“Obviously I sympathise. And it’s natural that she’s taking Dad’s death quite…hard. But as well as expecting me to organise everything, she also seems to blame me for everything. Up to and including the crematorium being busy, Christopher not being in the country, and—of course—the small matter of my father’s death. Which”—he scowled into the middle distance—“she hasn’t said outright was directly caused by my standing up to him. But she has implied it several times.”

I made a nervous squeaky noise. “Um. You know she’s, like, wrong, right?”

The pause that followed was longer than I would have preferred. “I do, actually. Although, I can’t lie, it’s difficult when the last words you said to someone before they passed away were ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

That hung there for a little bit, like neither of us knew what to do with it.

“I’m so sorry,” I said finally, falling into cliché and platitude.

“Don’t be.” Oliver shrugged. “While, of course, I regret that we didn’t have any kind of reconciliation before…before he…well…before that became impossible, what I mostly regret is that I didn’t say it years ago.”

That also hung there for a little bit.

“Too much?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not even close. I mean, I’m just glad you’re not feeling guilty.”

“Oh, I’m feeling guilty as well. But I’m rather hoping that will pass.”

There was ring of finality in his voice. And I suppose that was all you could do with grief: stick it out until you got used to it.

Oliver squared his shoulders in a stiff-upper-lippy, pull-yourself-togethery sort of way. “In any case,” he went on, “given how brilliantly our wedding planning is going, I don’t suppose you’d also like to help me organise a funeral?”

Chapter 31

"DAVID BLACKWOOD," SAID OLIVER, "WAS a loving husband, a devoted father, and an absolute demon on the golf course. We all remember him as a fair and generous man, even if he didn’t always suffer fools gladly. I remember when I was, perhaps, fourteen we went to this restaurant somewhere in Berkshire, and the menu was all in French and”—he adopted a posture of studied relaxation—“well, anybody who knew my father would know that languages were not his strong point. So when he ordered what he thought was a fillet steak and the waiter brought him fish, the poor fellow got quite the earful. Of course, the manager was very apologetic, and I seem to recall we actually got a free bottle of wine by way of apology. I remember quite distinctly when we got home and I looked it up and discovered that filet de flétan did indeed mean halibut fillet, he looked me squarely in the eye and said: Well, it just goes to show, Oliver. It always pays to stand up for yourself.