Sandy had come alone, because he was between girlfriends. He was pale – but then Sandy was always pale, as if he didn’t often see daylight. Unexpectedly he’d turned up in a suit, which was sweet, and of course he looked gorgeous in it, with his dishevelled beauty. And he played something on the guitar too, with that simplicity he only ever had when he performed: a little instrumental he’d written years ago for Zachary, who’d first encouraged him to play. It was very touching. Max had told Hannah that he didn’t want to say anything, but at the last moment he stood up abruptly to recite the prayer for Kaddish, stumbling and forgetting half of it, then ripped his cotton jacket down noisily, from the lapels. Lydia and Grace exchanged quick glances, sitting straight-backed side by side at the centre of the front row of chairs. It was so like Max, they both thought, who hadn’t been inside a synagogue since his bar mitzvah, to confound them all today with a dramatic gesture. Was it his best jacket, or had he worn an old one specially? Seen together from the front, Grace and Lydia were so unlike that no one could have guessed they were mother and daughter: one small and self-possessed and fair, one tall and dark, athletic and careless as a boy. From behind, though, a likeness was visible in their tensed shoulders. Both were rigidly attentive to the tributes playing out in front of them, holding their heads stiffly as if they expected further blows.

— Poor old Max, last one left, whispered Lydia’s mother Pam. Pam had had any number of operations and complained of pains everywhere, but was still handsome; she had her hair done with bronze highlights and wore good hats. — Lucky Zach’s parents didn’t live to know they’d lost him, she added with sententiousness. — I wonder if you ever appreciated, Lydia, what a lovely man you had.

Lydia smiled constrainedly, patted her mother’s hand. — You know me, she said. — Famously unappreciative.

— How can you joke at such a time? You heartless creature.

— Heartless? Now who might I get that from?

Tibs and Pam had worn set faces through the Japanese dancing, but at least understood the requirement for poetry at funerals. Dapper faded Tibs sat beside Grace and held her hand in his, out of his depth but kind. When Grace was little she had bloomed amid the hectic sociability of their pub-life, she’d been a great hit with their regulars, dancing for them uninhibitedly to the Spice Girls, gyrating her hips and pouting, sticking out her bottom. — It’s unsettling, Ma, Zachary had mildly protested to Pam, laughing and loving it.