‘My friend Tabitha gatecrashes weddings,’ said Azra. ‘She lives in Kidderminster, near a big hotel where there’s always weddings, so she puts on a nice frock and joins the guests, gets sloshed on Prosecco and snarfs the canapés. That’s her weekend sorted. Sod all else to do in Kidderminster.’

Who was Tabitha? It confirmed my point. When Azra died, this unknown Tabitha would pop up at the funeral and nobody would have a clue who she was and where she’d fitted into Azra’s life. From Azra’s brief career as an actress? From the time she lived with a sculptor in New Mexico? From Greenham Common? From primary school?

I remember gazing at Azra, who was making us coffee. She wore a turquoise shirt, psychedelic leggings, and a pair of earrings I’d given her—little silver acorns that bobbed when she moved. I’d know her for thirty years but there were so many things I hadn’t asked her. So many unknowns, yet she was my closest friend. Maybe she felt the same about me.

Actually I doubted this. Azra lacked curiosity. She lived in the moment, unreflectedly. I’d always admired this animal spirit, but today I felt another lurch of loneliness. Would I ever meet somebody who wanted to look at my photograph albums? Who asked about my schooldays? I don’t think she even knew the names of my parents.

I sat slumped on her sofa. The rain battered the window. My visit to the crematorium had shaken me up. Time was running short. Was I really going to die alone?

This naked fear could drain my blood. And the bitterness … oh, it was eating me up. I was still smarting from the subsequent funeral, the choir one, the one I was supposed to attend. I’d recognised some of the people there—couples who were still together, after all these years. And they looked perfectly happy! I watched them at the wake, fetching plates of sandwiches for each other, brushing crumbs off each other. How I envied them. What had those women done, to deserve such devotion? They hadn’t been dumped. They had arms around them at night to ward off the terrors.

I was cornered by a woman called Anthea Mills, now fatter and older but still insufferably complacent. She boasted about her grandchildren, all doing marvellously at school, all living nearby, in and out of her house all day. ‘We hardly have a moment to ourselves, do we, darling?’ She jabbed her husband with her elbow. ‘So we’re sneaking off to Paris for the weekend, just the two of us. Can’t wait!’

‘I could have shot her,’ I told Azra.

Needless to say, Azra treated this bourgeois crowing with contempt. ‘They’re probably miserable. Just too cowardly to split up.’

‘They didn’t look miserable.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you really want to find somebody? Isn’t it a relief to be on your own? I thought you were coping better, now.’

Humiliatingly, my eyes filled with tears. An old woman crying is not a pretty sight. It’s best left to the young, and nowadays they have plenty to cry about.