She rises, pushing down a brief hope that it might be Leon. She has spoken to her ex a few times over the past few weeks. He said he was there for her, should she need him. She does need him, but has convinced herself that it’s the grief pushing her towards him. It wouldn’t be fair to use Leon as her support. He can’t be her shoulder to cry on. They want different things from life. He wants marriage, children. She could never see herself as a mother, and has serious commitment issues. He will be at the funeral though. He liked her dad. And she’s grateful for that.

She peers through the side window. Tegan Matthews stands on the doorstep. A stunning-looking woman, with tight black curls springing from her head in all directions, and cheekbones that could slice your fingers off. She’s tall and strong – does kickboxing and wall climbing – and at thirty – the same age as Alice – she’s a leading literary agent with her own company, all due to spotting Alice’s father’s talent five years ago.

Alice doesn’t want or need her here. But she can’t hide. The cars are due soon. She takes a deep breath and opens the door. Ice-cold air wafts into the hall.

‘How are you, sweetie?’ Tegan removes her dark sunglasses to reveal red eyes. ‘I thought you might need someone with you today.’ She tilts her head. ‘But I can go if—’

‘No, no it’s fine.’ She gestures for Tegan to enter the antique-filled hallway, and as Tegan steps in, Henry lumbers over, sniffs the woman’s crotch, looks up at her, tail down.

Tegan grips the dresser next to her, her feet shuffling across the floor, away from the dog. ‘He knows I’m not a fan,’ she says through a tense smile. ‘I was attacked by a dog as a child.’

Alice has heard this story before.

‘I can never quite relax around the creatures, though I’m sure Henry is a dear.’ She pauses, watching as the dog ambles back into the lounge and flops on his bed. ‘Anyway, how are you holding up, lovely?’ She touches Alice’s arm with the tips of her manicured fingers.

‘I’m just about OK.’ The words come out fractured. She is far from OK. ‘I’ll be glad when today is over.’

They move into the lounge, and stand together, looking out of the window, waiting for the cars; Alice lost in thought, imagining going through her father’s things in the subsequent weeks, months, his dusty shelves crammed with books, his drawers full of part-written manuscripts. She’s dreading it, wonders if she’ll ever be up for the task.