‘Maybe nobody liked these guys, and it’s to get people to turn up.’

I laughed. ‘It’s one way of doing it.’

‘At least they don’t have to go to the dentist any more.’

I stared at him. ‘That’s a tiny bit tasteless.’

He grinned. ‘So sue me.’

There was an Australian twang to his voice and he wore a baseball hat. I hoped he wasn’t a Trump supporter. He looked cocky enough.

‘Shall we go to one and see?’ he asked.

‘Go where?’

‘One of these funerals. See if we’re the only people there.’

‘That would be truly weird.’

‘It would be a hoot.’

‘Like hoots, do you?’

‘You bet. Don’t you?’

Do you know, I felt a jolt of familiarity. He was around my age, his face creased with laughter lines. Something froggy about his face, like Frank Sinatra. Not unattractive. Not unattractive at all.

He said: ‘When I was a nipper, I thought the best thing about growing up was not having to go to the dentist.’

‘Me, too.’

‘We do, though, don’t we? Because we’re mature adults.’

‘So mature.’

‘Thank God for that.’

We looked at each other. Then he stood up and grabbed my hand.

‘Come on.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go.’

‘To a funeral?’

He shook his head. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here.’

My heart turned over. ‘What, now?’

‘We’re adults! We can do anything we damn want.’

I took my coat and stood up.

‘Mrs Weston?’

I swung round. It was the receptionist, calling from her desk.

‘Mr Patel will see you now.’ She turned to my new companion. ‘And Mr Fox? Mrs Fernandez will see you, Room Two.’

The man, Mr Fox, looked at me and shrugged. ‘Too bad.’

He was taken down a corridor. I watched him leave. He was shorter than I’d realised—probably my height. Jeans that looked ironed. Ironed. Not my type at all.

Yet why did I feel my insides melting? Is this what happened between Greg and Azra, in the Holloway Odeon?

Forget it, I thought. He’s married. They all are.

I walked upstairs to where Mr Patel waited for me.