Oh. Right. Typical Amanda. She’d already nicked my children. Helena waited for Ant and the girls to go ahead. She held my arm a moment, then rummaged in her bag and passed me a mint imperial.

I glanced at her nervously. ‘Can you smell it?’

‘A bit.’

I’d stopped to be sick in the churchyard. Right around the back; no one was looking. It was why I was late. I took the mint gratefully and she squeezed my hand.

‘Come on. Soon be over.’

The organ was playing Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ as Helena escorted me through the nave of the huge galleried church. I’d previously only been in here to attend a charity carol concert a few years ago. It had been a joyous, celebratory occasion with an orchestra, trumpets, choir and packed pews. A cast of thousands. Today, it was a different story. Most pews were empty. At the front, admittedly, there was a fair sprinkling of congregation; Amanda had done quite well drumming up some support, but heaven only knew who these people were. Her own friends and neighbours, I imagined. She did have some, even if they went fitfully in and out of favour. But I also recognized the Bakers, the Franklins and the Taylors, all couples Michael and I historically had supper with, but with whom I’d lost touch. Nice enough people but social friends, rather than proper ones like Melissa, to whom I told everything, and who I wished was here today. She’d rung me last night from San Francisco, and we’d spoken for about an hour. She’d wished me all the luck in the world – and courage, too, she’d added. You’ll need it. She’d repeated it again in a text this morning, which she must have set her alarm in the middle of the night to send. ‘Courage, mon amie.’