Christine put out food on the kitchen table, but all anyone wanted was coffee, which they drank until it tasted poisonous. The phone began to ring in the afternoon and didn’t stop: friends who’d heard something, or artists Zachary had worked with, who’d got hold of their number. Lydia had spoken already to Zachary’s brother, but there were so many other people who needed to know what had happened. Alex took the phone into the study next door; again and again, patient with each new shock, he had to tell the story of Zachary’s keeling over in the office, Jane Ogden and Hannah going with him to the hospital. They could all hear him from the sitting room. While he was speaking they sat in silence, as if they needed to hear the story over and over, experience the fresh astonishment with every caller. Grace sat on the floor with her forehead dropped against her knees; Isobel was on the sofa close beside her, her hand on Grace’s hair. The girls had been very close since they were children, although they were opposite types: Grace so abrasive and rash, with her spectacular boyish beauty, Isobel distinctively poised and reserved. She worked as a civil servant, fast-track entrance, in housing; her green eyes were set wide apart, her skin was clear, her light brown hair pinned up in a smooth knot.

— I did ask about the mask, Alex said, crouching in front of Grace, taking her hands in his. – Not sure it’s a good idea. Wait and see how you feel about it in the morning.

— Most of it’s on the internet, Grace said. — But there’s someone I need to talk to about sourcing the right kind of plaster.

— Don’t I have any say in this? Lydia asked.

— Wait and see, wait and see, Christine soothed them.

Lydia wanted to talk about money. Had Zachary had life insurance? She had no idea, he took care of all that side of things. — How can you? Grace said. When Lydia had retired to her bed in the spare room with a sleeping pill, Christine tried to explain to Grace why her mother was behaving so clumsily. — You don’t need to tell me, Grace said, pushing her springy hair back from her forehead under both palms as if it helped her to think, her face stark in its severe lines. — I get it. I understand.