Howard takes a cigarette from the bowl on the table and lights it, as does Gloria. William, who still considers his lungs the most precious part of his body’s architecture, even though he hasn’t sung for five years, has never considered putting one to his mouth. Yet there’s something appealing about the bluish wreaths of smoke winding through the banquet hall – a communal breathing out and relaxing. As coffee is poured from skinny silver pots, people lean back in their seats. William wants it over and done with. He sees Uncle Robert look to the top table and then at William, giving him a small nod.

2

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s feast.’ David Melling smiles. ‘And don’t you polish up well!’ He brandishes a piece of paper. ‘I have my dance card here, ladies, though you may have to form a queue, so please be patient.’

Once the laughter dies down, Mr Melling talks, William notes, for eight minutes and ten seconds about the continued high standards of the institute, its charity work, its growing international reputation. William resists wiping the sweat at the back of his neck.

‘But now,’ their president says, putting the card down, clasping his hands in front of him, ‘closer to home. In a profession largely family-run, though it’s frowned upon nowadays to put pressure on the next generation, it is, nevertheless, a heartening and happy circumstance to hear of a young man not only taking up the baton, but winning gold.’

Gloria raises her eyebrows at William. ‘Bring on the pedestal,’ she mouths. Uncle Robert grins at him. His throat catches. ‘Our longstanding member, Robert Lavery, of Lavery and Sons, is, I know, a very proud uncle this week.’

The idea of everyone looking at him is suddenly intolerable. William wants to run. He can’t, for Uncle Robert’s sake. Not again. He must force his mouth into a smile, calm his eyes. The thud of his heart is so aggressive he’s sure if he looks down, his shirt will be punching outwards.

‘Young William Lavery graduated from the Thames College of Embalming this week, not only making him the youngest embalmer in the country …’

William stares at the floor. Will he have to stand? Should he wave? Bow? Say something? David Melling has stopped talking. William studies the hectic yellow and orange swirls of the carpet, the spiked breadcrumb near Gloria’s stiletto. Why has it gone quiet? He forces his head up. A waiter has handed Mr Melling a piece of paper, which he is now reading.

‘Thank you,’ he says to the man, who is leaving through the tall double doors of the ballroom.

The hush is like a scream. Uncle Robert is frowning. David Melling’s moustache glistens under the chandelier as he stares at the pink piece of paper.