‘Hello, you,’ she said, already turned on by the casual manner in which he lifted his right hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, revealing the taut muscles and hirsute underarms that gave her an erotic charge that she’d experienced only twice before in her life: when she’d first fallen in love with the handsome young George and when she’d danced with Anthony Hopkins after the premiere of The Silence of the Lambs and he’d pressed his teeth against her neck. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of you since I left you at the security gate. I thought maybe you’d died too.’

‘As well as my father?’ he asked, frowning. ‘This is not funny joke.’

‘It wasn’t meant as a joke. You said you’d text me when you landed, and you didn’t. I was genuinely worried. I don’t know what goes on in that part of the world, but one hears things on the radio and—’

‘I am sorry,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘Yes, you are right. I mean to contact you every hour of the minute but am so busy making plans for funeral—’

‘I thought he was being buried this morning?’

‘No. He is still on display.’

‘To whom?’

‘Population.’

‘Charming.’

‘And I am making food for neighbours who call in night and day. Door is broken from so many knockings.’

‘Can’t you just turn them away?’

‘I from Ukraine,’ said Pylyp, sounding outraged. ‘Not Moldova. This is thing Moldovan man will do. But I from Ukraine,’ he repeated defiantly.

Beverley nodded, realizing that she hadn’t understood how deeply this remark would cut the sensibilities of an Eastern European.

‘In London, neighbours often stop by after a bereavement,’ she told him, ‘but they know not to intrude if no one answers the door. Maybe they’ll leave a lasagne on the doorstep. Or, you know, a quiche or something.’

‘On doorstep? For dogs of street to eat?’

‘Well, I mean they leave it in a sealed container. A Le Creuset casserole dish, or whatever they have to hand. I feel like I’m rambling. Oh yes, you were saying about your neighbours stopping by constantly. Are you eating? It’s important that you keep your strength up. Don’t let your muscles atrophy.’

‘This morning, I eat dead chicken. And last night, dead rabbit. Tonight, I will eat dead pig.’

‘Well, you’re choosing the right period of their life cycle anyway. And how are your spirits?’

Pylyp frowned. ‘My spirits?’ he asked.

‘You know, are you crying a lot? Are you depressed?’

‘A man dies, is normal,’ he replied with a shrug.

‘Still, your father.’

‘Who beats me when I am a child and calls me the pansy for dancing.’

‘You mustn’t dwell on bad memories,’ suggested Beverley. ‘Try to remember the good. What was the nicest thing he ever did for you?’

Pylyp thought about it. ‘When I am thirteen years old,’ he said, ‘he is taking me to whorehouse.’

‘You’re not serious.’