‘Well . . .’ Alison saw Molly’s expression change. ‘Actually this week is always a bit of a strange one for me,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Which is partly why I decided to get a haircut, you know, to give myself a bit of a lift. It’s the anniversary of my son’s death, so . . .’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Alison said, sympathy flaring inside her. Her fingers hovered uselessly behind the woman’s head; she didn’t know whether to resume snipping or not. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful.’

‘It was eight years ago now,’ Molly said, her voice flat. ‘Meningitis; he was only twenty-six. The nicest kid you can imagine. Just started a new job as a chef over in Leeds, and he had everything going for him – lovely girlfriend, smashing little flat.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Alison wretchedly, measuring a length of Molly’s hair between her fingers. Snip, snip, snip. ‘The world can be so cruel sometimes.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ said Molly, as soft tufts of hair fell to the floor around her. ‘The thing is, I know I’ll be fine again next week – well, as fine as you ever can be, that is. I’ve dealt with the grief, I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. It’s just this one week of the year, it always gets to me. Makes me feel fragile.’ She gave a rueful-sounding sigh. ‘Sorry, love. You don’t want to hear me feeling sorry for myself, do you? I bet you’re wishing you’d never asked me now!’

‘No, you’re fine, no need to apologize,’ Alison told her. There was a lump in her throat suddenly – a pang of sympathy for the woman, and the resonance that came from having suffered a similar loss. Her instinct was to steer the subject round to more cheerful subjects, to move away from bereavement and its lingering effects, but in her head Robyn was still glaring and pointing that finger, calling her a coward. So instead she found herself blurting out, ‘And I know exactly what you mean.’ She swallowed, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks, as the words came tripping off her tongue. ‘I always have a wobble myself at the beginning of March – that was when my husband died. Even longer ago than your son, but it still brings everything back. I’ll turn the page on my calendar and there it is, that ache of grief again.’

‘It’s tough, losing someone,’ Molly agreed. ‘Even though we all know nothing lasts forever, it still doesn’t make it any easier.’ She paused as Alison came round to measure her hair once more, a strand in each hand, looking left and right to gauge the lengths. ‘Had he been ill for a long time, your husband, or was it a sudden thing? Not that either way is any better, mind.’