SO WAKES, HUH? THEY SUCKED. If funerals were easier than weddings because no one was expected to enjoy them, then wakes might have sucked harder because you sort of were. I mean, not in a Munchkin Village way, but in an “in the midst of death we are in life; the deceased would want us to be joyful” way. And that was a really specific mood. A really specific mood that was hard enough to achieve at the best of times, and even harder to achieve when the deceased had actually been kind of a dick and everybody knew it.

It was practically impossible to achieve when the deceased had been kind of a dick and everybody knew it, and his eldest son had stood up and said he was a kind of dick and everybody knew it, and now fifty people were united not so much in their shared grief as their shared determination to pretend that one particular thing had never happened. Which meant for Oliver the whole event was like a very low-key but ultimately merciful gaslighting as he went around his parents’ house shaking hands with the men, kissing the women lightly on the cheek, and saying, “Yes, a terrible loss, and so unexpected” roughly twelve times a minute.

Eventually he and his mother reached the point in their separate rotations where they couldn’t avoid each other without admitting they were trying to avoid each other.

Oliver’s hand tightened on mine in a way that at least hinted at panic. “Mother…” he began.

Before she went up on tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Oliver, darling, don’t forget to pay the caterers.”

He gave the slightest of blinks. “I put through a bank transfer yesterday. It should clear within twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you.” And with a nod as slight as Oliver’s blink, Miriam Blackwood moved on.

“Walk?” I suggested because I could feel Oliver starting to vibrate beside me.

He didn’t say yes or no, but he let me lead him outside. The Blackwoods had a really nice garden, although I hadn’t had much chance to enjoy it the last time I was here. Not that I was going to have much chance now either, what with the drizzle, the fact I was at a wake, and the distress Oliver was radiating like a rubbish halo. They were also middle class enough to have a gazebo, which seemed as good a place as any to shelter from the one-two punch of rain and social obligation.

“Have I paid the caterers,” said Oliver bitterly as we sat down on one of the little benches.

“It could have been worse,” I offered. “She could have said, ‘You suck, you ruined your father’s funeral.’”

“I might have preferred it if she had.” He ran a hand through his hair. “As it is, I think she’s saving that particular bombshell for a future disagreement.”