In contrast, her husband fidgeted constantly, as if he couldn’t be comfortable sitting still; a bristly man with bristling, irritable vibrations. Even his breathing was fidgety and impatient. I got the feeling that he’d rather be elsewhere and resented this waste of his time. He looked the kind of man whose time is always more important than anyone else’s.

Sitting between Mr Burgoyne and me, was Nick’s son, Richard. He was a good ten years younger than his sister and there was nothing about his clothes or his manner that was the least funereal. He wore the same black jeans and trainers he’d worn to the service, with a blue crew-neck sweater and a cream sports jacket slung over the top, the sleeves pushed back to show his tanned forearms. He lounged in his chair with his legs stuck out in front of him, ankles crossed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. With his wavy brown hair and beard he reminded me of a college lecturer, the sort that first-year students fall in love with. He looked vaguely familiar but I suppose that was because he’d inherited his father’s wicked blue eyes. When I sat down in my chair, he did a double take, grinned at me, and, to my amazement, winked.

I was glad that I’d yielded to pressure from Ricky and Morris and not worn the same black sweater, skirt, and slightly scruffy suede boots that I’d worn to the funeral. For the reading of the will I should not look like a poor relation, they told me: they insisted on dressing me up. The classic black wool dress came from a production of Witness for the Prosecution, as did the royal blue, edge-to-edge jacket that covered it. I’d resisted the tiny black velvet hat, despite their cries that it looked fabulous perched on my red hair; I thought a hat might be over the top. The burnt-orange silk scarf flung around my shoulders came from French Without Tears, along with the black shoes; and the amber earrings were Cordelia’s. I was grateful I’d agreed to carry the gorgeous, little royal-blue clutch bag that went with the jacket. It was comforting to have something to clutch.

Young Mr Young cleared his throat several times, the tense atmosphere obviously getting to him. ‘Shall we begin?’ he asked, smiling nervously.