Several months into her illness, when Nina asked me to host her popular village book group (of which she was the founding member), was a pivotal moment: I’d been fully let back in. I was good enough. Nina’s other life automatically demystified as her friends became mine, too. I loved being included in the organizing of school events, fund-raising, barbecues, picnics, parties. I had different spreadsheets, more messages and emails than I could sometimes keep track of. Even my phone rang more; it was no longer used primarily for work. I was there for my oldest friend. When Stuart confessed how grateful they both were, dramatic as it may sound, I felt like my true purpose had been restored.

Tonight is important: it’s the first meeting of Nina’s book club since she’s been gone. We agreed to take a six-month break, to mourn privately. She did make us all promise to keep it going. “I want things to carry on, otherwise what was the point in anything?” I wasn’t sure what Stuart’s reaction was going to be when I asked if we could host it at his, but he was up for it.

“It’s the evenings when I’m never quite sure what to do with myself,” he’d said. “It will be a welcome distraction.”

I hope he didn’t think that I meant him to join in? We’re a tight-knit bunch, his presence might upset the balance, despite his link to the group. As I rehearse a tactful letdown should the need arise, Stuart emerges downstairs. He surveys my careful preparations: black-and-white skeleton cakes, ghoul-shaped crisps to go with the dips and orange napkins. He helps himself to a carrot stick. The crunching grates; I hate the sound of people eating.

“Wine?” I say.

“God, yes,” he says. “Emily just asked about Nina. It stabs every single bloody time. I know it’s good that she feels able to ask questions, but it’s so utterly heartbreaking, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing! I’m her father, I’m supposed to be able to make anything and everything better.”

“It’s bloody unfair,” I say as I hand him a glass. “I remember after the funeral I was shocked to emerge from the relative darkness of the church into the daylight and see life going on as normal for everyone else. It made me so angry.”

There’s really nothing else remotely comforting I can think of to say that hasn’t been uttered so many times. I’m an arm-patting, “there, there” type of person, not a natural hugger. A change of subject is my preferred method of grief and anger management.

“I’m going to leave the door unlocked like Nina used to, so the doorbell doesn’t disturb the children,” I say.

“Yeah, fine.”

There’s a brief silence before he joins in with my avoidance.

“What’s the book?” he asks, taking a large sip of a French Malbec.

The aroma hits. I’d love one, but I genuinely do believe that I’m pregnant, despite four tests telling me I’m not. It’s still too early to be accurate, so it was a complete waste of money and energy—as Ben didn’t hesitate to tell me—but I couldn’t help myself.