Something flickers in his belly; panic, some sense of betrayal. ‘That’s a long way,’ he says, in an effort not to ask a direct question; after all, they’re complete strangers.

The woman smiles, almost conspiratorially. ‘She’s gone to pick up her daughter-in-law.’

For a brief, insane moment, William wonders who that could be. He stares at the sequins across the woman’s feet, notices her varnished toenails through the beige mesh of her tights.

‘She’s going to help Evelyn get ready for her wedding.’ The woman’s face tightens in concentration on William. ‘Can I tell her who called?’

‘No.’ William is already back at his car, opening the door. ‘Thank you. It doesn’t matter.’

60

A flock of daffodils stand proud and golden in the late afternoon sun on the patch of grass at the turning into their street. From this distance, the Lavery and Sons sign looks small and understated. It’s taken him three and a half hours to drive from Swansea to Birmingham. He called Martin from a service station and asked if he could keep the car for a few days; he was going home. Now, finally and unexpectedly parked beneath the Lavery and Sons sign, all he feels is tired.

The forecourt is empty and the relief is immense. He’d wondered if he was going to find Robert and Howard entertaining Evelyn and Gloria, and where on earth he’d fit into that. After staring at the illuminated tulips under the window, he gets out and lets himself in. The grandfather clock in the hallway stands sentinel, tick-tocking over the unassuming order of Howard and Robert’s carefully lived life. He hangs his anorak on the hook furthest to the right, as he used to. The adjacent one, Gloria’s, is empty. He stands for a moment, listening to the silence of the house, then heads through the adjoining door at the end of the hall to the funeral home.

The mortuary is clean, orderly and silent. All as it should be. He places his hands on the table. If there was a body waiting, he wouldn’t hesitate; that would calm him, let him disappear for a while. Instead, he checks on supplies in the cupboards, turns the taps on and off, fiddles with the instruments. Eventually, he walks back through to the house.

Walking into his bedroom is the hardest. The orange poppy duvet and matching curtains, the oak dressing table, the leather armchair, just as they always were. He scans the bare surfaces; the antimacassar stretches out on the dressing table, not rumpled and rucked without any perfume bottles or tissues. No hand cream, bracelets, safety pins or lipstick. No nurse’s silver fob watch. He opens her wardrobe and a few wire coat hangers rock gently. It’s worked. He left her so she could leave him. And now, he sees, she has.