He looks round at me and I have the sudden urge to say: Sorry for what? Sorry for Mum dying? Sorry for leaving us? Sorry for never once making an effort to be a proper father?

But then that old, awkward formality I felt around him as a kid creeps back in. It’s like I’m twelve again, round at his and Clara’s flat, sensing instinctively that I shouldn’t rock the boat or cause any trouble. Otherwise he might not invite me back.

So I just shrug and mutter, ‘That’s OK.’

He stares down at his hands on his knees. ‘I just got in the car this morning and started driving,’ he says. ‘I was going to come into the church, honestly I was. But then I got here, and I …’ He flaps a hand aimlessly. ‘I couldn’t. I don’t really know why I’m even here,’ he adds. ‘It still doesn’t seem real, all this. I’m supposed to be in New York right now, for the show. We’ve had to push the press night back and everything.’

Anger pulses through me, and I suddenly want to rip through that old, suffocating formality. I suddenly very much want to rock the boat. I look him straight in the eye, and before I lose my nerve, I say, ‘No one asked you to be here.’

His mouth hangs half open for a second, and then he nods, scratching at his stubble.

‘You’ve got every right to be upset,’ he says finally. ‘To be angry at me.’

‘I’m angry because my mum’s gone,’ I say, feeling my vocal cords start to constrict and my voice to crack.

‘You know, she meant something to me too, Ben,’ he says. ‘We were married eleven years. She was a big part of my life.’ And the earnest, self-pitying, almost actorly expression on his face causes something inside me to snap.

‘This isn’t about you, Dad. This has nothing to do with you.’

The word ‘Dad’ dangles awkwardly in the air between us.

He picks up a squashed packet of Marlboro Reds from next to the gearstick. I notice his fingers are tinted yellow-brown at the tips. They’re shaking ever so slightly as he pulls a cigarette out. He turns it between his fingers, but doesn’t light it.

‘How are you coping?’ he asks. And then he shakes his head. ‘Stupid fucking question. Sorry.’ He closes his eyes and rubs the dark circles underneath them.

‘I’m OK,’ I tell him. ‘Well, no, I’m not OK. But I suppose I’m coping. Trying to.’

‘Good. That’s good. And … I heard you got married.’ He blinks. ‘How’s your wife doing?’

That nearly makes me laugh out loud. My own father doesn’t know my wife’s name. No reason why he should, I suppose.

‘Daphne,’ I say.

‘Daphne. How is she?’