was blocking our way. He had a moustache and the air of a sergeant major. ‘Sorry to bother you. Can I take your names, please?’

‘I’m Eleanor Falkner. I’m Greg Manning’s wife. These are my friends.’

He introduced himself as the coroner’s officer and pointed us to seats in the front row. Mary sat on one side of me, Gwen the other. A middle-aged woman in fawn slacks and a red sweater came to the front of the room and tinkered with a huge old-fashioned tape-recorder. She pushed cables into sockets and fiddled with switches. She looked up at the room and smiled vaguely at us. ‘It’ll be all right on the night,’ she said, and bustled out again, throwing bright, complicit smiles round the room, as if we were all in on a tremendously good joke.

Two women with identical bright-blonde helmets of hair positioned themselves just behind us; they were whispering to each other and occasionally giving discreet chuckles. It was like a register-office wedding, I thought. I wiped my palms down my skirt and pushed invisible strands of hair behind my ears.

Just before ten, the door opened again and a group of three entered and were directed by the coroner’s officer to the front-row chairs a few places along from where we sat. A middle-aged man with corrugated greying hair and a silk tie, a slender young woman, whose pale hair rippled down her back and whose aquiline nose quivered, and a young man with untidy dark hair, untied shoelaces and a stud in his nose. I tensed and clutched Gwen’s arm.

‘That’s them,’ I hissed.

‘Who?’

‘Her family.’

I stared at the man. After a few seconds he turned and met my gaze. Again I felt it was like a wedding: the bride and bridegroom’s families finding themselves in the same room, curious and suspicious. Someone near him murmured something and he turned round. It was his name. Hugo. Hugo Livingstone. The proceedings were late getting under way because the woman couldn’t get her tape-recorder to function. She pushed switches up and down and even banged it with her hand but nothing worked. A couple of men behind me got up and joined her. In the end, they just pushed the plug into another electrical socket and its lights came on. The woman put on some earphones and sat down behind the machine, which almost hid her from view. The court officer asked us all to rise. I had expected a judge in robes and a wig but Dr Gerald Sams was just a man in a suit, carrying a large bundle of files. He sat down behind the table at the front and began to address us in a calm, deliberate tone. He offered his condolences to me and to Milena Livingstone’s husband and two children. ‘Step-children,’ muttered one loudly.

He gave a brief talk about the process. He said there might be some details that family members would find upsetting, but that the inquest was often helpful to the next-of-kin, giving a clear account of what had happened and perhaps some sort of closure. He would call witnesses, but this was not a trial. Any interested person could question them and, indeed, ask questions at any point. He also said that he had read through the preliminary material, it seemed to be a straightforward case and we would get through it quickly. He asked if anybody had legal representation. Nobody spoke.

I took a notebook and a pen from my pocket. I opened it and wrote ‘Inquest’ at the top of a blank page. I underlined the word, then turned the underlining into a box surrounding it. Then I turned the box into a three-dimensional box and shaded the top with cross hatching. Meanwhile a police officer had come forward to the little desk and chair at the front of the room and swore, on a tatty copy of the New Testament, to tell the truth. He was an unremarkable young PC, with reddish-brown hair combed flat against his head, but I studied him with fascination and dread. He was the man who had found my husband.

He consulted his notebook and, in a strange monotone, like an unprepared and untalented actor, he gave a halting account of how he had driven to Porton Way in response to a call from a member of the public who had reported seeing a fire.

Dr Sams asked if the officer could describe Porton Way.

He looked puzzled. ‘There’s not much to say, really,’ he said. ‘There used to be factories and warehouses there, but it’s mainly derelict now. They’re starting to redevelop it, though. There are going to be new houses and office blocks.’

‘Is the road busy at that time of night?’ asked Dr Sams. ‘With commuters and suchlike?’

‘No,’ said the officer. ‘It’s not a through route. There are a few construction people during the day but not at that time. Sometimes kids steal cars and drive them round there, but we didn’t see anyone else.’

‘Tell us what you found.’

‘The fire had died down by the time we got there but we could see the smoke. The car had slipped down the embankment and turned over. We scrambled down and we quickly saw that there were people in it but they were clearly dead.’

‘Clearly?’

The officer pulled a face. ‘We didn’t even see there were two of them at first.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘My partner called the fire brigade and an ambulance. I walked round just checking. I couldn’t really get close. It was still hot.’

He was talking as if he had come across a bonfire that had got out of control. Dr Sams was writing notes on a pad of paper. When he had finished he put the end of the pen into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Did you form an impression of what had happened?’

‘It was obvious,’ the officer said. ‘The car lost control, came off the road, rolled down the embankment, hit a concrete ridge, burst into flames.’

‘No,’ said Dr Sams. ‘I meant more how it had happened, how the car lost control.’

The officer thought for a moment. ‘That’s pretty obvious as well,’ he said. ‘Porton Way goes straight and then it suddenly curves to the right. It’s not very well lit. If a driver was inattentive – if he was talking to his passenger, or something like that – he could miss the turn, carry straight on and then be in big trouble.’

‘And you think that was what happened?’

‘We checked the scene. There were no skidmarks, so it looks as if the car left the road at speed.’

Dr Sams grunted, scribbled some more notes, then asked the officer if he had anything else he wanted to add. The policeman looked at his notes. ‘The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The two bodies were pronounced dead at the scene, but we knew that anyway.’

‘Is there any suggestion that any other vehicle was involved in the crash?’

‘No,’ said the officer. ‘If he crashed because he was avoiding another vehicle, there would have been skidmarks of some kind.’

Dr Sams looked towards those of us in the front row. ‘Does anyone have any questions arising from this statement?’

I had many, many questions buzzing around my head, but I didn’t think that the answers to any would be found in that officer’s little black notebook. Nobody else spoke either.

‘Thank you,’ said Dr Sams. ‘Could I ask you to stay for a few minutes, in case any questions arise?’

He nodded and made his way to his seat, a few rows behind. It occurred to me that this was probably a morning off for him, an escape from the office and having to fill in reports.

Dr Sams then called Dr Mackay. A woman in a trouser suit came forward and sat in the chair. She was about fifty with dark hair that looked dyed. She didn’t swear on the Bible. Instead she read a promise from a piece of paper. I agreed with that in theory, but as she said the words, they sounded thin and unconvincing. I preferred the idea that if you didn’t tell the truth a bolt of lightning would strike you dead and you’d be punished in hell for all eternity.

Dr Sams looked at us again, especially me, the grieving widow, and him, the grieving widower.

‘Dr Mackay carried out the post-mortem examination on Mr Manning and Ms Livingstone. It’s possible that the details in her evidence will be distressing. Therefore some of you might wish to leave the court.’

I felt a hand grip one of my arms. I didn’t look round. I didn’t want to catch anybody’s eye. I simply shook my head.

‘Very well,’ said Dr Sams. ‘Dr Mackay, will you give us a brief account of your findings?’

Dr Mackay laid a file on the table in front of her and opened it. She scrutinized the text for a few moments, then looked up. ‘Despite the condition of the bodies, I was able to undertake a complete examination. The police report stated that the two people in the car were not wearing seatbelts and the injuries were consistent with that: I mean, consistent with the head of each person being thrown forward and striking the interior of the car. The result was massive trauma. Therefore the cause of death was, in both cases, compression of the brain resulting from a depressed fracture of the skull.’

There was a pause as Dr Sams wrote his notes. ‘So the fire was not a factor?’ he asked.

Dr Mackay caught my eye. I saw an expression of sympathy.

‘That was a crucial question in my mind,’ she said. ‘Obviously, in each case there was much destruction of skin, subcutaneous and muscular tissue. I took blood samples from both Mr Manning and Ms Livingstone. Both tested negative for carbon monoxide.’ She looked towards us. ‘That suggests the two of them were not breathing after the fire started. I also checked the airways and lungs and found no traces of carbon. Also, although the bodies had suffered the burns I mentioned, they showed no signs of vital reaction. I can give you the technical details if you want but, broadly speaking, the sites of burning showed none of the signs of inflammation you would expect if it had happened while the person was still living.’ She looked at me once more. ‘It may be of some comfort to the families to know that the deaths must have been all but instantaneous.’

I glanced across at Hugo Livingstone. He didn’t look comforted. He didn’t even look obviously upset. He was frowning slightly, as if lost in thought.

Dr Sams asked Dr Mackay if she had checked Greg’s blood-alcohol level. She said she had and that there was nothing untoward. She said it and glanced at me again, as if that was more good news, another thing for me to be relieved about. Dr Sams asked if anybody had any questions for Dr Mackay and once again there was an awkward pause.

I didn’t really have anything to ask but I had a lot to say. I wanted to say that Greg had always been a careful driver. Blind drunk and engaged in animated conversation, he still wouldn’t have missed a turn in the road. He wore his seatbelt even when moving the car ten feet. I could have announced this to the court, but then I would have been the person with questions to answer: what did I know about the way he behaved when he was with this other woman? Did I not know about this other relationship, this other life? And if I didn’t, what did my knowledge about him count for? I stayed silent.

Dr Sams released Dr Mackay and she went back to her seat. He said he was calling no further witnesses and asked if anybody had any statements to make or any questions to put to the court. I looked at my notebook. Without realizing it, I had drawn little stars around ‘Inquest’. Then I had drawn little circles around the stars and little squares around the circles. But I had not written a single note. I had no questions to ask. Nothing to say.

‘Good,’ said Dr Sams. ‘There is obviously no confusion about the identity of the victims and the time and place of their death. If there is no objection, I would like to record a verdict of accidental death in the case of Gregory Wilson Manning and of Milena Livingstone. The deaths can now be registered and the bodies released for burial. Written confirmation will follow in a day or two. Thank you very much.’

‘The court will rise,’ said the court officer, and we all stood.

I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride. It felt so familiar. I looked at Gwen, who managed a brave smile. I felt we should be going out for a lunch to celebrate. We walked out and stood on the pavement in the sunshine.

‘Well,’ said Gwen, ‘in some ways it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.’

Chapter Five

‘Right,’ I said, out loud. I had noticed that I was beginning to talk to myself, like a mad woman, trying to fill the silence of the house with a human voice. I didn’t care. I had a purpose. I was going to take Greg’s life apart and find out what had been going on. He wouldn’t escape me that easily. I was going to track him down.

After the inquest I’d persuaded Gwen and Mary to leave and assured them that, yes, I’d be all right and, no, I really didn’t mind being left alone – in fact I wanted it. Gwen asked if I was starting work again and I said I was thinking about it. Probably it would have been a good idea. It would have been therapeutic. I restore furniture, from valuable antiques, all oak burr, rosewood or gleaming mahogany, to someone’s worthless but beloved piece of junk. I’d taken the kitchen table I sat at now off the top of a skip and mended it; the bed that we–I – slept in. I had done up the bookshelves on the wall. Badly paid though it often was, part-time though it usually was, sometimes over-time, sometimes hysterically so, I loved it. I loved the smell of the wood and the wax, the feel of a chisel in my hand. It was where I’d always gone to escape.

But not now. I started with the tiny mezzanine room. It was next to the bathroom and overlooking the garden, which was small and square, dominated by the rickety shed at the end where I stored the furniture I was working on. This was a study of sorts. There was a filing cabinet full of things like accounts, documents, insurance policies; a bookshelf that mostly held manuals and reference books I used for work, and a table I had found in the junk shop at the end of the road, then sanded and waxed it, on which stood Greg’s laptop. I sat down and opened the lid, pressed the starter button and watched icons spring to the screen.

First, the emails. Before I started, I searched ‘Milena’ and ‘Livingstone’ and came up with nothing. I winced at the unopened messages that had arrived since Greg had died. There were about ninety, mostly junkmail and one sent by Fergus about half an hour before I had rung him and given him the news. He was suggesting they run a half-marathon that weekend before watching the football together. I bit my lip and deleted it.

I went through his mailboxes methodically, missing out none. Even when they had titles like ‘Customer Service’ or ‘70% off in our Clearance Sale’, I read them. There was almost nothing to do with work; he had a separate mailbox for that. Deliveries, house stuff, bookings, confirmations of travel arrangements. Several were from me and I looked at those as well. They had an easy intimacy about them that seemed far away and unfamiliar now. Death had turned Greg into a stranger; I could no longer take him for granted. Dozens were from Fergus, setting up meetings, swapping bits of gossip, sending references to websites they’d been discussing or continuing a conversation. Joe, of course. Other friends – James, Ronan, Will, Laura, Sal, Malcolm. Casual greetings and arrangements to meet. Sometimes I was mentioned: Ellie sends her love; Ellie’s sprained her ankle; Ellie’s a bit down in the dumps (had I been? I couldn’t remember); Ellie’s away and Ellie’s returned. One or two from his brothers, Ian and Simon – usually about some family-related issue, but none from his sister Kate, and none from his parents, who used to communicate with their eldest son by ringing on Friday evening at six o’clock for a fifteen-minute chat. Online articles. Blogs about subjects I hadn’t even known he cared about. When there was anything remotely interesting or curious about the emails he had been sent, I pressed the little arrow beside them to see what he’d written in reply. He was normally quite terse – he always used to say that tone was hard to detect in an email; you should be careful about irony or sarcasm. He was careful and factual, even with me.

One of Greg’s more regular email correspondents was a woman called Christine, the ex of an old friend, who he sometimes met up with; he wasn’t so careful with her. I flicked between her messages and his. She lamented approaching her thirty-sixth birthday and he said she was more attractive now than when they’d first met. She thanked him for taking a look at her boiler and he said it was nice to have an excuse to see her again. She said he was a very nice man, did he know that? And he replied that she must bring out the best in him. He was tanned after his holiday; she was radiant after hers. He was looking tired – was he overworking and was everything all right at home? He replied that she, on the other hand, was as fresh as ever and blue suited her.

‘But were things all right at home, Greg?’ I rubbed my eyes with my fists and glared at Christine’s solicitous notes, his flirtatious, evasive responses. ‘Come on, tell me.’

