I went in. It was more a function room than a chapel, the walls bare except for a crucifix. The place was packed but there was a space in the back row. The singing had stopped; the moment I came through the door everyone sat down, as if they were so astonished at my plan that they’d subsided in surprise.

A man started speaking into the microphone. It was Andy; I was so familiar with his photograph that I felt I’d known him for years. Even at this distance, however, I could see that he’d trimmed his beard into a natty little goatee. Had he already put the past behind him? Was this a sign that he was ready to move on?

‘Prudence!’ An elbow nudged me. ‘What are you doing here?’

I froze. It was Pam Kidderpore, who lived in my street. She was sitting next to me.

Shit.

‘How do you know Prisha?’ she whispered into my ear.

‘I bought one of her puppies.’

‘I thought you had a Border collie.’

‘I didn’t like it and sent it back.’

‘But they’re so cute.’

‘It peed everywhere.’

My heart sank. Pam lived opposite me, a few doors down. Not only did Pam know me, she was an inveterate curtain-twitcher and the founder of our Neighbourhood Watch. Nothing escaped her notice—who was visiting who and how long they stayed. Who parked in the disabled space or didn’t pick up their dog poo. Teenagers hated her because she snitched on them to their parents. Rumour had it that she took in people’s Amazon parcels and had a special method of opening them, inspecting the contents and closing them up again.

‘How do you know Prisha?’ I whispered, changing the subject.

‘Oh, we did Weight Watchers together, years ago,’ said Pam. ‘Our group was super-successful. One year, between us, we lost the combined weight of a Ford Transit truck.’ She leaned closer, her breath tickling my cheek. ‘To be perfectly honest, I found Prisha a bit of a bossy-boots. It was only fatties’ solidarity that brought us together. And I didn’t trust those certificates.’

‘What certificates?’

‘For the teak. Sustainable forests, my foot! Those poor orangutans.’ She glared at me as if I were responsible. ‘Is it worth their destruction just to have a garden bench?’

‘Sssh!’ A woman in a huge hat swung round and glared at us.

Pam leaned closer; her breath smelled sour. ‘I like that dress, Pru,’ she said. ‘How do you stay so slim?’

I remembered now that Greg and I had a nickname for her: Pritt-Stick Pam. That was because she glued herself to people, needy and wheedling. And then she’d bitch about them behind their backs.

I hardly heard the speeches. I had to get away. A nosy parker was the last thing I needed. But when the funeral was over and I hurried outside I saw that my car was blocked in by another vehicle. The wake was in a community hall next door and I found myself propelled in there by the press of people. Pam kept close by my side.