‘London. On my own, mostly. Thinking about Oliver quite a lot, as it happens.’ Pansy had indeed done her own mourning for him, and it was part of her that she should have done it alone, and in secret. Helen found herself wondering, as she had done often before, about how much more Pansy there was submerged, iceberg like, beneath the frivolous surface. Lightly, Pansy went on, ‘I did a bit of work with Scot. Reading the Moll Flanders script with him.’ An un-Pansy-like flush of enthusiastic colour came into her face. ‘He’s a brilliant director. I’m so proud that he’s asked me to work with him. It’s not just getting into films, and Hollywood and all that, that I’m excited about. But working for Scot. And you know the best thing of all? I did it myself, without any of Masefield’s string-pulling or demanding of favours to be returned. Just me, on my own. What d’you think of that?’

They smiled at her.

‘I think you’ll be a huge success, and far too famous to have anything to do with Helen and me any more.’

‘Oh no.’ Pansy was serious at once. She put an arm around their shoulders. ‘I won’t ever forget this year. Or the way that somehow our friendship has survived, in spite of all the things that I did. Whatever happens to us all, I shall still think of you as the best friends I’ll ever have.’ For Pansy it was a long, serious speech, and they believed her.

It stirred up the muddy waters of memory, and brought them back to Oliver.

When the time came, they made themselves ready to go, feeling the heat of the house in their dark clothes.

As they filed down the shallow stairs, Rose came out to them. They hadn’t seen her for days because she had been locked in her room with her grief. Now they were shocked to see how terrible she looked. Her huge face was blotched with purple and her little eyes were almost invisible. Her ragged hair appeared to be falling out, leaving grey patches of skin. She was squeezed into a heavy black coat, and she stared mutely up as they came down towards her.

Chloe put a hand on her arm. ‘Would you like to come with us?’ she asked.

Rose shook her head. There was a glimmer of the old, defensive malice. ‘Gerry is taking me. As family, we are going in a suitable car, even if they have chosen to ignore us.’

Helen felt a flash of surprise that Darcy hadn’t made arrangements for them to be driven to the funeral. She doubted, too, whether Gerry would be capable. He had been drunk for a week.