I moved to the sent messages, but the emails still didn’t tell me that. They told me he had ordered woodchip for the garden, grey paint for the kitchen, Omega 3 capsules for both of us; also a book on architecture and a new CD by Howling Bells, which I’d never heard of. Maybe he’d given it to someone as a present. Milena? Christine? I called up his music library and scrolled down, and there it innocently was.

I went downstairs. It was still grey outside, and soon enough it would be getting dark again. The lawn was covered with soggy leaves and the pear tree by the back wall dripped steadily. I hadn’t eaten since the Danish pastries that morning, so I made myself a piece of toast and Marmite and a cup of camomile tea and took it back to the computer. The phone rang and it was Gwen, with the number of their solicitor for me to call. I couldn’t remember the one Greg had used when we’d bought the house. Now there was so much to be sorted out. I wrote it on the notepad I found in the desk drawer and said I’d call her the following day.

Junkmail – but I found nothing apart from advertisements for Viagra, fake Rolex watches, amazing investment opportunities, guaranteed loans, unsecured credit and an invitation to the online casino, where everyone is king.

Trash. Greg was pretty efficient at getting rid of old messages and, anyway, they only went back a few weeks: obviously the ones older than these were deleted at an even deeper level, somewhere in the mysterious circuitry of the computer. I ploughed doggedly through them, feeling I was getting nowhere and simply wasting my time. There was a strange little message from Tania, in which she said she didn’t really understand his query and he should ask Joe about it.

I got the phone from our bedroom – my bedroom – and called Joe on the office number.

‘Yes?’ He sounded unusually curt.

‘It’s me. Is that the way you usually talk to clients?’

‘Ellie.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s one of those days. I was going to call you this evening. Tell me about the inquest. Are you all –’

‘Were there any problems with your business?’

‘How do you mean?’

I repeated the question, mentioning the email I’d found on Greg’s computer.

‘What date did you say?’

‘A week or so ago.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m scrolling through my mail and there’s nothing I can see from Greg about a worry.’

‘So, everything was OK?’

‘Depends what you mean. If you want me to bend your ear about clients who don’t pay up on time, don’t give us proper information and then complain, or dealing with the Revenue and the nightmare of bureaucracy… But that’s just business as usual and you’ve got problems of your own.’

‘All the work Greg had to do late at the office, that wasn’t because there were problems?’

‘Did he often work late?’ His tone was cautious, with an underlying note of sympathy.

I felt the blood flame into my cheeks. ‘That is, he came home late recently. Later than usual anyway.’

‘Did he seem stressed?’

‘No. At least, not really.’

‘Not really?’

‘You know, I keep thinking back and seeing things I didn’t notice at the time – or, at least, thinking I can see things. Maybe he was a bit preoccupied. Or maybe I’m making that up.’

There was a silence at the other end. I knew what Joe was thinking: that perhaps Greg was preoccupied because he was having an affair. I waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was too respectful of my feelings.

‘If he was worried, though,’ I continued, ‘I think he would have told me. He wouldn’t have protected me. That’s not the kind of marriage we had. That I thought we had. We were in things together; we shared things.’

‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Greg would have told you.’

‘You mean about everything?’

Another silence.

‘Ellie, I’m finishing up here. Can I come round on my way home? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can talk this through.’

‘I won’t be here.’

I found her address in his old address book and decided to walk, even though she lived in Clerkenwell and probably wouldn’t be in anyway, and even though the drizzle outside was turning into a steady downpour. It didn’t feel like something I could express over the phone.

As I arrived, I saw her coming from the other direction, feeling in her bag for her door key. She was wearing a belted mac and a scarf tied round her head, and looked like a fifties film star in one of those classy black-and-white French movies.

‘Hello.’

I stood in front of her and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, then gave an exaggerated little start. ‘Ellie? My God. I meant to get in touch. I’m so very, very sorry. He was such a lovely –’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course. You’re soaked.’

I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my inquest clothes and had forgotten to put on a jacket. It was true that I was cold and wet. I must have looked dreadful.

I followed Christine up the stairs and into a spacious kitchen-living room. She took off her mac and hung it over the back of a chair, pulled the scarf off her head and shook out her chestnut hair.

‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just at the moment.’ Then she offered me tea.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Or coffee, or a cold drink?’

‘Is that the boiler Greg fixed?’ I asked. ‘He never managed to get ours sorted.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Christine sat down opposite me, then stood up and filled the kettle but didn’t switch it on. She turned towards me. ‘Is there a particular reason you came?’

‘I wanted to ask you something.’

Her face took on the eager, helpful expression I’d become so familiar with since Greg’s death.

‘You were friendly with Greg.’

‘That’s right,’ said Christine. ‘I was devastated when I heard.’

‘Would you say you were close to him?’

‘It depends what you mean by close.’ Her tone was cautious now.

‘I read your emails to each other.’

‘Yes?’

‘He thought blue suited you.’ Her expression had changed: no longer eager but embarrassed. I pressed on. ‘How close?’

‘You mean…’ She stopped.

‘Yes.’

‘You poor thing,’ she said softly.

I stared at her. Shame flushed through me, leaving me clammy. I gripped the table with both hands. ‘You’re telling me there was nothing between you, then?’

‘We were friends.’

‘Even though you told him he was a very nice man and complimented him on his tan and asked him how things were at home, and he said you looked radiant?’

There was a nasty little silence, and then she said, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘He never tried to make it go further?’ I felt abject, and also disgusted by myself.

She gazed at me with a pity that made me want to crawl under a stone.

‘I heard he was with another woman,’ she said.

‘Who from?’

‘People. I didn’t know who she was. Greg and I were just friends.’

I thought of Christine and nameless other people talking about Greg and the other woman in the car. A wave of nausea assailed me. ‘I ought to go. I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. About everything.’

It was dark outside, with rain still falling and a stiff wind, so I flagged down a cab and sat with my arms wrapped round myself, feeling wretched. When I reached my front door I discovered I didn’t have enough money to pay the driver so I ran inside, then came back out to pay the driver with odd bits of money I’d discovered in various drawers and pockets. I’d found a five-pound note in Greg’s old leather jacket, which was still hanging in the hall. When was I going to sort out his things? A list of tasks streamed through my mind: contact the lawyer, the bank, the building society, find out about our financial affairs, our mortgage, any life policies, ring up the insurance broker, organize the funeral, answer all the messages I’d received over the past days, learn how to operate the video-recorder, cancel the appointment we’d made together at the fertility clinic, change the message on the answering-machine, which still had Greg’s voice saying hello and please call back later because Greg and Ellie weren’t around just now. Ellie was around, but Greg wasn’t and Greg would never be. Greg with his dark eyes and his wide smile and his strong, warm hands. He used to rub my neck at the end of a long day. He used to wash my hair for me, easing out the tangles. He used to bite his lower lip when he read. He used to walk around the house naked, singing loudly and tunelessly. He used to tell me about his days, or so I had thought. He used to watch me as I got undressed, his arms behind his head and a grave look on his face, waiting. He used to lie on his back in bed and snore gently. He used to wake up and turn to me, smiling in welcome as I struggled out of sleep.

Who else’s neck had he rubbed, hair had he washed? Who else had undressed for him, taking off garments one by one while he looked at them with the gaze I had thought was for me alone? Who had he lain beside in bed, putting out his hand to touch and comfort? All at once, a jealousy so pure and visceral it felt almost like intense physical desire swept through me, leaving me breathless and shaken. I had to sit on the stairs for a few seconds, trying to breathe normally, before I could make it to the bedroom.

I’d been going to have a bath but I’d forgotten to turn on the hot water. I peeled off my wet clothes and put on a pair of jogging pants and a thick sweatshirt that had belonged to Greg and was vast on me. One of its sleeves was frayed and I put it into my mouth and chewed it. He used to wear it when he went running on winter days and it still held his smell. I went downstairs into the kitchen, feeling a bit dazed. I half expected to see him standing at the hob and this would all have been a feverish nightmare. We had shared the cooking, done it together. Our last meal had been pasta with a chilli sauce, nothing special. He only had a few dishes in his repertory: risotto, bean stew, Moroccan lamb, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and he cooked them with ferocious concentration, as if they were laboratory experiments that might go badly wrong, with dire consequences.

It occurred to me that since he had died I’d barely cooked beyond making toast. Gwen had made me a vegetable lasagne, Mary had produced salmon fillet with baked tomatoes and watched me as I failed to eat it, and Fergus had brought round a cold roast chicken and garlic bread, which was, I thought, still in the fridge. My neighbour, Annie, had made me too many cakes and soups, as had my mother. Cooking for one is sad when you’re used to cooking for two. I decided to poach myself an egg. Eggs are comforting, I thought, as I waited for the water to boil in the pan, then cracked an egg into it, slid a piece of stale bread into the toaster. The meal took about three minutes to make and three to eat. Now what?

Throughout that night I worked very hard, stopping only for a mug of tea at ten, a glass of whisky at midnight (I had somehow acquired three bottles of whisky since Greg had died: it’s the drink people think a grieving widow will turn to), a chicken sandwich at two. I sat in the living room and went through his address book again, writing down names I didn’t recognize. I went through his diary, though it wasn’t his work one, just the old book he kept personal appointments in, and didn’t find a single thing that made me suspicious. I went through all of his papers, which had been neatly sorted into categories and then by date. I went through the box of old letters in the junk room that should have been an office. I went through his school reports, his qualifications and diplomas, his photo albums from the years before he met me and before the world had gone digital. He was a sweet, gangly, loose-limbed child; his expectant smile hadn’t changed. I emptied the contents of boxes on to the floor and examined them: old vinyl records, compilation tapes he’d made when he was a teenager, books we hadn’t got round to putting on the shelves, magazines going back years. I pulled out each drawer in our bedroom and went through his clothes, folding them neatly and putting them back in their proper place because I had discovered I wasn’t ready yet to give any away.

I opened the cupboard under the stairs and took out every object there – bike panniers, a squash racket, two pairs of running shoes, an old tent we hadn’t used since that trip to Scotland when it had rained non-stop and we had eaten fish and chips and listened to the rain hammering on the canvas. He had told me then that wherever I was that was his home. We had both cried.

At six, because it was too early to go out and I had gone through everything in the house, I started making a list of people I would ask to the funeral. At the end, there were a hundred and twenty names and I gazed at them in despair. How many people would fit into the crematorium chapel, how many into the front room? Should I provide food and drink? Should I ask people to do readings or make little speeches? And what about music? Why wasn’t Greg here to advise me?

At eight o’clock I made myself a bowl of porridge – half milk, half water, with golden sugar sprinkled liberally over the top – and a large pot of strong coffee. Then I washed and got dressed in an ancient corduroy skirt that came down to my ankles and a dark blue jersey with a hole in the elbow that Greg had given me when we first met. Because it was cold and grey, I put on a duffel coat, and wrapped a red scarf round my neck. Now I was a bundle of wool and itchy layers.

Kentish Town Road was thick with cars and people on their way to work. I got on to the overcrowded Underground train that took me to Euston, then walked the last few hundred yards to Greg’s workplace. It was on the second floor of a recently renovated office block. They had moved in there a few months earlier; when their firm had expanded they had needed more than three desks, three computers and several filing cabinets. Once it had just been Joe and Greg, now there were people I didn’t recognize. They needed rooms with doors for clients, lavatories, a coffee-machine and a water-cooler. I rang the bell and before long Tania was ushering me in, taking my coat and scarf, pulling out a chair for me, too solicitously offering tea, coffee, biscuits, anything at all, gazing at me with her big brown eyes, shaking her head in horror and sympathy so that her ponytail bounced. She was like a puppy, an eager spaniel trying to please.

‘Is Joe here?’

‘He’s in his office. I’ll go and fetch him.’

At that moment Joe came striding across the room towards me, holding his arms out well before he reached me, and Tania seemed to melt away. ‘You should have told me you were coming,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘You look absolutely exhausted.’

‘I’ve been up all night. I was looking through Greg’s stuff.’

‘Sorting things out?’

‘Trying to find out what he’d been up to.’

‘Here, come and tell me.’ He took my arm and led me into his office, which was really no more than a small glass cubicle. On the white wall behind his chaotic desk hung a photograph of his family: his wife, Alison, and his three children, who were teenagers now but in the picture were still small and childish. Alison stood behind them, her arms circling the little group protectively. I saw how the three children were a bit like her and a bit like him, and felt fierce regret and sadness fill me from top to toe.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said, as I sat in the chair he pulled out for me. ‘There wasn’t anything strange.’

Joe’s brow wrinkled. ‘What were you expecting?’

‘I don’t know. That was why I was looking. I need to go through his things here as well.’

He seemed taken aback. ‘There’s not much personal stuff. I think Tania’s already packed up most of it. I really don’t think there’s anything else except clients’ files and government regulations.’

‘It’s his work things I want to go through. His papers, his diary, his appointments.’

‘I see.’ He sounded sympathetic but stern, too, and I dropped my eyes under his gaze.

‘There must be something to show me he was having an affair with this Milena.’

‘Ellie…’

‘Because I’m telling you, Joe, there’s nothing at home – I mean nothing – that suggests he was having an affair with her or anyone else. You had no idea, or so you say. Neither did Fergus. Or anyone. And nor did I. Even now I look back and can’t see it.’

Joe nodded a few times, then got up and stared out at the room beyond. Then he turned back to me. On his face was an expression of kind patience that made me squirm. ‘Maybe he was just good at keeping secrets.’

‘He can’t have been that good. Not Greg. He was incapable of lying about anything. If he was having an affair, someone would have known. There would be evidence somewhere.’

‘But don’t you see, Ellie? Whatever you do, however much you search, you can’t prove he wasn’t having an affair?’

‘He couldn’t have left no trace.’

‘Perhaps not. Perhaps you’ll turn his whole life upside-down and investigate everything and eventually find something.’

‘Well, then.’

‘But why do you want to?’

‘Why? Because I have to. Don’t you understand? I loved him. I thought he loved me…’

‘He loved you.’

