There was a toot behind me. The lights had gone green. It was only to sit in stationary traffic again, however, in a long queue for the Hammersmith roundabout, so I reached for my bag, retrieved my phone and surreptitiously checked my texts. Imo. Wondering how it had gone with Amanda and hoping I hadn’t caved in over the memorial service. I glanced around to check for police, then texted back:

‘It was as ghastly as you predicted. She’s going ahead with it with or without us.’

A message came back immediately:

‘Without us.’

I felt a ridiculous wave of relief, as if somehow we might escape, but texted back:

‘Won’t that look really odd?’

‘What – like we did away with him or something?’

Flustered, I tossed the phone on to the passenger seat. The traffic was still at a standstill, though. After a bit I retrieved it. I texted:

‘Am driving. Can’t talk.’

I put it back in my bag, knowing it was on silent if she rang.

In an ideal world, I’d have seen both of my children while in London and that had indeed been my intention: to text and see if they were free for supper later. Imo worked very late in her new job, worryingly so, into the early hours sometimes, but she might have snuck out, and then the three of us could have gone to the Italian we liked. Except, this wasn’t an ideal world, far from it, and the last thing I wanted right now was to see their dear faces. I couldn’t relay the lunch to them in full, tell them what Amanda had accused me of, so I would have to lie, and I didn’t want to do that. I could have just stuck to the memorial service, lied by omission, and tomorrow I would, when I rang them. But it was all too recent; too immediate now. And supper was so intimate; they’d see my face, guess at something else, maybe. The phone was better, and tomorrow I’d lie my socks off as I had done for years.

I was quite used to that. Protecting them. As much as I could. And I’d listen to Imo’s outrage at Amanda’s preposterous behaviour, and Ned’s calmer take on things, with more of an understanding of his aunt’s state of mind, having seen a lot of it in his line of work. My son’s job in a huge, diverse and sometimes troubled inner city parish, with a congregation of over 400, was often more therapist/social worker/psychiatric nurse than vicar, it seemed to me. They’d both know I’d had a grim time, though: that I’d been taken back to that familiar ghastly place, and they’d be concerned.