We both behaved impeccably, however. We hugged; we said a few words. In the chapel she sat across the aisle from me, bolt upright, her sister’s arm gripping her shoulder. I gazed at Azra’s grim profile, that face I’d once loved. Behind us I could almost hear people’s curiosity, like corn rustling in the breeze. It wasn’t an unusual situation, of course: the dumped wife and the mistress united briefly in mourning. A hush fell as she stepped up to the lectern. What was Azra going to say?

Nothing. She just read a poem. The Auden one, ‘Stop all the clocks’ from Four Weddings and a Funeral. I was dumb-founded. Greg had hated that film! ‘So indulgent and middle-class,’ he’d said. ‘Didn’t any of them have a job? And that awful simpering American woman, Andie Thingy, simper simper, just put in cynically to appeal to the Yanks, God, she stuck in my craw.’ I’d loved it, and we’d quarrelled all the way home. ‘Didn’t you at least think it was funny?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you at least like the poem?’ He’d replied, ‘Huh! Another cynical Curtis ploy to inject some gravitas and leach off a superior writer. I can’t believe you were taken in.’ I’d snapped, ‘I was actually crying. Not that you’d notice. Or care.’ We’d arrived home in stony silence, to find that the teenage Max had had some schoolfriends round and left the house a cesspit.

I glared at Azra. She stood, clutching the lectern with both hands, her head bowed over her piece of paper. She read the poem in a flat, formal voice, swaying slightly from side to side. How could she have chosen something so perverse? Not content with stealing my happiness, she’d now stolen one of my rows. That evening rushed back, in all its misery. Surely she couldn’t have done it on purpose?

Azra had emailed asking if I wanted to speak and I’d said no. Max, however, got to his feet and said a few words. He was perspiring heavily, and read from his iPad.

‘Dad was always there for me,’ he said shakily. ‘When I had problems at school, Dad always had time to listen and offer some wise words.’ He paused to wipe his nose. I remembered Greg scuttling out of the room whenever the children entered: Just got to finish my marking … ‘Of course he supported Arsenal but nobody’s perfect!’ said Max. ‘Seriously, though, our happiest times were spent down here in Dorset. Summer holidays were always magic when Dad was around. He taught me to swim, he was very patient with my initial efforts! He taught me how to play Scrabble. We had some epic games, the four of us, and a lot of laughs. He was the best dad in the world and I miss him to the bottom of my heart.’