Beth squeezes my arm and then takes her young reporter to meet Bill. Bill, like me, is plainly surprised that a private event like this should have suddenly become public property but – gentleman that he is – he does his best not to let it show. The reporter shakes his hand, then retreats to a nearby fold of pebbles and begins to take shots on his camera while Beth asks us to form a loose circle around the scarlet towels.

This morning, she says, we can all feel the warmth and the presence of the spirits. She gestures up towards the sun, out towards the sea, and then reassures us that Christianne is in good hands, the best of hands, and that the purpose of us being here together is to celebrate not just her life but the way she chose to bid us farewell.

‘Darling?’

Presley answers her summons. From the depths of a rather nice calico bag he produces a smallish china pot. He removes the lid and gives the pot to Beth. She studies it a moment, raises it to her nose, inhales deeply, and then extends it like an offering.

‘This is a paste,’ she says. ‘I made it this morning. It’s based on an ancient Hopi recipe. It begins with dried yam and tumbleweed and crushed sage, and includes all kinds of unctuous yumminess, but I wouldn’t recommend it on toast.’

The joke, in a setting like this, falls flat. People are nervous now. They’ve come for remembrance, not a masterclass in Native American rituals, and they begin to exchange glances as Beth circles with her pot of magical potion, moving from person to person, anointing forehead after forehead with a small greasy dot of – I assume – spiritual awakening. No one says a word. No one refuses or withdraws. But the spell that brought them here – that debt of gratitude they owe Christianne – is somehow broken. Only the reporter, framing shot after shot, has bought into this nonsense. And given the impact it will make in next week’s local paper, who can blame him?

It’s my turn.

Beth hesitates a second. ‘I expect you’ve done this before,’ she says.

‘Never.’

‘Not even on stage?’

‘Never.’

‘A first then. My privilege.’

She dips a finger. The gunk, dark green, is granular and oily and I catch the harshness of the crushed sage. The dot feels cool on my forehead but before she moves on, I beckon her closer.

‘Andy might say no,’ I murmur. ‘If that happens, you should respect it.’

‘He won’t.’ The smile is knowing. ‘I promise.’

And she’s right. Andy inclines his head and submits to a dot of his own. Is he tuned into the Great Spirit? Or, for once in his life, is he being polite? I try and catch his eye but he’s avoiding every gaze.