‘I knew him, Joe. I knew our life together. Or I thought I did. And now he’s dead and there’s this mystery and everyone’s pitying me and I look back at our life and I can’t see it any longer, can’t trust it. It’s like the lights have all gone out and everything I trusted I can’t any more. And I can’t ask him. I want to ask him what the hell was going on. I can’t believe he won’t ever be able to tell me, that we won’t be able to talk about it together. If he was dead and that was it, no other woman involved, at least I could miss him and remember him with tenderness and feel good about what we had – but even that’s muddied by this. I can’t even mourn him properly. I feel humiliated, ashamed, tangled up in all these emotions. It’s a mess. I’m a mess.’

‘He loved you,’ Joe repeated. His voice was gentle, insistent. ‘Even if he was having an affair, he loved you very much.’

‘So you think he was, then!’

‘I’m saying if.’

‘I don’t want ifs.’

‘But, in all likelihood, that’s all you’re going to get.’

‘I can’t accept it.’

‘Everyone has secrets. Everyone does things they don’t want to be discovered.’

‘Have you, then?’

‘What? Had an affair?’

‘Yes. Have you?’

‘Why would you believe my answer? Do you think I’d tell you if I had? And if I had, would it somehow make it more likely that Greg had as well, and if I hadn’t does the same apply?’

‘You have, haven’t you?’ Of course he had, I thought. All those women who crowded round him.

But Joe put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stop this, Ellie.’

‘Sorry. But, Joe, tell me, do you think Greg was being unfaithful?’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I… Honestly, I just don’t know. But perhaps he was, yes. And then, of course, you have the circumstances of his death.’

‘I see.’ I bit my lip and sat for a while, composing myself. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ellie.’ His voice was painfully sympathetic.

‘I still want to look through his things.’

He shrugged helplessly. ‘If that’s what you need. We didn’t know you were coming so it’s in a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’

It was more than a bit of a mess – it was in disarray. There were files lying open on every surface, piles of paper stacked on the desk and floor, thick accounting books pulled off shelves.

‘Sorry,’ said Joe.

He installed me at Greg’s old desk with his computer in front of me, and then his electronic organizer. Tania brought files and folders and I trawled through them as well. I looked at accounts, receipts, letters from clients, recommendations, rules and regulations, lines of figures, application forms, consent forms, VAT forms, tax returns, expenses, queries about trusts and power-of-attorney. There were pink and yellow Post-it notes stuck on some, scrawled with Greg’s slapdash writing. Meaningless. I had no idea what I was searching for and it was quickly apparent to me that I might as well have been reading a hieroglyphic script. I felt my brain throb as I searched for connections I knew I wouldn’t find. Joe put cups of coffee beside me and I let them go cold. Tania brought me a cheese and tomato bap and asked me if there was anything that needed explaining.

‘One thing,’ I said. ‘You sent an email to Greg at home, saying he should ask Joe about whatever it was that was worrying him. Do you remember what it was about?’

Tania wrinkled her button nose and furrowed her smooth brow. ‘No,’ she replied eventually, ‘so it can’t have been important, can it? Do you want me to look out the original email he sent?’

‘If it’s not too much bother.’

‘I might have deleted it if it was dealt with.’

I wished I’d brought Fergus with me – he was some kind of computer whiz and he’d done freelance work for the firm several times. He’d even been here on Greg’s last day. He’d have been able to guide me through.

I made a list of all the clients Greg had visited over the last three weeks, with their phone numbers and addresses, and stared at them, the names blurring. I looked at the A–Z and my head buzzed with tiredness and a despairing frustration. Anything was better than not knowing. For how could I say goodbye to Greg when I no longer knew who he was? How could I get him back?

Chapter Six

It was while the undertaker was going through the price options that I descended into a form of mental illness. I experienced the feeling I had once had as a teenager – probably all teenagers have it – that I was the only real person in the world and that everyone else was an actor playing a part. The undertaker’s in Kentish Town was much like any other shop in the high street offering a service, an estate agent or a white-goods supplier. But this one had been made over in shades of grey with fake pillars supporting the reception desk and white lilies in vases, so that it looked a bit like a mausoleum. Sombre new-agey music, something on Pan pipes, was playing in the background. Of course, Mr Collingwood, the funeral director, was dressed in a navy suit with a white carnation and, of course, he offered me his condolences in a subdued voice as he pushed the price list across his desk towards me.

In the same subdued voice, he talked about the services they offered, the collection and care of the deceased, the arrangements for visiting the chapel of rest. He murmured that there were decisions to be made: religious or secular, burial, cremation or special facilities, and then there were the extras. As I looked through the section of the brochure devoted to coffins – chipboard lined with plastic, wood veneer, solid wood, cardboard, woven willow – I began to think of Mr Collingwood as an actor. I wasn’t angry about this, or bitter. I didn’t want him to dress like an ice-cream salesman or to grin as if he was trying to sell me a new car. But I couldn’t help thinking that it was almost four thirty. He might have been at a funeral that morning and he must have had lunch, perhaps in one of the new cafés that had opened in the high street in the last two years. He would have seen at least a couple of people before me, and now it wasn’t long until the end of the day. Perhaps he was also thinking about the evening, dinner, seeing his children. Maybe one of them was having trouble at school and he would have to sit with them as they did their homework. For all I knew it was his wedding anniversary or his birthday, and he was going out for dinner. He might have been diagnosed with a fatal disease or he might have won the lottery, but now he was playing the role of the undertaker, with the right note of dignity, competence and concern.

He couldn’t really care about me. In fact, I didn’t want him to. He hadn’t known Greg and he didn’t know me, and if I suspected he was feeling real emotion about my loss, it would be creepy, as if I had caught him breaking into my house. So he was giving a performance, just well enough, and as I paged numbly through the brochure, it struck me that everyone I had dealt with had been performing as well. The coroner had been respectful and serious but he had finished in time for lunch; he might have gone straight to his club and laughed about the ridiculous case he had just heard or he might have forgotten about it and told dirty jokes, or gone back to his office alone and drunk whisky from a half-bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk. It didn’t matter. While sitting in the court he had played the role of coroner in the presence of a grieving widow. The policewomen had acted the way you act when you tell a wife that her husband has died. If they had been returning a lost cat to a little girl, they would have acted in the appropriate style for that. The registrar at the hospital had performed in the way you perform when a relative comes to view a body.

It couldn’t just be a matter of behaving according to their emotions because they couldn’t feel those emotions any more, not when they had done it a hundred times. And why should the hundredth grieving family member not get the same treatment as the first? In reality, the hundredth probably gets better treatment than the first. When the emotion is real, you can’t handle it: it overflows and comes out in the wrong way. When it’s real, you’re not dignified and sombre: you grin inappropriately and say the wrong thing and make awkward gestures.

I wondered if it was only the doctors, policemen and undertakers who were performing. Wasn’t it a bit true of my friends as well? I thought of Gwen and Mary. When something really big happens, like a death, we play parts we’re familiar with. They were being the supportive best friends in time of crisis, using the repertoire of concerned expressions, gestures and consoling phrases, taking my hand, touching my forearm. I was the same, of course. I was in the starring role. This was another feeling that almost drove me mad, the sense that I had to act myself, that I had convincingly to impersonate emotions I wasn’t really feeling. I hadn’t played the part in those terrible seconds when I was told and must have given a bad performance, stammering, forgetting my lines; confused and shocked rather than grief-struck. But when I had entered Mr Collingwood’s office, I had been safely in the role of the widow, just as he had been in the role of the undertaker. This extended to my costume – dignified and restrained, but not black.

‘Do you have any thoughts, Ms Falkner?’

The tone remained subdued, but now he was reminding me that time was limited. Greg hadn’t left a will, let alone instructions for a funeral. He hadn’t been planning to die. I had tried to think what he would have wanted. ‘What he would have wanted’, that awful patronizing way of talking about the dead, as if they’ve been reduced to caricatures: Greg would have wanted this, Greg would have been amused by that. If Greg had planned his own funeral, he would probably have come up with something strange and homemade, a Viking pyre, ashes shot out of a cannon, buried at sea. I couldn’t compete with him there. I just needed it to be simple.

I made the decisions quickly. Cremation. A non-religious ceremony. Maybe somebody could say something, we could play a piece of music. Then there was the question of the coffin. More irrelevant thoughts kept coming to me. When we had decided to get married, Greg insisted on getting me an engagement ring and we went to Hatton Garden together. It turned out that Greg knew all about types of metal and carats and stones. Things I had never even thought of turned out to be important. I was sure he would have had strong views on the coffin. The mahogany was probably dubiously sourced. The plastic lining on the cheapest would probably contribute to global warming. Maybe all cremations did. He knew things like that.

‘Do people really buy cardboard coffins?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Collingwood. ‘Some families like to decorate them, paint them and so forth. They can look…’ he seemed to search for the right word ‘… remarkable.’

I could have done it. I could even have built the coffin. I had made most of the things in our house or, at least, restored them.

‘I think I’ll spare people that,’ I said.

I chose a coffin made from woven willow because it didn’t look like a coffin. Mr Collingwood said approvingly that it was chosen by many people who were concerned about environmental issues. For some reason that irritated me and I suddenly wished I’d chosen one made of hazardous waste. Mr Collingwood excused himself and withdrew into a small office at the back. I heard the grinding sound of a printer and he returned with a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk towards me. ‘We believe it’s important to give a written estimate,’ he said.

I looked at it and gulped. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized…’ Then I stopped, suddenly ashamed. It didn’t seem a decent subject to haggle over but I had been startled. The estimate was more than we had paid for our car, and that hadn’t been particularly cheap. Mr Collingwood wasn’t disconcerted – he must have had worse cases than me. He assured me that the funeral could be as simple as I wanted.

I studied the estimate, item by item. ‘You will organize the whole funeral?’

Mr Collingwood nodded.

I took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ I said.

I meant to go straight home. There were so many things that needed doing, so many tasks and lists and duties. Instead I went into Kentish Town station, took a southbound train and got off at Kennington. When I came out of the station I felt, as I always did when I came south of the river, that I had emerged in a city in another country, even if the language was deceptively similar, as if I had arrived in New York or Sydney. I knew that the Livingstones had lived at number sixteen Dormer Road, so I went into a newsagent’s and bought an A–Z. It took only a few minutes to walk there – but in those minutes I went from one world, of high-rise blocks and dilapidated tenements, to another, of discreet wealth and cool grandeur.

The Livingstones’ house was large and white, set back from the road. I instantly disliked its pillared porch and raked gravel, and this helped me march up the short sweep of a drive and ring the bell before I had time to think about what I was doing or prepare an explanation. Only when I heard footsteps coming towards the door did I feel a tremble of anxiety go through me.

‘Yeah?’

Why had I assumed it would be Hugo Livingstone, Milena’s husband, who answered the door? The youth who stood in front of me was tall and skinny, all angles and joints. I thought he must be in his late teens. He had long, dark, unbrushed hair, eyes that were almost black. He was wearing boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt; as on the day of the inquest, he had a stud in his nose. I smiled cautiously at him but he stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a flat, assessing stare on his face.

‘Is Hugo Livingstone in?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘You’re his son, aren’t you? I saw you at the inquest.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He gave a mock bow, knees knobbly below his boxers, quite unembarrassed by his state of undress – indeed, I thought he was revelling in it. ‘Silvio Livingstone.’

‘Silvio?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an assertive tone, as if daring me to comment on it.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I said.

‘Stepmother.’ The way he said it was so blatantly contemptuous that I was startled. He must have seen my expression change for he gave a challenging grin.

‘I’m sorry all the same,’ I managed. ‘Do you know when he –’

‘No. He works from early to late.’ Everything he said seemed to have a sarcastic ring. ‘It’s only me that lounges around.’ He was obviously imitating someone when he said the last two words – his stepmother, I guessed.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’

I didn’t pretend not to understand who he was talking about, simply nodded.

‘What do you want here, then?’

‘I thought we should meet. Given everything.’

‘You want to come in?’

‘It was only if your father was here.’

‘He isn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘About them, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Did you?’

‘Not about your husband,’ he said.

For a reason I didn’t understand, I found I was more comfortable with this wretchedly sarcastic, angrily self-conscious young man than I had been with anyone else since Greg had died.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Unless you think your dad would be angry.’

‘It’s my house too.’

‘Just for a few minutes, then. Maybe you could make me some coffee.’

‘And you can ask me questions about her instead of asking Dad. At least I’ll be honest. I’m not the one she made a fool of.’

He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have – had – on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.

‘Black coffee?’ He was filling the kettle.

‘White,’ I said. ‘So, you had no idea about Greg – my husband?’

‘Why would we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.’ I was getting very tired of this phrase. ‘Milena liked secrets.’ He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. ‘It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumour.’

‘So it wasn’t a surprise?’

‘Not really. The dying was, of course.’

‘What about your father?’

‘I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.’

I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. ‘So you’re not really sure?’

For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘They died together,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty intimate.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you mean?’

‘I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?’

‘I haven’t looked. Why should I?’

‘And your father?’

‘My father?’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.’

‘I see.’

‘You probably don’t,’ he said.

‘I guess not.’ I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. ‘Thanks, Silvio.’ I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.

‘You’re not what I’d expected,’ he said, at the front door.

‘What you expected?’

‘Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.’

‘It sounds like you’re making fun of me,’ I said.

Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.

A thought struck before I walked away. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’

I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.

‘I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,’ I said.

‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’

He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.

Chapter Seven

There was one thing I knew I had to do before the funeral. I’d been thinking about it since the inquest, imagining what it looked like, and recently I’d even started dreaming about it – jerking awake from dreams of a deep pit in the middle of London, Greg’s red car hurtling to the bottom, bursting into flames there. Porton Way. I’d wake with images of his face pressed against the windscreen, his mouth open in a scream of terror. Or of his body crushed against Milena’s as flames licked them.

