Why would I do that? He was my husband, for God’s sake! I said nothing, however, and Bethany gripped my arm and led me into the chapel. My children followed me to the front pew, reserved for family.

Max and Lucy had arrived the previous day and were staying with me in London. It had been hugely comforting, eating dinner together for the first time in years. Helga went to bed early, leaving us alone. I drank too much—no change there—and grew maudlin as I blathered on about their childhood and the happy times we’d spent together. From time to time Max patted me awkwardly on the shoulder but Lucy briskly interrupted.

‘Come on, Mum, you and Dad were at each other’s throats.’

I stared at her, astonished.

‘I used to climb into Max’s bed,’ Lucy said, ‘and we’d put pillows on our heads to block out the rows. Sometimes we added Encyclopaedia Britannicas for extra weight. Why did we have them in the house when we never read them?’

‘Granddad left them to me in his will,’ I said.

‘She’s right, Ma,’ said Max. ‘We used to dread the holidays. You and Dad, quarrelling in the car about what you’d forgotten to pack—’

‘—and having to play Scrabble,’ Lucy said, ‘which we all hated, and Dad endlessly nagging us to go outside and seize the day, and you muttering about spending your whole time in the car going to the shops and cooking and clearing up, and why did men only do barbecues and make the most awful fuss about it.’

Max chimed in: ‘And it was always raining.’

‘It didn’t rain!’ I said. ‘It was sunny, all the time.’

They both snorted with laughter. It was nice to see them united, even in mockery, but I was bewildered. Whose version was the truth? If, indeed, such a thing existed. But Greg and Azra had stepped into another life and had seen nobody, unless my friends had been lying about it, to save my feelings.

There were many versions of Greg, too, in the eulogies at the funeral. Azra had organised it. This had been something of a relief. I was in no state to do anything. Grieving is hard work at the best of times, but even more so when muddied with rage and unresolved bitterness. Azra’s grief was no doubt a purer emotion. She’d simply loved Greg and was simply mourning his loss. It was yet another reason to hate her.