Jenny felt a bubble of anxiety rise inside her as she poured the coffee. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Just answer the phone if it rings and take down details. You’ve seen me do it often enough.’

‘Not recently.’30

‘You’ll be fine.’ Dorothy lifted her cardigan from the back of a chair and put it on. Jenny smelt the smoke on it from yesterday, imagined her dad’s spirit in the wool.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘No,’ Dorothy said, not unkindly. ‘Neither of us is OK, and I don’t expect we will be for a long time. But we need to carry on, don’t we?’

‘Do we?’

Dorothy took Jenny’s hand. ‘What else can we do?’

The phone rang.

Jenny was in the embalming room staring at the pile of dust that was her dad when she heard the ringing from reception. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, could’ve been seconds or weeks.

She walked through to reception. Such a contrast to the embalming room, here were plush carpets, carved oak fixtures, bouquets of flowers in a corner waiting for the next service. Egg and dart cornicing around the ceiling, a stylish desk with a laptop and telephone. From reception she could see the whole customer side of the business on the ground floor – the small chapel to the left, the arranging room to the right, and the three viewing rooms along the back.

She sat in the chair and stared at the phone, then picked it up.

‘Hello, Skelf’s?’ She remembered not to say funeral director or private investigator, because it could be either.

Sniffling down the line.

‘It’s OK, take your time.’ Jenny pictured her mum saying the same thing thousands of times over the years.

‘It’s my William.’

Jenny heard her mum’s voice in her head. Just be there, you don’t 31have to say anything. People want to feel connected to someone, to anything.

More sniffing. ‘I need to arrange his funeral.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

The woman burst out crying and Jenny felt helpless. If they’d been in the same room she could’ve offered a tissue or patted her hand. Or given her a bear hug like she needed herself, maybe share some tears, break out the single malt and drown their sorrows together. How fucked up was it to be sitting the day after your dad’s funeral listening to the worst moment of someone else’s life?

‘What’s your name?’ Jenny said.

A while before she answered. ‘Mary. William and Mary Baxter.’

As if they were still a couple, as if she hadn’t just had her soul ripped out. Jenny heard Mary breathe and try to regain control.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. It wasn’t OK, it was a stupid thing to say, nothing was ever going to be OK again. ‘Tell me about William.’