If I’d asked Gwen or Mary, they’d have been eager to accompany me, but this was something I needed to do alone. And so, the day before the funeral when I was supposed to be making final arrangements, I headed east. It wasn’t an area of London I really knew, though it wasn’t far from where we lived (where you live, I corrected myself fiercely; not ‘we’ any more) and I mistook the route, getting off at Stratford. It took me about twenty-five minutes to walk to Porton Way, nearly getting myself killed as I dashed across the great arterial routes that lead east out of London. The sky, which had been grey when I left that morning, turned an ominous purple-brown; a storm was coming, and occasional raindrops splashed my cheek. A bitter wind was blowing over the London streets, whipping up litter and the last of the autumn leaves, which swirled along the pavement.

The entire area seemed to have been turned into a building site. Giant cranes punctuated the horizon and swathes of land had been turned into rubble and sticky mud, scarred with wide trenches. There were Portakabins behind high fences, men in hard hats driving diggers, temporary lights redirecting traffic.

Porton Way, lying at the bottom of a steep incline, was dismal, abandoned, full of half-smashed warehouses and the remnants of old houses, which had been brought to the ground in a pile of bricks and cement blocks. One house was still standing among the ruins, though its front wall had been ripped away. Even from below, I could still see the wallpaper and the old bathtub. Once people had lived there, I thought, sat in that kitchen.

I consulted the map, tracing the route Greg had driven with a finger. What a drab, dreary, ugly place to come for a tryst. But private. Even now, in the middle of the morning, there was no one around; it looked as though work had been suspended for the time being. As I trudged towards the fatal corner, it started to rain, the skies opening up and releasing an onslaught, water streaming down my cheeks, seeping into my inadequate jacket. The bottoms of my jeans were soon soaking. Water squelched in my shoes. My hair lashed wetly against my face. I could barely see where I was going.

But there I was, at the steep corner. This was where it had happened. Greg had gone straight across and plunged down that embankment. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Where had he landed exactly? Was there anything remaining of the car? I left the road and clambered down the slope, but the mud was like slippery clay and I half fell, putting out my hand to catch myself, ripping my sleeve on a thick bramble. I heard myself give a sob.

It seemed to take a long time to get to the bottom, and by the time I arrived I was muddy and sodden. My forehead stung and when I put a hand up, it came away red with blood, which trickled into my eye, making it even harder to see where I was going. I took off my scarf and held it against the cut.

And what was I doing there, anyway? What could I hope to prove – that Greg wouldn’t have come to this place? He wouldn’t, but he had. That he wouldn’t have taken his eyes off the road on a sharp corner? He wouldn’t but he had. That he would have worn a seatbelt? He would but he hadn’t. What did I expect to find – to feel? Some kind of – what was that horrible word the coroner had used at the inquest? – closure? Of course not, yet I knew I had to be there anyway, in some ritual that would have no effect and make no difference.

In fact, it was quite clear where the car had landed, although it had obviously been cleared away long ago. There was a charred patch of land, a small crater in the larger one of Porton Way. I made my way across and squatted. So, this was where Greg had died. I stared at the gash in the earth. I blinked away the streaming rain and pushed my hair back. Drops of blood escaped the scarf I still held to my forehead and I could taste them on my lips, their iron tang. The woman at the inquest had said Greg wouldn’t have suffered. Did he even know, as he was dying, that this was the end, or had it been too quick even for that? Had he thought of me?

At last I stood up, miserably cold and wet, my jeans sticking to my legs. There was nothing for me here. I turned my back on the site and trudged up the hill. At some point I realized I’d dropped my scarf, and when I turned I could see it, a wisp of colour on the muddy ground. The blood trickled down my face like tears, and when I finally reached the Underground station I thought people were looking at me strangely. I didn’t care.

When I arrived home, it was mid-afternoon and my fingers were so numb I could barely turn the key in the lock.

‘Ellie?’

I jumped at his voice behind me and turned. ‘Joe – what are you doing here?’

‘What do you think? I’ve come to see you. But what on earth have you been up to? You look –’ He stopped, staring at me with a kind of fascination. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said finally.

‘Oh, nothing. I just went out and it started pouring with rain,’ I said feebly. I didn’t really want to talk about my day, not even to Joe.

‘You’ve got blood all over your face.’

‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. It probably looks worse than it is because of the rain. Do you want to come in?’

‘Just for a minute.’

I managed to get the door open and we stepped into the hall. I pulled off my mud-caked boots and struggled out of my jacket, then stood dripping on to the floor.

‘Here,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not important but I thought you’d want this. It was in the kitchen and we missed it.’

He’d brought me Greg’s favourite mug. It had the photograph of him finishing his marathon last year printed on it, although repeated washing had faded the image. I took it from Joe and looked at it, at Greg’s triumphant, exhausted smile. I’d met him afterwards and put my arms round his sweaty body and kissed his sweaty face and his salty lips.

‘And I wanted to check if there was anything I could do for the funeral.’

‘You probably just wanted to check, full stop,’ I said.

He smiled ruefully at me. ‘Well, I can see you’re taking excellent care of yourself. Go and have a bath.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘While you’re at it, can I do anything for you? Tidy up a bit or make you a warm drink?’

‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’

‘Ellie?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re all right?’

‘What? Yes. You know.’

‘You’ll tell me if you’re not?’

‘Yes.’

Chapter Eight

Afterwards, I remembered the funeral only as a collection of random moments, all of them bad. We had been told we had to arrive five minutes before the eleven thirty start because there were funerals before and afterwards. So, we found ourselves standing outside the north London crematorium waiting for our turn. We were a collection of old friends, family members, hovering, not quite sure what to say or do. I noticed people recognizing each other, breaking into a smile, then remembering they were at a funeral and forcing sadness on to their faces.

The hearse arrived, the back door opened and the wicker coffin was exposed. Mr Collingwood always referred to it as a casket, as if that was more respectful of the dead. It wasn’t lifted by pall-bearers, but trundled into the chapel on a silly little trolley that looked as if it should be moving packing cases into a supermarket. It rattled clumsily over the cracks between the paving stones. Mr Collingwood had warned me about it in advance, saying it had been forced on them by their insurers. There had been reports of serious back injury.

A middle-aged woman, who must have been a relative of Greg’s, asked if we should follow it in.

‘They’re going to get it in position,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if the group before us has finished.’ It was as if we’d booked a tennis court. Greg’s relative, if that was who she was, stayed next to me. I felt no need to try any small-talk.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

I still hadn’t worked out what to say when people said how sorry they were. ‘Thank you’ didn’t seem quite right. Sometimes I’d mumbled something meaningless. This time I just nodded.

‘It must be so terrible for you,’ she said.

‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘It was such a shock.’

Still she didn’t go away. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘the circumstances were so awkward. It must be so… well, you know… for you.’

And then I thought, Oh, right, I understand. Suddenly I felt bloody-minded. ‘What do you mean?’

But she was tougher than I was. She wouldn’t be diverted. ‘I mean the circumstances,’ she said. ‘The person he died with. It must be so upsetting.’

I felt as if I had an open wound and this woman had put her finger into it and was probing to see whether I would cry out or scream. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. I didn’t want to give her anything.

‘I’m just sad I’ve lost my husband,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing else to say.’ I walked away from her and looked at the gardens. There were shrubs and little hedges of an institutional kind, the sort you might see in the car park of a business centre. The building itself had a mid-twentieth-century solidity about it but was noncommittal at the same time, a bit like a church, a bit like a school. But behind, and towering above it, was a chimney. They couldn’t hide that. There was smoke coming out of it. It couldn’t be Greg. Not yet.

Now I was sure. I had known already, but perhaps I’d forced it out of my mind, especially for the funeral. Everyone, absolutely everyone, knew that Greg had died with another woman and that this meant they had been having an affair. And what did they think about me?

My next memory of the funeral places me inside, right at the front, next to Greg’s parents. I could feel the crowd of mourners behind me, staring at the back of my head. They were sorry for me, but what else did they feel? A little bit of embarrassment, contempt? Poor old Ellie. She hasn’t only been made a widow: she’s been humiliated, abandoned, her marriage exposed as a sham. Would they be speculating about us? Was it Greg’s roving eye? Was it Ellie’s failings as a wife?

Greg’s brother Ian and his sister Kate had both rung me with suggestions for the service. I had resented this at first. I felt possessive, territorial. Then, suddenly, I’d thought of the funeral as a nightmare version of Desert Island Discs, choosing music and poetry to show what a sensitive and interesting person Greg had been and how well I’d understood him. The idea of choosing poems with an eye on what it would make people think of my good taste repelled me so I rang Ian and Kate back and said I’d leave it to them.

Ian came to the front and read some Victorian poem that was meant to be consoling but I stopped paying attention halfway through. Then Greg’s other brother, Simon, read something from the Bible that sounded familiar from school assemblies. I couldn’t follow that either. The individual words made sense, but I forgot the meaning of the sentences as they unfolded. Then Kate said she was going to play a song that had meant a lot to Greg. There was a pause that went on too long and then a rattling in some speakers on the wall as someone pressed play and then what was clearly the wrong song came on, perhaps a song from the funeral afterwards or the one before. It was a power ballad I remembered having heard in a movie, one with Kevin Costner. It was completely alien to Greg, who had liked scratchy songs played on steel guitars by wizened Americans who had served time in prison, or looked as if they had. I glanced across and saw panic on Kate’s face. She was visibly wondering whether she could run out and switch off this awful song, find the right CD and put it on, then deciding she couldn’t.

It was the only bit of the funeral that really meant anything to me. For just one moment, I had a vivid sense of what it would have been like if Greg had been there, and how he would have looked at me, and how we would have struggled not to laugh, and how we would have cackled about it afterwards, and how it would have become a standing joke. It was the closest I got to crying all day, but even then I didn’t cry.

When we were spilling out afterwards, we collided with another group about to come in and I realized that in another hour they would be colliding with yet another. We were on a conveyor-belt of grief.

Everybody was invited back to my place where we had the worst party of all time. It wasn’t that the food was bad, far from it. At first I had planned to hit a supermarket and buy everything ready-made but then I’d decided to do it myself. I’d spent the evening and night before making tart-lets with goat’s cheese and red onion and cherry tomatoes and mozzarella and salami. There were toppings on little pieces of dried toast. I’d stuffed red peppers and baked cheese straws. I’d bought a kilo of olives with anchovies and chillies. I’d bought a case of red wine and another of white. I’d baked two cakes. There was coffee, tea, a selection of infusions, and yet it was still the worst party of all time.

It combined the ingredients of different kinds of bad party. For a start, quite a lot of people didn’t turn up. Some friends weren’t even at the funeral. Others didn’t come to the house. They might have felt embarrassed by the circumstances, by the humiliation. It gave the party a forlorn, rejected atmosphere.

Once people started arriving, I was reminded of those awful teenage parties where the boys cluster in a corner, giggling among themselves, staring at the girls but not daring to approach them. Something tribal had happened. Maybe my perspective had been poisoned, but I felt that it was as if Greg had left me for Milena and there were those who were taking his side against me.

Gwen and Mary were there and, of course, they were entirely in my camp. They fetched drinks and food and hovered around me, murmuring words of support. I half expected us to put our handbags on the floor and dance round them.

My parents were there, old and crumpled, and my sister Maria, looking furious – as if Greg had done her a personal wrong by dying in the way he had. Then there was Fergus, whose eyes were swollen with grief; I envied him that. He had wanted to read something at the funeral but at the last moment pulled out. He said he didn’t think he’d manage it. I got the impression from Jemma, his hugely pregnant wife, that he had been sobbing on and off since it had happened.

There were people like Joe and Tania, who drifted between the camps, making heroic and doomed efforts to bring them together. There were groups of Greg’s and my friends, but everything seemed forced and awkward.

In a strange way, the people I took most comfort from were not friends, certainly not family, but those I had never met before. There was an old primary-school friend whose name I recognized as the James with whom Greg had run three-legged races; there was a large man with a face like a bloodhound’s who had taught Greg piano when he was a teenager. There were several clients, who came up to tell me how much they had depended on Greg, trusted him, liked him, and would miss him now that he was gone. It was such a relief to be with people who didn’t know the back-story to his death, and were there simply to say goodbye.

‘He was a very dear young man,’ said Mrs Sutton, in a piercing voice. She wore a black silk dress and seamed stockings, and had a creased face and silver hair in an immaculate bun. She looked very old and very rich, with an aquiline nose and straight-backed bearing that seemed to belong to a different era.

‘Yes, he was,’ I agreed.

‘I always looked forward to his visits. I’m going to miss him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said absurdly.

‘As a matter of fact, he was going to visit me the day after he died. That was how I heard – when he failed to arrive I rang his office to ask where he was. It was such a shock.’ She gave me a piercing glance. ‘I’ll be eighty-eight in two months’ time. It doesn’t seem right, does it? People dying out of their turn.’

I couldn’t speak and she lifted a hand like a claw and placed it lightly over mine. ‘You have my sympathy, my dear,’ she said.

For the main part, however, it was a funeral party where nobody seemed able to do the sort of things that funeral parties are for. They couldn’t offer their condolences without seeming embarrassed or creepy; they couldn’t engage in uncomplicated, emotional reminiscences about the deceased. They couldn’t do anything else either. Some picked at the food, others gulped the wine (the woman who had approached me outside the crematorium had much more than was good for her, whether in remorse or some perverse kind of revenge). And gradually they just peeled away.

In the end, Gwen, Mary and I were left with a handful of Greg’s relatives I didn’t know; they had ordered a taxi that kept not arriving. They sat on the sofa with empty glasses, refusing top-ups and more food because it would spoil their dinner. They phoned the cab company repeatedly while we cleared and wiped and finally vacuumed around them. In the end they left, muttering something about finding a taxi in the street or catching a tube.

Gwen and Mary stayed on and I opened some more wine and told them about the woman outside the crematorium and what she had said, and Mary said, ‘You don’t have to fight it, you know.’ I asked her what she meant by that and she said I had nothing to feel bad about. Men were bastards. My friends loved me and would support me. I would get through this. I can’t remember making much of a reply. Instead I just poured myself glass after glass of wine and drank it as if I was insatiably thirsty. They asked if I wanted them to stay and I said I wanted them not to stay, so they left and I think I drank one more glass of wine, a big one, though, filled almost to the lip, so that I had to hold it with both hands.

