Noah swallowed hard. His next client was due, and Noah needed to be on top of his game. This man had very specific requirements. Noah had actually intended to postpone the meeting, but hadn’t got around to it. Which had to be the very definition of having too much to do – not even having time to clear his diary.

The client arrived, the bell over the door jingled. Noah took a deep breath and went to greet him.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, with the smile that many people believed was largely responsible for his success.

A pleasant smile, a warm smile, but above all a smile that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than sympathetic. Not by those who were grieving, nor by those who knew they would soon die – as was the case with the man who had just arrived.

*

‘My wife has reconsidered since our last visit,’ the man said. ‘She’d prefer me to be buried in the white coffin. The black one is too posh for her.’

He laughed, his teeth dazzling white against his tanned skin. No one would ever guess that he was less than two months from his own death.

Noah made a note. ‘She’s not with you today?’ What a stupid thing to say. Obviously she wasn’t with him today.

But the man didn’t seem bothered by the funeral director’s brain-dead comment. On the contrary, he seemed happy to respond.

‘She’s working.’

Noah nodded. ‘Just one small detail: you say you and your wife have decided that you’ll be buried in the white coffin rather than the black one.’

‘Yes?’

‘So does that mean you’ve also changed your mind about cremation and would prefer to opt for interment?’

The man recoiled and inhaled so sharply that Noah became concerned.

‘What the hell . . . ? No, absolutely not!’

Noah calmed him down.

‘I thought that was the case, but I had to ask.’

The man pursed his lips.

‘Do people still go for that? Being buried in the ground?’

‘Yes indeed. Many hate the idea of being incinerated, if you’ll forgive my choice of words.’

The man shook his head.

‘So they’d rather be eaten by worms and stink to high heaven. That doesn’t make sense!’

Noah thought so too, but it wasn’t his place to share his own preferences with his clients.

‘And are we sticking to the date as agreed?’ he asked.

The man’s eyes changed in a second, as if a lamp had been switched off. Any trace of liveliness disappeared, replaced by two deep pools filled with such sorrow that Noah had to stop himself from reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

‘Yes. The first of September is the end, and the service will be held the following week as arranged.’