Fuck. I’d meant for that to sound like a long time.

The skinny-fat fella reiterates. ‘I had no idea.’

‘I better dash,’ Florrie taps my arm, then everybody else’s individually, as if she’s playing bongos. ‘I promised Trish I’d check on the caterers.’

Ross puts his arm around Florrie – little willowy Florrie – and gives her a shake. Well done to her, helping Jack’s mum out. That should be my job. The skinny-fat fella is rounding up the troops, sorting out lifts.

‘You coming to the pub, Chloe?’ he asks.

‘I’ll follow on.’

And I watch them all leave the churchyard, down the path towards various parked cars. Their spirits are higher than they were before the service, an obvious warmth of friends being reunited, although for a most dreadful reason. I’m not one of them – it’s likely I’m already forgotten.

I’ll swerve the whole pub ordeal. The wake. The one with in-jokes about naked stair diving and Jack’s ex. Fucking Florrie. I need to get back to my flat; my Jack.

Because, you see, my Jack can’t be dead yet.

We only just got started.

As I start my walk down the country lane, barefoot, carrying my heels in my hand, I hear my name being called, as clear as the church bells striking one. It’s a sound full of love and warmth, and most importantly, familiarity. A white Audi waits outside the church, its driver door open. The driver is standing and waving me over.

‘Chloe babes!’

It’s Beth.

10

We hit the pub.

Not the one where the wake is happening – we’re in the next village; long, winding roads apart. It’s a posh one with an outdoor decking area overlooking the Thames, framed by weeping willows. A couple of barges are moored up across the river; the expensive sort. There are a few old age pensioners inside, enjoying a leisurely lunch of fish and chips; the waft of vinegar is strong. I imagine this sort of place only ever gets busy on Sundays. I take a seat outside and Beth goes to the bar, returning with a bottle of Sauvignon in an ice bucket and two glasses.

‘Who’s driving us home?’ I ask.

‘We’ll worry about that later, babes.’

We clink. My first sip is large, satisfying, and goes straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day and probably didn’t eat anything last night, either. I can’t remember. This is just what I need.

‘Your mum rang me,’ Beth says.

‘Was she dramatic?’

‘So-so. She wants you to go home.’

I roll my eyes and Beth grins. She gets it.

‘I found an article online,’ she says, ‘about the accident.’

‘Beth, don’t—’

‘Such a tragedy. And the driver—’

‘Can we not go there? Please?’

Beth massages her temples with her fingertips, releasing a sigh.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.