When I was ten my grandfather had died. I didn’t want to go to the funeral but my mother said funerals were where we went to say goodbye to people who had died. We thought about them and we cried for them and we said goodbye to them and then we went back to our lives.

I lay on my bed fully clothed and couldn’t decide whether the room was rotating around me or whether my bed was rotating inside the room or whether in deep, philosophical terms it made a difference. But as I lay there, drunker than at any time since my first year at university, I knew that on that day I hadn’t cried for Greg, and, above all, I hadn’t said goodbye to him.

Chapter Nine

In the middle of the night I suddenly sat up in bed, straining my eyes in the darkness. I didn’t know what time it was. I had turned off the digital alarm clock because, over the past weeks, I had come to dread waking in the small hours and gazing at the time clicking past. I only knew that it was dark and that something had roused me. A thought, which must have wormed its way into my dreams. A memory.

Like most couples, I’m sure, Greg and I used to have conversations about which of our friends were unfaithful. After all, if one in three partners cheats on the other, or something like that, we figured we must be surrounded by people who were betraying each other. Now I remembered a conversation so vividly it was like being there again, and there we were in bed together, warm under the duvet and facing each other in the grainy half-light, his hand on my hip and my foot resting against his calf.

‘My parents?’ he was saying, and I giggled: ‘No way!’

‘Your parents?’

‘Please!’

‘Who, then?’

‘Fergus and Jemma?’ I suggested.

‘Impossible. They’ve only been together for a couple of years and he’s not that kind of guy.’

‘What kind of guy is that? And, anyway, it doesn’t need to be him, it could be her.’

‘She’s too moral. And too pregnant. What about Mary and Eric?’

‘She would have told me,’ I said firmly.

‘Sure? What about if it was him?’

‘She would definitely have told me that too. Even if she didn’t, I’d know.’

‘How?’

‘I just would. She’s a very bad liar. Her neck goes blotchy.’

‘What about me – would you be able to tell with me?’

‘Yes – so watch it.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I just would.’

‘Trusting fool.’

We smiled at each other, sure of our happiness.

I got out of bed, pushed my feet into slippers, went downstairs and into the kitchen, turning on the overhead light and blinking in the sudden dazzle. I saw from the wall clock that it was nearly three o’clock. It was windy outside and when I pressed my face to the window, trying to make out the shape of the roofs and chimneys, I imagined all those people out there, lying safely in bed with each other, warm and submerged in their dreams. I could still hear Greg’s voice and see his smile, and the contrast between the intense comfort of that memory and this cold, empty darkness was like a blow to the stomach, making my eyes water. No one tells you how physical unhappiness can be, how it hurts in your sinuses and throat, glands, muscles and bones.

I made myself a mug of hot chocolate and drank it slowly. Greg’s face faded. I knew he wasn’t here, wasn’t anywhere. His ashes were in a small square box with a rubber band around it. But I heard his teasing voice. Trusting fool, he called me.

‘Fergus.’

‘Ellie?’ His eyes widened with surprise. He was still in his dressing-gown, unshaven and puffy with sleep. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Can I come in?’

He stood back, pulling his dressing-gown more tightly around him, and I walked past him into the kitchen, where the four of us had sat so many times, eating takeaways, playing cards, drinking almost until it got light. The supper things were still on the table: two stacked plates, an empty serving bowl, a half-drunk bottle of red wine. Fergus started to collect them up, dropping the forks on the tiled floor with a clatter.

‘I know it’s a bit early.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Coffee? Tea? Breakfast? Devilled kidneys? That last one was a joke. Jemma will be in bed for ages. She’s on maternity leave now.’ As he said this, I saw anxiety cross his face: Jemma was on maternity leave and I was childless, barren, shamed and alone.

‘Coffee, please. Maybe some toast.’

‘Marmalade, honey, jam?’

‘Whatever. Honey.’

‘If we’ve got any. No. No honey. Or jam, actually.’

‘Marmalade’s fine.’

‘The funeral seemed to go off all right,’ he said cautiously, as he filled the kettle and slid a slice of bread into the toaster.

‘The funeral was crap.’

He smiled ruefully at me.

‘No one knew what to say to me.’

‘It’s over, at least.’

‘Not really.’

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’ve decided to believe him.’

The kettle started to boil, sending puffs of steam into the air. Very methodically, he measured spoonfuls of coffee into the pot, then poured in the water. Only when he had handed me the hot mug did he look me in the eye. ‘Come again?’ he said.

‘Greg didn’t have an affair.’

‘Oh,’ said Fergus, putting his mug carefully on to the table with a click, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Right.’

‘On the one hand there’s how it appears, him dying with this other woman.’

‘Yes.’

‘And on the other is my trust.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m keeping faith. I’m not abandoning him.’

I waited for Fergus to say that he was dead, but he didn’t. He said, ‘I see,’ and picked up his mug again, staring at me over the rim. ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Good, I mean, if it lets you come to terms with what’s happened.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Because what has happened?’

Fergus frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, so it stood on end, giving him the look of a sad clown. He dipped his finger into his coffee and licked it. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking, Ellie?’ he said eventually.

‘When you were doing work for him, in the office, did you see any sign that he was… you know – involved?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. That doesn’t mean –’

I interrupted what I knew he was going to say. ‘Look, Fergus, Greg died with another woman. But he wasn’t having an affair with her. He wasn’t. OK? So, what were they doing together? That’s the question, isn’t it? For a start there are other possibilities.’ Fergus looked at me and didn’t speak. ‘Just off the top of my head she might have been a hitchhiker.’

Fergus thought for a moment. ‘Not wanting to be a devil’s advocate, but this woman –’

‘Milena Livingstone.’

‘She was some sort of businesswoman, no?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Do they tend to hitchhike? In London?’

‘Or just some business contact.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That he was giving a lift to.’

‘All right.’

‘So you believe him?’

‘Ellie, he’s not here to believe. Your husband – my best friend, the man we both loved and miss like hell – is dead. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? It’s as if by somehow persuading yourself that he wasn’t fucking another woman, he won’t be dead after all. You’ll go mad if you keep on like this.’

‘You only think that because you believe I’m wrong, deluding myself, and that Greg was unfaithful to me.’

‘You’re never going to find out what happened,’ he said wearily.

I should have kept a tally of how many times that had been said to me. ‘I trust him,’ I said. ‘That’s enough for me. The toast is burning, by the way.’

At Sunday lunch with Joe, Alison and one of their three children, Becky, who had her father’s blue stare, her mother’s pallor and reticence, I repeated what I’d said to Fergus. It was harder in front of three people. I sounded forced and over-insistent. I saw Joe’s shoulders sag, and I saw him throw a helpless glance at Alison before he turned to me, a lettuce leaf dangling from his fork. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said.

‘I know what that means,’ I said. ‘Sweetheart. It means you’re going to tell me very patiently why you think I’m behaving in a wrong-headed and self-destructive way. You’re going to tell me I’ll never find out the truth and must learn to live with that uncertainty and move on. And probably you’ll tell me this is a form of grieving.’

‘That’s pretty much it, yes. And that we love you and want to help in any way we can.’

‘Do you want to put the kettle on, Becky?’ Alison said, in a mild tone. ‘I’ll get the cheese.’

‘You don’t need to be tactful, Alison.’ I smiled at her. ‘We’ve known each other too long and too well for that. It’s fine. I’m fine. Really. I just thought you should know that Greg wasn’t being unfaithful.’

‘Good.’

‘It would be better if someone believed me.’

The man stood on my doorstep, barely visible behind the battered wooden rocking-chair he was holding.

‘Terry Long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the chair for you.’ He looked at me expectantly.

‘I don’t –’ I began.

‘For my wife. It’s her Christmas present. You said you’d repair it for us. It’s a bit of a mess, as you see. It was her grandfather’s, though, so it has sentimental value.’

‘There’s been a mistake.’

‘I called you at the beginning of September. You said it would be fine.’

‘Things have changed,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking on new work.’

‘But you said…’ His face had hardened. He put the chair on the ground, and it rocked gently between us, making a clicking sound. One of its runners was badly damaged. ‘You can’t just let people down like that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s it? You’re sorry?’

‘I’m very sorry. I just can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry.’ I kept repeating the word: sorry, sorry, sorry. In the end he went, leaving the broken chair behind. Even his back looked angry.

I picked up the rocking-chair, shut the door, and went through the house and into the garden where I unlocked my shed; the door was reinforced and there had been three padlocks on it since the time a year ago when a gang of youths had broken into it and stolen some of my tools. Inside, there were several ladder-backed chairs, a corner cupboard in dark oak, a lovely little ash cabinet without a back, a carved chest with an ugly gash along its lid and scars where some of its raised designs had been, and a Georgian desk. They were waiting for my attention. I went in, without turning on the light, and ran my finger across the wooden surfaces. Even though I hadn’t been in there for days and days, there was still the wonderful smell of sawdust and wax. Curls of planed wood lay on the floor. I squatted, picked up a pale rind and fingered it for a while, wondering if I’d ever come back to work here again.

Greg and I had argued about stupid things. Whose turn it was to empty the rubbish bin. Why he didn’t rinse the basin after he’d shaved. Why I didn’t know how irritating it was when I cleaned up around him, huffing just loudly enough so that he’d hear me. When he interrupted me in the middle of a sentence. When I’d used up all the hot water. We argued about clothes that shrank in the wash, botched arrangements, overcooked pasta and burnt toast, careless words, trivial matters of mess and mismanagement. We never fell out over the big things, like God or war, deceit or jealousy. We hadn’t had long enough together for that.

‘So you don’t believe me?’

Mary and I were walking on the Heath. It was cool and grey, the wind carrying a hint of rain. Our feet shuffled through drifts of damp leaves. Robin, her one-year-old, was in a carrier on her back; he was asleep and his bald, smooth head bobbed and lolled on her neck as we walked. His pouchy body swung with each step Mary took.

‘I didn’t say that. Not exactly. I said…’

‘You said, “Men are such bastards.”’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that men are such bastards. Look, Ellie, Greg was lovely.’

‘But?’

‘But he wasn’t a saint. Most men stray if they get the chance.’

‘Stray?’ I said. I was beginning to feel angry and rattled. ‘Like a sheep that’s got out of its field?’

‘It’s all about opportunity and temptation. This Milena probably made the first move.’

‘This Milena didn’t have anything to do with him. Or him with her.’

Suddenly Mary stopped. Her cheeks were blotchy in the cold. Over her shoulder Robin’s eyes opened blearily, then closed again. A thread of saliva worked its way down his chin.

‘You don’t believe what you’re saying, do you?’ she said. ‘Not really.’

‘Yes, I do. Though you clearly don’t.’

‘Because I don’t agree with you, it doesn’t mean I’m not on your side. Are you trying to push us all away? It’s rotten, what’s happened. Really horrible. I have no idea how I’d be dealing with it in your situation. Listen, though.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘I do have a bit of an understanding of what you’re going through. You know Eric? Well, obviously you know Eric. You know what happened just after Robin was born – and when I say “just after”, that’s what I mean. Three and a half weeks, to be precise.’

A feeling of dejection settled on me.

‘He slept with this woman at work. I was woozy and weepy and tired, my breasts were sore, I’d only just had my stitches out so I could hardly sit down, sex was out of the question – I was a moony, overweight cow. And yet I was happy. I was so happy I thought I’d melt. And it wasn’t just once, a drunken mistake or something, it went on for weeks. He’d come home late, take lots of showers, be over-attentive, over-irritable. It’s such a bloody cliché, isn’t it? Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t realize what was going on. It’s not as if the signs weren’t there. But I was blind, in my own little bubble of contentment. I had to practically see them together before I knew.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ I remembered again the conversation with Greg, in which I had insisted I would have known if Eric had been unfaithful to Mary.

‘Because I felt humiliated. And stupid.’ She glared at me. ‘So fat and ugly and useless and ashamed. You must understand that feeling now, after what’s happened to you. That’s why I’m telling you.’

‘Mary,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry. I wish we’d talked about it before. But it’s not the same.’

‘What makes you and Greg so different?’

‘He wouldn’t have behaved like that.’

‘That’s what I used to say about Eric.’

‘I have an instinct.’

‘You can’t face the truth. I’m your friend. Remember? We can tell the truth to each other, even if it hurts.’

‘It doesn’t hurt because it’s not true.’

‘Has it occurred to you that maybe he was sick of having sex to get pregnant?’

I couldn’t stop myself: I flinched in pain, as if Mary had slapped me across the face.

‘Oh, Ellie.’ Her face softened; I saw there were tears in her eyes, whether from the cold or emotion I couldn’t tell.

WPC Darby showed me into a small room. There were red and pink plastic flowers in a jug on the desk, and more flowers – yellow this time, a copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers – in a framed picture on the wall. I sat down and she sat opposite me, folding her hands on the desk. They were broad and strong, with bitten nails. No rings on her fingers. I looked at her face, weathered, shrewd and pleasantly plain under her severely cut hair, and was satisfied that she was the right person to tell. There was some meaningless chat and then I stopped.

‘It’s not the way it seemed,’ I said.

She leaned towards me slightly, her grey eyes on my face.

‘I don’t believe he was having an affair with Milena Livingstone.’

Her expression didn’t waver. She just went on looking at me and waiting for me to speak.

‘Actually I don’t think they even knew each other.’

She gave a nervous smile and when she spoke it was clearly and slowly, as if I was a small child. ‘They were in the same car.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘It’s a mystery. I think you ought to look at it again.’

In the silence, I could hear the voices in the corridor outside. WPC Darby steepled her fingers and took a deep breath. I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

‘Ms Falkner, your husband died in a car crash.’

‘He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt – but Greg always wore it. You have to investigate further.’

‘The coroner was perfectly satisfied that it was a tragic accident and that no other vehicle was involved. I understand that the fact he was with another woman is unsettling and upsetting for you. As a matter of evidence, how they knew each other doesn’t matter.’

