The next trailer was for a squawky French farce and Paula wound up laughing way more than the galumphing comedy warranted. Again, she saw Anita sneak looks at her, smiling this time, relieved to see her cheerful.

The Japanese movie started and the subtitles proved handy, something to hook her focus on. The film was eccentric and straining to be so. (‘Kwerky with a capital K’ was Anita’s term for such films.) But the lead actor was charismatic and the family reconciliation story drew Paula in. It was pleasing to see the Tokyo locations and recall the week she’d spent there with Remy not long before he was diagnosed.

When the lights came up at the end, Anita was in one of her bouncy, slightly manic moods.

‘In a fitting thematic link to the movie, I reckon we need to go to a Japanese restaurant,’ she said.

‘Oh honey, I’m so whacked, I won’t last long,’ Paula moaned. ‘I mean, food’s a good idea but it has to be something quick.’

‘Which makes Japanese the ideal choice!’ Anita grinned. ‘It’s quick. They don’t waste time cooking the fish!’

Anita knew a Japanese place not far down King Street; as promised, the service was swift. Paula didn’t eat much—her guts were still knotted, touchy—but she speared a gyoza with chopsticks and levered in enough rice that Anita didn’t question her lack of appetite.

Anita was still fizzing, words tumbling out of her mouth, with or without sashimi in there at the same time. She was chattering about the ‘theme nights’ Stacey used to arrange when they were in their early twenties. She would choose a foreign movie for the three of them to watch on half-price Tuesdays, followed by a cheap restaurant with cuisine that matched. During the themed meal, Stacey, Paula and Anita would plan an itinerary for the perfect holiday in that country, even though they couldn’t possibly afford it.

As Anita yabbered, Paula’s head swam with the unreality of this moment—to be here eating Japanese food given what she’d done that day. Could she ever share this thing with her friend? Should she offer Anita a redacted version? An account of Ian Ferguson’s death which omitted the adrenaline ampoules but included the part about Paula deliberately delaying the attempt to resuscitate him? Then again, maybe she could never tell any of it.

Anita suddenly stopped mid-sentence, inhaled sharply and said, ‘Okay, Paula. What is going through your mind right now?’

‘Sorry?’ Paula felt caught out, as if what she’d done to Ferguson was oozing out of her pores, and Anita had detected it.

‘I can see you’re thinking about—I mean, are you thinking it’s wrong we haven’t talked more about the video of Stacey?’ asked Anita. Her buoyant mood had suddenly deflated.

‘Oh. Well …’