‘I’ve been feeling so guilty,’ Azra said. ‘Having him all this time.’ She gave it to me. ‘Fair do’s. It’s your turn now.’ She tapped the pot with her finger—an odd gesture, as if she were admonishing it. ‘Bye-bye, Greg.’

Part Four

Part Four

One

One

I didn’t tell you about Greg. I know, I know. No doubt you think this strange but, to be frank, I just found it too upsetting. And I didn’t know quite where to fit it in. Too casually, and you’d think me heartless. Too detailed, and I wouldn’t know where to stop. Besides, at the time I’d been mentally somewhat rocky and I’m not sure I’d get the facts straight. Anyway, I apologise now.

He’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I didn’t know this, but it explained his shakiness on our walk, that day in June. I’d noticed his hands trembling during our stilted and meagre lunch, but presumed he was just discombobulated by my sudden appearance.

I didn’t tell you about his funeral, either. It was held in Weymouth Crematorium, ten miles from the cottage. Wicker coffin strewn with wild flowers, beautiful weather, a full house. This time, not surprisingly, most of the faces were familiar. Max and Lucy had flown over; Lucy was accompanied by her new partner, Helga, an elfin child who held my daughter’s hand throughout the service. They both wore pillbox hats with little veils—a startling look, as if they were about to break into a song-and-dance routine. Max wore a black suit, which made him doubly a stranger. He’d also put on a great deal of weight; for years I’d only seen his head and shoulders on Skype.

Of course my friends greeted me warmly—why wouldn’t they? But I detected a certain constraint. It was an awkward situation, of course, and their loyalties were divided. This hadn’t been the case in the past. Many of my old gang hadn’t taken to Azra—she was too abrasive, too challenging. She was my friend rather than theirs and seldom socialised with them; she lived her own singular lifestyle and hunted alone. Now she’d stolen my husband she’d been further ostracised, and their sympathies were mainly with me, as far as I knew.

Now, however, all that was forgotten. Her lover had died and she was quite undone. Gaunt, ashen-faced, her hair scraped back from her face, Azra was scarcely recognisable from the woman I’d last seen, a few weeks earlier, in the window of Yassar Halim. She wore baggy black trousers and her old velvet jacket buttoned up to the throat. When she hugged me I could feel her ribs.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she murmured into my hair. ‘I thought, for a moment, you might stay away.’