She stared at him. Was he really in her living room, drinking her whisky, asking for money? ‘It’s his funeral,’ she heard herself say. She hadn’t even begun to think about the finances yet, his pension, the savings accounts – Patrick had dealt with all that. Their lawyer had promised to sort it out for her. He had been there earlier, offering condolences while eating his way steadily through a bowl of Kettle Chips. So sorry. So sorry for your loss.

‘I know. Wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t tapped out.’ In that moment, she wanted to kill him, with his grubby black coat and stubby fingers. Not like Patrick’s, his surgeon hands. Why would Patrick borrow money from a man like this? He must be lying, trying to exploit the grieving widow.

Stiffly, she said, ‘I’m seeing the lawyer tomorrow. I can’t release any funds until then. I’m sure you understand.’

She held out her hand for his glass, and he must have thought she was refilling it, because he said, ‘Cheers,’ but instead she poured the dregs away, into the fireplace, where they hissed and spat. His face puckered into a frown of surprise.

She faced him. ‘Thank you, James. I really must rest now. Goodbye.’ And he went, and after the door finally shut, she wanted to scrub everything from her hand to the floor, anything touched by his puffy fingers, or his beady, sneaking eyes. It couldn’t be true. Patrick would never borrow money; he had his salary and all her inheritance, her concert earnings, the life insurance from Father. In the morning, she would talk to the lawyer, and she would find out more.

Alone at last, her mind went back to that terrible night when two police officers had come to the door. Please, let it not be true. Let me wake up and find it’s all a dream.

She hadn’t even taken in what was happening until the man said: ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news.’ The woman was in the kitchen, trying to make tea. She’d never be able to operate the coffee machine . . .

‘I don’t understand,’ Elle had said for what she thought was maybe the third or fourth time. Time seemed to have frozen.

‘There was a crash. Your husband’s car went into a tree. The ambulance came – he was alright then – but later he had a haemorrhage. I’m so sorry, Mrs Sullivan – he’s dead.’

‘But he works at the hospital.’ She was in disbelief. You couldn’t die in a place that you worked.

She didn’t know how long they were there for, repeating to her that he was dead and her insisting he couldn’t be, because he worked at the hospital, before it sank in. How stupid she was! Anyone could die at any time – she’d known this since she was sixteen.

Suzi

Suzi