‘There’s no evidence at all, of any kind,’ I said. ‘Nothing to show that he knew her.’

Again, I anticipated what she was going to say. ‘If he was having an affair and keeping it secret, then perhaps that’s not surprising.’

‘I’m telling you, he didn’t know her.’

‘No. You’re telling me you don’t believe he knew her.’

‘It amounts to the same thing.’

‘With all due respect, it does not. What you believe and what is true are not necessarily the same thing.’

‘So you’re just going to let things lie?’

‘Yes. And I would advise you to do the same. You might consider seeing someone about –’

‘You think I need bereavement counselling? Professional help?’

‘I think you’ve had a terrible shock and are having difficulty in coming to terms with it.’

‘If anyone says “coming to terms” to me again, I think I’ll scream.’

Chapter Ten

I read through Greg’s emails so often that I almost knew them by heart. I thought they might give me a sense of his mood in the days and weeks leading up to his death. Was there a hint of anxiety? Anger? Apprehension? I couldn’t find anything and gradually they became familiar, like songs you’ve played so often you don’t hear them any more. Then I noticed something blindingly obvious, something that everybody in the developed world apart from me must already have known. Every email showed the exact time he had pressed the send button. Each email, whether from his home or his office computer, was a fairly accurate guide as to where Greg had been at a particular moment.

Within half an hour I was back from the stationer’s with two bulky carrier-bags. I tipped their contents on to the carpet. There was a large roll of poster-sized sheets of card, rulers, different-coloured pens and Magic Markers, highlighters, and sheets and sheets of little stickers – circles, squares and stars. It looked like the raw materials for a nursery-school art project.

I spread four of the cards in a row on the floor, using heavy books to hold the corners down. Then, using a ruler and a fine architect’s pen, I started to rule grids across them, each representing a week in the last month of Greg’s life. I traced seven columns, then drew horizontal lines cutting them into halves, then quarters, then eighths and so on, until I had chopped each column into a hundred and twenty rectangles, each representing ten minutes in a day starting at eight and finishing at midnight. I didn’t bother about the nights because we hadn’t spent a night apart in the last month.

Just from memory, I was able to cross out entire evenings I knew we had spent together. On the weekends there were whole days I eliminated with a bold stroke of black: the Saturday we had taken the train to Brighton, walked on the beach, eaten some awful fish and chips, bought a secondhand book of poetry and I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder on the journey back; the day we walked along the Regent’s Canal from Kentish Town all the way to the river. Those were two days when he hadn’t been having sex with Milena Livingstone.

Then I started on the emails. At work, Greg had written twenty or thirty a day, sometimes more. Based on each one, I wrote ‘O’ for office in the appropriate slot on the card. Some were in clusters. He had a habit of sending a flurry of messages as soon as he arrived at work, another just before one o’clock and another at around five, but others were dotted through the day. It didn’t take me much more than an hour to work my way through the emails, and when I was done, I stood back and surveyed the result. The chart was already satisfyingly shaded in, and there was still so much to do.

The next day I invited Gwen round. I said it was urgent but she was at work and didn’t reach me until almost six. When she arrived I hustled her through to the kitchen, boiled the kettle and made a pot of coffee.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’ I said. ‘Or a slice of ginger cake? I made both this afternoon. I’ve been busy.’

Gwen looked amused and a bit alarmed. ‘Some cake,’ she said. ‘A tiny slice.’

I poured the coffee and gave her the cake on a plate. I wasn’t hungry. I’d felt I needed to cook but not to eat.

‘So what’s up?’ said Gwen. ‘Did you summon me here to try the cake? It’s great, by the way.’

‘Good, have some more. No, it’s nothing to do with that. Drink your coffee and I’ll take you through.’

‘Take me through? What is this, a surprise party?’

‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘I’ve got something to show you. I think it’ll interest you.’

Gwen took a few quick gulps of her coffee and said she was ready. I steered her along the hall and into the living room.

‘There,’ I said. ‘What do you think of that?’

Gwen stared down at the four large pieces of card, now covered with marks and stickers, all different shapes and colours. ‘It looks lovely,’ she said. ‘What’s it meant to be?’

‘That’s Greg’s life in the month before he died,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

I explained to Gwen how the charts represented days and sections of days. I told her about the timed emails and my own memories and how I’d even found receipts from the sandwich bars where Greg had bought his lunch. All the receipts, whether for food or petrol or stationery, gave not just a date but an exact time, to the minute, when the purchase was made. ‘So all these stickers, the yellow circles and the green squares, they show moments when I know exactly where Greg was. It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘A couple of times a week Greg drove to visit a client. But I pretended to be Greg’s assistant, rang up and said that for tax reasons I needed an exact time for when the meeting had taken place. People were very helpful. I’ve marked all those in blue. Even then I was left with the gap between him leaving the office and arriving at the client. But I found a website. If I type in the postcode of the office and the postcode of his client, it gives an exact driving distance and even an estimated journey time. I’ve marked those in red. Obviously, driving in London traffic during the day, it’s not an exact science, but even so it fits pretty well. It took me a day and a half – and look.’

‘What?’

‘What do you see?’

‘Lots of colours,’ said Gwen. ‘Lots of stickers.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s what you don’t see. There’s barely a gap over four weeks when I don’t know where he was and what he was doing.’

‘Which means?’

‘Look at the chart, Gwen,’ I said. ‘It shows Greg working very hard, travelling, eating, buying stuff, going to the movies with me. But where’s the bit when he’s having an affair? Where’s the space for him even to meet the woman he died with?’

There was a long pause.

‘Ellie,’ she began, ‘for God’s sake –’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Stop. Listen for a moment. I talked to Mary about this – not about this,’ I gestured at the charts, ‘I mean my feelings about Greg. She wasn’t sympathetic. She was even angry with me, as if it was some insult to her that I wasn’t immediately accepting that my husband had been having an affair and had had a crash with the woman he really loved.’

‘No one’s saying that,’ said Gwen. She looked at my charts almost with an expression of pity. ‘I don’t really know what to make of this.’ She took my hand. ‘I’m not an expert but I’ve heard that there are stages of grief and at the beginning it’s anger and denial. It’s completely understandable that you feel anger. I think the point of mourning is to get through that and reach some kind of acceptance.’

I pulled my hand away. ‘I know all of that,’ I said. ‘I read a piece about it once in Cosmo. And you know what I was thinking when I was doing all this crazy stuff with coloured stickers and ringing people up under false pretences? What would make it easy would be to find just one deleted email, just one scrap of paper in a pocket, that would show Greg had been having an affair. Or even just one occasion when he wasn’t where he was meant to be, or a missing afternoon when nobody knew where he was. Forget denial. Then I could just get angry and be sad, and my life would continue. There’s no trick to proving somebody’s having an affair. You catch them at it, just once. But how do you prove somebody’s innocent? What do you suggest?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘You have to do something like this,’ I said. ‘Something obsessive and excessive. You have to fill in all the gaps, then the gaps between the gaps so there’s just no space for this relationship. You know I went to see the police?’

‘Ellie, you didn’t!’

‘I told this woman officer I was convinced my husband wasn’t having an affair. She didn’t seem to believe me. I don’t think she thought it even mattered whether he was or not. The case was closed. This wasn’t something she wanted to hear about. But if I showed those charts to the police, do you think it would make a difference?’

Gwen frowned at the charts for a long time. ‘Honestly?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘This is amazing,’ she said. ‘Scary but amazing. I don’t think the police would pay much attention to it, but if they did, they might say, “Perhaps he was seeing the woman while he was doing other things. Perhaps she met him while he was buying his sandwich, perhaps she went with him in the car to his meetings. Or you might be right. Maybe they didn’t meet in that month. She could have been away and they were meeting up again on the day they crashed.”’

I took a deep breath. My first impulse was to be angry with Gwen, to shout at her and show her the door, but I stopped myself. She might have humoured me. Instead she had said what she really thought.

‘And if they said anything,’ Gwen continued, ‘it would be that you’re ignoring the only piece of evidence that really matters, which is that Greg and the woman died together. What in the end can you really say to that?’

I thought for a moment. ‘That it’s difficult to be innocent,’ I said. ‘And to prove you’re innocent is impossible.’

Chapter Eleven

I knew before I rang the bell and knocked with the heavy brass ring that no one was there: there were no lights on in any of the windows, no car parked in the driveway; the house had an unoccupied look. But I stood, stamping my feet in the cold, waiting to make sure. I opened the letterbox and saw only the polished floor. I peered through the downstairs window and saw the tidy, empty living room, the swept hearth, the gleaming top of a grand piano with photographs on top in silver frames. It was too arranged and perfect, like a stage set rather than a home. I wondered what Hugo Livingstone was feeling now. Was he lonely, angry, sad? Did he think about Greg as I thought about Milena, with hatred, jealousy and puzzlement? Did he think about me? Did he know something I didn’t?

That morning, when I had sat over my unsatisfactory breakfast of slightly stale bread and the last scrapings of marmalade, I had decided I needed to look at the picture from the other side. I had examined Greg’s life and found nothing, but what about Milena’s? Although to say that I had ‘decided’ is inaccurate, because what had actually happened was that I had drifted round the house, at a loss as to what to do with myself, picking things up and putting them down, opening the fridge and closing it, shuffling out through the garden, which was neglected and piled with soggy leaves, unlocking the shed door and gazing at the furniture waiting for my attention. Then I’d put on my coat, wrapped a scarf round my neck and walked to the Underground station, without even saying to myself that I was going back to the Livingstones’ house and certainly without knowing what I hoped to find there. Silvio, smiling sarcastically, a signed and dated love letter from Greg to Milena, with a photo of the besotted couple together? His father, assuring me that his wife had never had an affair with Greg and he could prove it with – with what? Nothing could prove that.

There I was, on a damp, grey November morning, staring at the blank windows of the large house and wondering miserably what to do next. Because I couldn’t return to my own small, cold house and deal with the things that were piling up: bills, letters, phone messages, laundry, dead leaves, broken chairs, dust, dirt and drabness. I found myself consulting my map and walking the half-mile or so from the Livingstone house to the address of Party Animals, the business Milena and her partner had run together.

I’d looked at the company website, read about parties at the Tower of London and the zoo, fancy-dress balls, colour-coordinated golden weddings, Burns Night celebrations, with haggis created especially for people who didn’t like haggis, and dinners for your most valued clients with six elegant courses. I thought about the parties Greg and I had had – you invite people round at the last moment to squash into the front room, ask them to bring wine, then cook chilli con carne and garlic bread, put on some music and see what happens.

Tulser Road was a quiet residential street just down from Vauxhall Bridge. It didn’t look like the kind of place for offices and, indeed, number eleven was clearly just a house, like the other houses on either side: large and semi-detached, with a side alley leading to its garden, a basement floor and bay windows. There was only one bell, and no sign saying that this was where exciting and original happenings, tailor-made to suit every individual customer, were organized. But there were lights on in the downstairs window; someone was there, at least. I raised my hand to ring the bell and saw my wedding ring. I looked at it for a moment, almost dispassionately, as if it had suddenly appeared. In fact I hadn’t taken it off since – with a great deal of effort – Greg had pushed it over my knuckle in the register office. I had thought it would be difficult to get off but I’d lost weight and it made no resistance. It was an object now, not part of me. I put it into my purse and rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door was slightly older than I had expected; she was tall and slender, with long legs and unexpectedly full breasts. Her highlighted blonde hair was cut short in a chic style with soft wisps framing her triangular face. Her pale skin was just beginning to line, and she wore thick, rectangular specs. She had on beautifully tailored black trousers and a pale blue linen shirt, tiny studs in her ears and a thin silver chain round her neck. If she was wearing makeup, it was the invisible kind. There was a classy look to her, a restrained and intelligent attractiveness that I liked immediately.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was low and husky; her manner was polite, but a little impatient. From somewhere in the house there was a loud bang, the sound of something dropped. I saw her wince and bite her lip.

‘Is this where Party Animals is run from?’

‘That’s right. Are you planning an event?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve come about Milena Livingstone.’

I saw her eyes widen and then she made a visible effort to control herself. She reminded me of me. I recognized the weary sense that the story would have to be told yet again.

‘Are you a friend of hers?’ Without giving me time to answer, she said, ‘Didn’t you know?’

There was a fraction of a moment when I could have said, yes, I knew, because the man she died with was my husband. But something stopped me. ‘Know what?’ I said.

‘Come in for a second. Sorry, my name’s Frances Shaw.’

She held out a hand and I shook it. Her grip was warm, strong; I saw that her nails were painted the palest pink. I stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind us, then led me along a corridor.

‘Better come downstairs into the office, if you can call it that. I’m in total chaos, I’m afraid.’ She led me into the basement, a large room with a long table in the centre; on its surface were several roughly stacked heaps of paper and files. There was a sofa covered with brochures and a desk pushed up against the wall, also piled high with folders.

A phone was ringing and a young woman, with dramatically dark eye-shadow and very high-heeled boots, came out of the adjoining room. ‘Shall I get that?’ she asked.

‘No, let the machine answer it,’ said Frances. ‘I tell you what, though, Beth, perhaps you could make us a cup of coffee. If you want coffee, that is,’ she added, turning to me.

‘Coffee would be lovely.’ I was a bit dazed.

‘Have a seat.’ Frances scooped up the brochures from the sofa, looked at them helplessly, then laid them on the floor. ‘When did you last see Milena?’

‘I don’t want to give you the wrong impression…’ I said.

The phone rang again and then her mobile, which was lying on the table. ‘Damn. Sorry. I’ll be with you in a second.’ She flipped it open and turned away from me. I heard her murmuring something. Upstairs, cupboard doors banged and Beth’s heels clicked across the floor. I sat on the sofa, taking off my jacket. The warm, cluttered room was like a nest.

Frances snapped shut her mobile and sat beside me. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard. I’m so sorry to have to tell you that Milena died.’

That was my last chance to say who I was, but I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps it was a relief to be the onlooker for a while, rather than the victim.

