‘I’ve been naming the branches of the carotid arteries and tracing the arteries and veins a particle of fluid from the big toe to the left ear would use.’

‘You look as though you’ve been enjoying yourself.’

‘I have.’ He laughs at himself. She joins in; her giggle is rich and textured.

‘Gloria! Close the door,’ shouts Mrs Finch, ‘your father’s already in a muddle.’

‘Sorry,’ Gloria shouts, jumping down from the counter and crossing the kitchen.

‘You don’t have to stop talking,’ Mrs Finch shouts, ‘just keep it down.’

‘Why are they kissing?’ Mr Finch says. Gloria keeps her hand on the door; head inclined and a warning finger held to her lips, she winks at William. ‘I thought she was married to the lawyer,’ Mr Finch says.

‘She is!’ Mrs Finch replies. ‘That’s the point, he’s her bit on the side. Keep up, you daft bat.’

Having gently closed the door, the two of them laugh as quietly as they can. Some cocoa slips down William’s windpipe and Gloria has to pat his back as he splutters over the sink.

That night, lying in bed, remembering, William smiles. He likes how Gloria makes him feel. Even coughing over the sink with cocoa stinging his nostrils, he was enjoying himself. And still now, he can feel the sensation of her hand on his back.

It’s Friday and it feels very natural sitting opposite Gloria on the counter at 9.30 in the evening, with Mr and Mrs Finch watching TV in the next room. As the week has progressed he’s found out that Gloria is one year older than him, has an older sister who’s married with two children, living in East London. Last night William asked if her father had ever put pressure on her to join the business.

She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. ‘Think about it. Have you ever met a female embalmer? Have you ever seen a sign outside a funeral home that says, Blah Blah Blah and Daughters?’

He shook his head. ‘You’re right, I haven’t.’

‘I’m not complaining. It got me off the hook – I’d rather save lives than pickle bodies. Mind,’ she added, ‘you’ll not find better people than in the funeral business. And if I ever have a daughter, and she wants to follow in her grandfather’s footsteps, I won’t have a problem with it.’

Then they’d talked about Egyptians pulling brains out through the nostrils, but he found his mind kept jumping back to the thought of Gloria with a baby daughter.

‘You’ve painted your nails,’ William notices now. ‘Nice colour.’

‘Thanks!’ she says, smiling at her splayed fingers. ‘I always do them if I’ve got two days off in a row.’