‘Ah. Right.’ She didn’t sound particularly interested in her brother’s doings, but mellow and unguarded.

‘It’s based on “Riq and Raq”.’

‘Ah.’ No intonation at all.

‘You know, it’s a cartoon strip your father used to do.’ Well, that particular elephant in the room had been referred to. It was a step.

‘I’ve heard of the strip,’ said Jools. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them.’

‘I’ve got quite a few of the originals in the attic at home. I think I might get some more of them framed … you know, like the “Major Cock-Ups” and “Teddy Blair” stuff that I’ve hung in the hall.’

It had taken me a long time after Oliver’s death to reach the point where I could look at his work. Getting a couple of the cartoons framed and putting them on show in the hall had not been easy, but it had felt like an important step in my transition into widowhood.

The only reaction Jools gave was an almost imperceptible shrug. Then suddenly she looked at me. ‘You’re not suggesting I should put some of his cartoons up here, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Good. Because they wouldn’t go with my stuff.’

‘I can see that.’ Enough of this circling round. I’d go for the direct approach. ‘You never talk about him.’

‘Nope.’ She finished her drink and poured more. Just gin this time.

‘I know it’s difficult.’

‘That’s an excellent choice of word, Ellen.’

‘I’ve found talking about Oliver makes it easier for me.’

‘Well, I’ve found,’ she snapped back, ‘that not talking about him makes it easier for me!’

She was beside me on the sofa bed. I could see tears were pouring down her cheeks. Instinctively, I put my arms around her, as I had so often until she became a teenager. She didn’t resist.

‘You’ve shut in so much,’ I said.

‘I find that easier too,’ Jools said, through tears.

‘It’s natural. Something unpleasant happens – something unbelievably, cruelly unpleasant – and you try to shut it out. And why? Because the feelings are too powerful if you do think about it?’

My daughter didn’t respond.

‘Juliet – sorry, Jools – after Oliver died, I went through every kind of emotion, some I didn’t want to acknowledge. Anger being a predominant one. I felt so furious with Oliver. Furious for his selfishness. Not for what he’d done to himself but for what he’d done to us. Oh yes, of course I knew that depression was a disease, that he couldn’t help it, he was ill, but that didn’t stop me blaming him. It wasn’t a worthy emotion, but it was a necessary one. Is that the kind of feeling you’re trying to shut out? Anger? Blind fury?’

‘No,’ said Jools through the sobs, so quietly I could hardly hear her. ‘It’s not anger. It’s guilt.’

‘Guilt? Why on earth should you feel guilt?’

‘I think I, kind of, shut Daddy out.’

To an extent, I could see where she was coming from. Oliver had adored Juliet from the moment she was born. He’d loved playing with her. Often, when I thought he was up in his study drawing, I’d find him downstairs with her in a rubble of Lego. She was his beautiful little daughter, and he got an enormous charge from just having her around. They were amazingly cuddly with each other. Like many fathers who work from home, he got a real dose of Empty Nest Syndrome when Juliet started school.