— I can’t believe it, Alex said. — No, it’s impossible. When I saw him at the weekend he was fine.

— I know. It’s impossible.

When Christine moved to stop the music on the CD player he told her to wait, it had almost finished. — Let it end.

He put his hands on her shoulders, detaining her, comforting her. His touch was kind, only she couldn’t let herself feel it. They stood confronted. Alex was stocky, medium height – she was probably an inch or so taller than him, even in her bare feet, only he’d never believe it. At first she chafed in his grip. — I have to hurry. I don’t know if she’s at the hospital alone.

— The cab’s not here yet, wait. Listen.

It seemed artificial and forced, waiting until the music was over. Her thoughts were racing and she couldn’t hear it, hated its offer of complexity and beauty. Then she began to yield, under the steady weight of his hands, to the violin and piano and cello as they went hastening to their finish. They unlocked something clenched inside her. She realised that her arms were hugged across her chest as if she were protecting herself, or holding herself tightly shut; at least they hadn’t put on the lamps in the room. They held each other. There were tears on Alex’s face, he cried easily. He had a gift for ceremonies which she didn’t have, they embarrassed her. Now this moment felt ceremonial, and her consciousness hushed and paused. She thought directly about Zachary for the first time, the reality of him. But that wasn’t bearable.

— Let me come with you to the hospital, Alex said. – I’ll drive you.

Christine thought about it. — No, it’s best if I go alone. If it’s just the two of us, at first. I’ll bring her here. You could make up the bed for her.

She had imagined herself hurrying up and down hospital corridors in search of Lydia, who might be with Zach’s body behind drawn curtains, or might have been ushered into some room set aside for the newly bereaved. But as soon as Christine came in through the glass doors of the main entrance of the hospital, Lydia stood up from one of the blue plastic chairs set out in rows in front of the reception desk, where she had been sitting among the others waiting. She had her air of a disgruntled queen, haughty and exceptional in a sky-blue velvet jacket with a fake leopard-skin collar; when Christine hurried to embrace her, people turned their heads to stare. Lydia was often mistaken for someone famous. Voluptuous, with coiling honey-coloured hair and a swollen, pouting lower lip, she devoted serious attention to her make-up and clothes to achieve this arty, sexy, theatrical look. Her pale skin was blue with shadows, like skimmed milk.