‘Oh!’ I said, and rubbed my face because I wasn’t sure what my expression should be.

‘This must be a shock.’

‘I wasn’t exactly close to her,’ I said, which was true.

‘She died recently in a car crash.’

‘How terrible,’ I muttered. I felt like an actor, saying lines that made little sense to me.

‘It was awful. She was with a man.’ There was a pause. ‘Someone nobody knew even existed.’

‘So young,’ I said. The possibility of putting Frances straight receded, and then – as she told me Milena’s husband and her step-children were coping as well as could be expected and I expressed sympathy – it vanished altogether.

‘Hence the chaos,’ said Frances, gesturing at the room.

‘It must be hard for you,’ I said. ‘Were you close?’

‘When you work together the way we did, you have to be close.’ She grimaced. ‘For better or worse. She wasn’t exactly…’

Frances stopped herself. I wondered what she’d been going to say. What wasn’t Milena? I wanted to ask what she had been like, but I was supposed to know that. So instead I nodded and said, ‘Yes,’ in an I-know-just-what-you-mean kind of way.

The door was flung open and Beth tottered in, carrying a tray on which there were a cafetière, two mugs, a milk jug, a bowl of sugar lumps and a plate of biscuits. As she approached she stepped on a file and stumbled. She tried to keep control but disaster was inevitable, as in the seconds after a building has been dynamited from beneath. There was a moment of quiet and then it got noisy and messy. The cafetière banged on to the wooden boards and exploded, sending arcs of coffee everywhere; the jug shattered and a river of milk ran across the floor towards Frances; the mugs broke on impact and shards skidded across the room; sugar lumps bounced up at surprising angles.

‘Fuck,’ said Beth, from the floor. ‘Oh, fuck and fuck.’

‘Are you hurt?’ said Frances. She didn’t seem particularly surprised, just very, very tired.

‘Sorry,’ said Beth, scrambling to her feet with an expression of almost comical surprise. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

‘Let me help,’ I said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Frances.

I took Beth’s arm.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Show me where your cleaning stuff is.’

‘Would you? That’s really kind. There’s a mop in the tall cupboard in the kitchen, paper towels in a dispenser, and a dustpan and brush under the sink.’

We went upstairs into the long kitchen that smelt of coffee and fresh-baked bread. When we returned, Frances was on the phone, protesting about something. When she’d hung up, she took off her glasses to rub her eyes.

‘Trouble at work?’ I laid wads of kitchen towel over the puddles of milk and coffee and started to pick up pieces of glass and china and drop them into a bag. Beth hovered round me, avoiding broken china.

‘What I need,’ said Frances, ‘is the world to stop for about a week while I get the backlog sorted out and my life in some kind of order. Milena – may she rest in peace – wasn’t the most organized of women. I keep discovering things she’s done or promised that there’s no record of. At least,’ she glanced round the room, ‘no record that I can lay my hands on.’ She watched me as I picked up the sugar lumps one by one, swept up the biscuit crumbs, picked up the mass of sodden kitchen roll and dumped it in a bin-bag. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘I quite like clearing up mess,’ I said. ‘With your work, though, you should chunk it up. You can’t clear it all at once. Maybe you should get extra help in, for the time being at least.’

‘I can’t do any more,’ said Beth, grumpily.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Frances.

I gathered some loose sheets of paper from the floor. ‘What do you want me to do with these?’

‘Nothing. You’ve done more than enough as it is. I’ll sort them out later.’

‘I can put them into piles for you, if you want. I’m quite good at organizing stuff.’

‘I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.’

‘You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’m not doing anything right now. I’m…’ I hesitated… ‘between jobs.’

‘You’d do that?’ For a moment she looked as though she was about to burst into tears or hug me.

‘Just to sort this lot out. After all, it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t offered me coffee.’

Beth pottered around to not very much effect while Frances and I sorted the papers: venues, catering companies that Party Animals used, parties being planned, quotations. There was nothing that gave me any hint of the personal life of Milena Livingstone, although there were papers with her dashingly scrawled signature, and Frances referred to the dozens of sympathy letters she’d received and hadn’t yet replied to.

Beth made coffee in a jug and brought it in mug by mug, with an air of triumph. I felt strangely, absurdly relaxed, even though I was there under false pretences. It was a relief to be helping someone instead of being the one in need. Maybe it also felt good to have a holiday from being me, the grieving widow and ‘betrayed wife’, pitied friend with a great big bee in her bonnet. When the time came for me to go, Frances, seeming slightly embarrassed but also a bit desperate, asked if there was any chance I could pop back. I replied, trying to sound casual, that I’d be glad to help out and suggested the next day.

‘Yes, great,’ said Frances. ‘Oh, Lord, that’s amazing. You’re my saviour. I was on the point of – Hang on, I don’t even know your name.’

And I answered, without a beat, ‘Gwen. Gwen Abbott.’

Chapter Twelve

As soon as I arrived home, I looked up Gwen’s name in the phone book. It wasn’t there, probably because she teaches maths in a secondary school. If her name was in the book her phone would never stop ringing: what’s the homework for tomorrow? I can’t do question three. Why did my child fail his exam? And, now, baffling messages from the party-organizing company she didn’t know she worked for.

Then I looked up Hugo Livingstone and, before I could stop myself, punched in his number. On the second ring it was answered by a woman with a strong Eastern European accent.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Could I speak to Hugo Livingstone?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘When would be a good time to call back?’

‘He will be away for many days. He is in America.’

‘Oh. Sorry to have troubled you.’

I put a baking potato into the oven, poured myself a glass of wine and then another as I thought about what I had done. Had I committed a crime? I didn’t think so. As long as I wasn’t doing it to perpetrate a fraud or theft, I couldn’t actually be arrested. Was that right?

Was I being dishonest? Well, obviously.

Was it morally wrong to give a false name, and not just a false name, a name that belonged to somebody else, in fact, to one of my best friends? But, then, borrowing a name wasn’t like borrowing a sweater without asking. I wasn’t depriving Gwen of it. I wasn’t going to damage it or get it dirty. I had misled Frances and Beth. But if I had been open about who I was, they might have thought I was insane. Which brought me to the question…

Was I insane? Or had I just done an insane thing? Or both? Or neither? And if I was insane, could I myself tell – from the inside, as it were?

After an hour or so, I took the baked potato out of the oven and mashed it with lots of butter, then sprinkled it with salt and pepper. I ate the soft inside first, then the crunchy skin. It was delicious. The phone rang.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Mary said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re coming here for dinner,’ she said.

‘Am I?’

‘I asked you several days ago. You said yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘We’re all about to sit down.’

‘All?’

‘There are seven of us. Or, rather, there will be when you get here.’

‘Ten minutes,’ I said. ‘Fifteen at the most.’

I was absolutely sure Mary hadn’t asked me. On the other hand, such was the chaos of my life, the fact that I was absolutely sure didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t asked me. Every impulse in my mind and body was screaming at me not to go. What I really wanted was a bath, bed and hours of heavy, dreamless sleep. What was more I had already eaten a solid meal and drunk several glasses of wine. I cursed obscenely and loudly as I had a thirty-second shower, pulled on a dress and ruffled my hair in the hope that it would look artfully arranged. I put a coat on, ran out of the house and got a taxi at the end of the road.

Mary greeted me rather frostily as she opened the door, but she couldn’t shout at a widow in front of Eric and her four other guests. I knew two of them: Don and Laura were old friends of Mary and she always seemed to invite us together so that we could become friends with each other, but for reasons I didn’t understand it had never quite happened. Then there was Maddie, who worked in Mary’s office, and Geoff, who explained to me that he had met Mary and Eric on a cycling holiday in Sicily a couple of years back and that they’d stayed in contact. I wondered, with a touch of resentment, if Mary was already trying to set me up, then quickly became cross with myself. What was she meant to do? If she had invited two couples, I might have been cross at being excluded.

As Mary introduced me, I saw the now-familiar concern passing across everybody’s face. It was clear that Mary had briefed them in advance about my situation. But I soon had other things to worry about. Mary said we must eat and muttered something under her breath about everything being spoiled.

I was grateful, in theory at least, to Mary for inviting me. It can’t have been the most enticing prospect. She must have known I wouldn’t be the life and soul of the party. The others seemed constrained as well, perhaps with the effort of avoiding any subject that might seem inappropriate: death, funerals, marriages. And I now knew rather too much about the state of Mary’s marriage; I kept glancing at Eric, then looking away when he caught my eye. Geoff told me in unnecessary detail about the cycling holiday he had gone on in the year after he had met Mary and Eric, and in even more unnecessary detail about the cycling holiday he was planning for the summer. ‘Do you cycle?’ he asked finally.

‘No,’ I said, which was a bit of a conversation stopper – at least, that was what it was intended to be. I turned to Laura who leaned towards me, put her hand on mine and said, ‘Ellie, how are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I mean, as fine as can be expected.’

‘I just wanted to say,’ said Laura, ‘that if there’s anything I can do, then just ask.’

I made myself respond appropriately to her: I thanked her and said it wasn’t really about help, just about getting through it and about friends being there for me, and by the time I’d got to the end of the sentence I couldn’t remember how it had begun. In the meantime, I wasn’t doing full justice to Mary’s cooking. The first course consisted of a selection of Greek mezes: hummus, rice wrapped in vine leaves, taramasalata, little slices of fried haloumi, olives attached to lumps of feta with cocktail sticks. It would have been mouth-watering if I hadn’t just eaten a huge buttery baked potato. Eric filled my plate for me, as if double helpings were a cure for grief. I nibbled at things, cut them up and rearranged them on my plate, in the hope that this would give the impression of lots of eating.

The Greek theme continued with the main course. Mary had cooked a hearty moussaka, and Eric spooned a huge slab on to my plate. I made him spoon half of it back and devoted much ingenuity, effort and clutter to cutting up the food and occasionally moving it towards my mouth. I put the same effort into not drinking the wine, because I was already about three drinks ahead of everybody else.

I toyed with the cheese and biscuits, too, and Mary finally asked if I was feeling unwell. I said I was fine and she let it go at that, probably attributing my lack of appetite to grief. I didn’t hold back on the coffee, though. I drank three strong mugs, after which my hands were trembling and I felt fiercely, inhumanly awake, yet tired at the same time.

At the end of the evening, I turned down Geoff’s offer of a lift home. I wanted to walk to clear my head, work the coffee out of my system. Anyway, I liked walking at night in the city and I needed to think, to sort things out in my head.

I’d half decided I wasn’t going back to Frances’s office, because it was wrong in every way, but looking back on the evening at Mary’s, I also felt I couldn’t continue like that. From the outside, I probably seemed all right, like a robot that had been fairly well programmed to behave like a human being: I hadn’t made a scene, I hadn’t cried, I hadn’t embarrassed anybody. From my point of view, from the inside, it was a different story.

Perhaps it was a sign of success to make it through the day and then to the end of the evening without cracking up, or screaming, or having a flaming row. But that wasn’t what I wanted from my life, that horrible feeling of dissociation, of acting a part that didn’t belong to me, of being a person I no longer knew. That and not knowing the truth about Greg. They seemed to be separate things, but in my mind they were linked. If I could just discover that Greg and that woman had been having an affair or that they hadn’t, I could start my new life as a real person. If I could find the letter or the email or the postcard that showed he had slept with her, because I had been too much for him or too little, I could be angry with him and maybe, just maybe, forgive him.

So the next day I put on clothes that were business clothes, but not too much like business clothes because, anyway, I didn’t own any – you don’t dress up for restoring furniture in the shed in your garden. I selected black canvas trousers with a thin, pale-grey jersey, and tied back my hair in a messy bun, put on earrings, a silver chain round my neck, even eye-liner and mascara. Now I wasn’t Ellie but Gwen: helpful, calm, practical, discreet, ever so mathematical. I took my purse out of my bag; if, for no reason I could envisage, I needed it, I could pretend to have forgotten it. I just took a fistful of cash. I went through my shoulder bag carefully, removing anything that identified me by name. I looked at my left hand. No wedding ring.

At five past ten, when I arrived at her house, Frances opened the door with a smile of such welcome and relief that it made me smile back. ‘I thought you wouldn’t come,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe I’d hallucinated you yesterday, out of desperation. It’s such a disaster zone. I have to work here but you don’t.’

‘I’ll help out for a day or two,’ I said. ‘I’ve got work of my own to get back to, but you’re having a bad time, so if there’s anything I can do…’

‘I am having a bad time,’ said Frances, ‘a terrible time, and part of what’s terrible about it is that I don’t know what you can do to help, what anyone can do, apart from putting a match to it all.’

‘I can’t organize a party,’ I said, ‘or dress up as a waitress, or cook a five-course meal for forty people, but if someone could give me a cup of coffee, I’ll go through every piece of paper in this office and reply to it or do something about it or put it in a file or throw it away. And then I’ll get back to my own life.’

Frances’s smile changed to something of a frown. ‘What have I done to deserve you?’ she asked.

I felt the tiniest shiver of apprehension. Was I being too obvious? ‘I’m trying to do as I would be done by,’ I said. ‘Does that sound too yucky?’

Frances smiled again. ‘I’m a drowning person being dragged to the shore,’ she said. ‘Who cares?’

Chapter Thirteen

Beth arrived just after eleven. She apologized, saying she had been out late, but she looked entirely fresh and rested. And she was immaculately dressed, entirely different from the day before: a dark grey pencil skirt with a little slit up the back, shoes with very low heels, and a waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. Her skin glowed, her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She made me feel shabby, old and boring. She seemed surprised and not completely pleased to see me. ‘Where’s she going to work?’ she asked Frances.

‘She’s going to hover,’ I said, before Frances could reply. ‘Just sort out a few things and not get in anyone’s way.’

‘I was just asking,’ said Beth, and was interrupted by a merry tune from her mobile phone. She opened it and turned her back on me; I noticed there were seams on her black tights.

