I had opted not to speak as it felt too raw and, besides, I could already hear Eve’s protests and see her rolling her eyes before I allowed the idea, suggested by Patrick, to embed itself in my head. Patrick read a poem, something about trees and wind, and it hardly seemed appropriate. Not very Eve. But then right at the end, he said a few words that were special and seemed to hold some meaning and I was thankful. He held it together well until just at the last moment his voice broke. I felt my body tense and wanted to reach out and grab him. Patrick cleared his throat, apologised and stepped down from the lectern.

As everyone left the chapel after the service, they each placed the white rose they had been given at the beginning on the coffin. I waited until last and Patrick and I slowly laid ours down together.

When I felt Eve’s mother approach and touch me on the back, I jumped slightly.

‘Thanks for being there for her all these years.’ Eve’s mum spoke with a lisp; I noted she had a few teeth missing. ‘She looked up to you, you know.’ She patted Patrick on the arm, casually tossed her rose onto the coffin and clomped unsteadily out of the door. Patrick and I gave one another a compassionate look. We both knew how hard Eve’s mother’s life had been and how Eve had struggled. It was inconceivable how a woman like Eve, so vivacious and confident, could have been born to ‘a woman like that’. But neither of us had ever made judgement. For whatever had happened in the past, and in whatever way she was doing it, today a mother was saying goodbye to her child.

The reception was a blur. Sandwiches and crisps were passed around at the pub close to the cemetery. It felt wrong. There was no link here to Eve. It was simply convenience. The look of the bar staff and waiting staff suggested they did this at least once a week. All of Eve’s favourite songs were playing in the background and images flashed up on the pull-down whiteboard of: Eve when she was five, Eve when she had graduated, Eve and Patrick huddled together in a tent at Glastonbury, Eve and I on her cousin’s hen night wearing willy-shaped head garments. I walked from table to table. I chatted to people and they felt inclined to touch my growing stomach and comment on the life forming within me as we celebrated the end of another. People made small talk, no one mentioned the fire. No one talked of death, or where Eve was now. Everyone was careful not to slip into conversation about how Eve’s body would be burning to a small pile of dust as they all sat and sipped their lagers and limes and chatted about the fact that ‘at least the weather held off.’ No one mentioned that that was that, Eve was gone and they would never see her again and how that in itself was the saddest thing that could have ever happened.