It was immediately obvious that it would take more than a day or two to restore order to the chaos of the office. It surprised me that Frances had let everything get into such a mess: she seemed the kind of person who would be calmly and instinctively organized: knickers folded in her underwear drawer, herbs and spices arranged alphabetically on the kitchen shelf, car insurance and MOT documents neatly filed.

‘Did Milena do the organizing and filing?’ I asked, as we drank our first coffee of the day, poured from a new cafetière.

‘That’s a laugh,’ said Frances. ‘No. Milena was the gorgeous public face of Party Animals. It was her job to schmooze the clients, flirt with the suppliers and come up with the brilliant ideas.’

‘What did you do?’ I asked.

‘We picked up the pieces,’ said Beth, from across the room.

‘She sounds quite a character,’ I said.

‘You must have seen that,’ said Frances.

‘I meant that you don’t know what people are like at work,’ I gabbled, cursing myself silently. ‘You must miss her.’

‘She’s certainly left a gap,’ said Frances, as she picked up her phone and punched numbers into it.

I found some space by a work surface at the back of the office that gave out on to the steps that led up to the garden. I began to add to the piles of paper I had created the previous day. I tried to avoid speaking for a while, worried I might give myself away again. I felt startled and shifty every time Frances called me Gwen. Couldn’t she tell that I was not a between-jobs Gwen but an out-of-control Ellie, that my black trousers, grey jersey and eye-liner were a feeble disguise? I kept expecting a stern hand to fall on my shoulder.

‘How did you know Milena?’ Frances asked me.

‘Oh.’ My mind raced. ‘I met her at a fund-raising event. For breast cancer,’ I added. ‘It was boring and she was fun so we kept in touch. Vaguely. I can’t remember when I last saw her, though.’ I glanced at Frances: she didn’t seem to find my words incredible.

‘What do you do normally, Gwen?’ she asked.

‘I’m a maths teacher at a comprehensive school.’ So far so Gwen Abbott.

‘No wonder you’re good at this kind of thing. But why did you leave?’

‘I don’t know if I have left, not permanently. I’m taking a break. I like teaching but it’s so stressful.’ Frances nodded sympathetically and I warmed to my theme, remembering things Gwen had said, TV documentaries I’d watched, and my own schooldays, when I’d hated maths. ‘I teach in an inner-city school in…’ areas flashed through my mind and I seized on one that was far to the north but still in London ‘… Leytonstone. Half the kids don’t want to be there. Some hardly speak English and need much more support than they’re actually getting. Instead of teaching them, I try to keep order. I thought I’d take a few months out and think things over. If I’m going to make a change, it should be now. Maybe I’ll travel.’

‘Lovely,’ said Frances, staring at a brochure and frowning. ‘Where?’

‘Peru,’ I said. ‘Or I’ve always wanted to go to India.’ Without warning, tears stung my eyes. Greg and I had talked about going to India together. I blinked furiously and pushed two receipts into the appropriate folder.

‘Are you married?’

‘No. I was with someone for a long time but it didn’t work out.’ I gave a rueful shrug. ‘Between jobs and between relationships. So, you see, I have this rare moment of freedom.’

‘No children yet?’

‘No,’ I said shortly. And then I added, without realizing that I was going to, the words taking me by surprise, ‘I always wanted children,’ and for one fearful moment my defences were down and I was being me, Ellie, with a pain in her heart because she hadn’t been able to have children and now… I sat up straighter, snapped a folder shut. ‘Maybe one day,’ I said – Gwen said – with brisk cheerfulness.

‘I never wanted children,’ said Frances. ‘It seemed so time-consuming, so wearing, trading your freedom for someone else’s well-being. I watched friends turn from fun-loving, carefree creatures to people who talked about nappy rash and started yawning at eight o’clock and thought, That’s not for me. And David agreed. I used to thank God I was born into a time when it was permissible to admit to possessing no maternal feelings. But then, just a few years ago, I suddenly thought how nice it would be to have someone to care for like that. Would have been, I should say. Too late now. Tick-tock,’ she said, with a sad little laugh.

I didn’t get much information about Milena from the papers I went through on that first morning, just slapdash signatures on copies of letters about the cost of finger-food and the hire of champagne flutes, although I wrote down every relevant date and place in my little notebook. I decided to go for a more direct approach.

‘Tell me,’ I said, as we sat drinking another of the mugs of coffee that punctuated the day, ‘this man Milena died with: who was he?’ I ran my finger round the rim of the cup, trying to appear casual. Was my voice wobbling?

Frances shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about him. I think he was married. Silvio said something about meeting his wife once. He seemed rather taken with her – but, then, Silvio’s an odd fish.’

My face felt hot. How would a normal person react? Should I ask who Silvio was? No. I was meant to know Milena. ‘You never met him?’

‘I never even knew he existed.’

‘Strange,’ I said.

‘Not in Milena’s world.’

‘How d’you mean?’ I put my mug down and shuffled papers, as if I wasn’t particularly interested in the answer.

‘Milena’s private life was always a bit complicated. And mysterious.’

‘You mean she was unfaithful.’

Frances’s face was flushed with either embarrassment or distress. ‘Basically, yes.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know. Didn’t her husband mind?’

Frances gave me an odd look. ‘I don’t know if he even knew. People see what they want to see, don’t they?’

‘So she didn’t confide in you?’

‘When she wanted to. I guessed she’d met someone new. She had the familiar radiance about her.’ She gave a small, sour smile. ‘You probably think I’m being heartless, speaking ill of the dead.’

‘You’re being honest. Milena was a complicated woman.’ I worried that I’d gone too far. I didn’t want Frances to think I was prodding her into being rude about her friend. ‘And messy,’ I said, standing up and crossing the room to fetch another pile of unsorted papers. ‘I’d better crack on with this lot.’

‘Gwen?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s really nice to have you here.’

I tried to smile. ‘It’s nice to be here.’

At lunchtime, Beth went upstairs to the kitchen and made us the kind of meal I’ve always imagined women eat after they’ve had their hair done: a light salad of green beans, butter beans and beansprouts, scattered with health-giving seeds and dressed with a lemon vinaigrette, and when we’d finished, I was hungrier than I had been before.

Answering Frances’s questions, I found out more about my life as Gwen: it turned out that she had grown up in Dorset, the youngest of five children, gone to Leeds University and studied maths and physics, that she liked gardening and even had an allotment (stop! I commanded myself – you know nothing about allotments), that her father was dead. I felt a growing anxiety as I made up a life on the spot. It would have been much simpler to stick to the facts of my own life – or that of the real Gwen at the very least. Now I had to remember what I had said. Beth didn’t speak but just looked at me. Had I made a mistake? All it would take was for Beth or Frances to be a bit too familiar with Dorset or Leeds or Leytonstone, and who knows what would happen? At the same time, I felt a thrill of pleasure as I concocted a life for myself. I’d always wanted to be the youngest in a large, close family, rather than the eldest in a small, distant one, and now, for a few days, I was. And maybe I’d get an allotment. Why not? Anything is possible when you decide to be someone else.

*

At about four o’clock, when the day outside was thickening towards twilight, Beth answered the phone, then muttered something to Frances.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Frances. ‘All right, we’d better go.’ She sat lost in thought for a moment, then looked at me as if she had forgotten my existence. ‘Gwen,’ she said, ‘something’s come up. We’ve got to pop out. Would you mind holding the fort?’

I wouldn’t mind holding the fort. I positively wanted to hold the fort. I waited until the front door closed and I saw them – or, at least, their lower halves – walking past the basement window. Then I jumped up and started to prowl. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be in any of the folders and files I was ploughing through. Maybe in the desk drawers. I yanked the first open and started rummaging among the stationery, finding nothing except envelopes, paper-clips, ink cartridges and Post-its. But in the second I came across two vodka bottles, one empty, the other half full. I sat for a minute or so, considering them, then replaced them and pushed the drawer shut. I turned my attention to the computer. I pinged it on and waited for it to load.

The doorbell rang, making me jolt in my chair, my heart pumping wildly in my chest and my throat suddenly dry. I turned off the computer, watched it count down and go blank. The bell rang again. I licked my lips, smoothed my hair, put on a Gwen-expression of calm inquiry and went to answer it.

The man standing on the step seemed surprised to see me. He was quite small and slim, almost gaunt, and dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt. He had hollow cheeks, quick grey eyes and brown hair that was starting to thin.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Who are you?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Are we going to go on just asking each other questions? Is Frances there? That’s another.’

‘No. I’m helping her out for a bit. I’m Gwen.’

‘Johnny.’ He reached out a hand and I shook it. He didn’t meet my eyes but looked over my shoulder as if he didn’t believe I was on my own. ‘Did Frances forget I was coming?’

‘She’s a bit distracted by everything. She’ll be back soon.’

‘I’ll wait.’

He walked past me, obviously at home in Frances’s office.

‘Do you work with Frances?’ I asked.

‘I sort out most of the food for her.’

‘You don’t look like a chef,’ I said. It came out sounding rather rude.

He looked down at his suit. ‘You think I’m pretending? I’ve been kicked upstairs into management, in line with which I’ve brought her a menu for next week. Do you want to see it?’

‘I’m not really the person to –’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

We sat together on the sofa and he showed me the menu. He told me how to make soufflés in advance; he said he sourced his ingredients locally; he put his hand on my arm; he told me his restaurant was called Zest, his signature dish was stuffed pig’s trotter and I had to pay him a visit there soon; he listened attentively when I spoke; he laughed and looked me in the eye; he called me Gwen with each sentence – ‘… don’t you think, Gwen?’ and ‘I’ll tell you what, Gwen…’ And Gwen flushed with self-consciousness and awkward, complicated pleasure.

When Frances came back, damp with the rain that had started to fall, she looked at the two of us on the sofa with affectionate amusement. ‘I see you haven’t missed me.’ She took off her beautiful coat and threw it on the back of the chair, then kissed him on both cheeks.

‘I always miss you,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been well looked after.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him, gazing at her seriously. ‘You seem worn out, Frances. Are you taking proper care of yourself?’

‘No, but Gwen is,’ she replied, and they smiled at me, warming me with their approval.

Johnny dropped me at the Underground station. He took my hand in both of his and said it had been a real pleasure to meet me and we would certainly see each other again soon. I muttered something in reply, and avoided his bright gaze. Why should I feel guilty because a nice man was flirting with me – or, at least, with me pretending not to be me? After all, I was a free woman, and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me without pity and embarrassment. But I didn’t feel free: I felt that I was still in a relationship with Greg, and that to respond would be, in some perverse sense, a betrayal.

It was dark and drizzly as I walked home from the tube. Puddles glistened under the street-lamps. In a few weeks, it would be the longest night of the year; the days were closing in and Christmas was coming. There were decorations in the shop windows and lights strung between the lamp-posts. I wondered drearily what I would do for Christmas. For a moment, the thought of waking up in my wide bed on Christmas Day, alone, made me gasp with pain. I stopped and put a hand against my heart. I turned into my road and saw my little house ahead of me, with its unlit windows and its soggy, uncared-for front garden.

As I went in I heard my mobile ringing. I saw it was Gwen calling and, for a moment, was confused.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.’

‘Sorry, I’ve been busy.’

‘That’s good. Have you forgotten it’s your birthday in a few days’ time?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just haven’t really thought about it.’

‘It would be nice to have a little drinks party for you.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘At your house. You don’t have to do anything but be there. I’ll do everything else. I’ll even clear up for you.’

‘You’re making it sound as though you’ve already organized it.’

‘Not exactly. But I’ve made sure that people like Mary can come.’

‘What do you mean, “people like Mary”? Who else?’

‘Just a few. Me, Mary and Eric, Fergus and Jemma, of course, Joe and Alison, Josh and Di. That’s about it. And anyone you want to ask.’

‘I don’t know, Gwen.’

‘I’ll do little eats and Joe said he’d provide the wine.’

‘When’s this supposed to be happening?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

I gave up protesting. ‘I’ll check my diary,’ I said ironically, ‘but I’m pretty sure I’m not busy then.’

‘Good. That’s settled. I’ll come round at five, straight from school, and we’ll get everything ready.’

Chapter Fourteen

When I arrived at the office, Frances was on the phone. She waved me in frantically. It sounded as if she was on the receiving end of a lecture. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can see that… Is that really true?… Didn’t we?… Is it serious?… So what do we do?’

I tiptoed across the room, made two mugs of coffee and handed one to Frances. She pulled faces at me like a silent-movie actress, signalling thanks for the coffee and, at the same time, frustration and exasperation. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But things have been a bit difficult, you know, with what’s happened… Yes, but couldn’t you explain it to them? Would that make things better?… Oh, I see… Yes, all right.’

Finally she put the phone down. I thought she was going to cry.

‘I never wanted to be a businesswoman,’ she said, her voice almost a wail. ‘Did I tell you I went to art school?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I was going to be a painter. That was the plan. I was good at it, but in the end there’s only room for about four painters in England at any one time and it was clear I wasn’t going to be one of them.’

‘Who was it on the phone?’ I said.

‘That was our horrible accountant,’ she said. ‘He’s meant to be working for us – we certainly pay him enough – but all he does is shout at me. He’s like a disappointed parent. Apparently we’re late with our VAT and apparently that’s bad. I thought the point of accountants was that they were meant to deal with that sort of thing. Oh, God, Gwen, I hate this – I’m out of my depth.’

I remembered an early conversation with Greg, when we were getting to know each other and obsessed with every detail about each other’s life. I’d teased him about being an accountant. Wasn’t it just about adding up columns of numbers and filling in forms? He’d laughed. It wasn’t like that at all, not with the clients he had. It was a mixture of being a psychiatrist and a magician, a hostage negotiator and a bomb-disposal expert, with a bit of form filling at the end.

‘Beth’s not handling this very well,’ said Frances. ‘The thing about Beth, who, incidentally, has not arrived yet, is that she’s very young, very decorative and very confident. You can take her anywhere and she seems very busy all the time but at the end of a day it’s never particularly easy to work out exactly what she’s done. She’s good at events. The clients are very keen on her. The male ones, I mean. It’s to do with her being twenty-two. And her breasts.’