‘Hasn’t double-booked again has she?’ Julian looks at me curiously. ‘She went to Chichester. Something to do with a fundraising lunch …’ Breaking off, he frowns. ‘At least, I think that’s what she said. I don’t know. I lose track of what she’s up to.’ He pauses. ‘Are you coming in?’

I’m not in the mood for Julian’s small talk. ‘Don’t worry. She wasn’t expecting me. I was just passing. I’ll catch her another time.’ I start backing away towards my car. ‘Tell her I called?’

Back in my car, I watch him close the front door as I start the engine. Pulling away, I avoid the worst of the puddles, but even with my windscreen wipers on full, I have no choice but to crawl along, barely able to see the road ahead until I reach the dual carriageway. Accelerating, I drive aimlessly for a while, playing loud music, trying to shake off the uneasiness I feel. Hollie’s death has got under my skin, dredging up emotions I don’t want to face even as I try to bury them.

I end up at Stephanie’s salon, driven there by a need to be anywhere other than my home. But when I go inside, I stop thinking about myself. Stephanie’s eyes are red, her shoulders slumped, the salon filled with an atmosphere of sadness. Her efforts to rally herself evaporate when she sees it’s me.

‘Elise.’ Even her heavier than usual makeup doesn’t hide the paleness of her skin.

‘How are you holding up?’ Instantly I regret asking. ‘I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question. It’s such a horrible day, and as I was driving past, I thought I’d just pop in.’

She nods. ‘It’s nice of you. Everyone else is staying away. I haven’t had a customer for days. I could put the kettle on – if you have time?’

It’s what people do – stay away – because they don’t know what to say, when what’s needed most is basic human contact. Being up close to someone else’s grief can be too much of a reminder that death can happen, at any time, to any one of us. ‘Thanks.’

She looks mildly surprised. ‘The kettle’s through here.’

I follow her through a doorway behind her desk into a smaller room. There are photos on the walls of brides with elaborately styled hair, presumably some of Stephanie’s work. In one corner, there’s a compact kitchenette, with a long table covered in buckets of spring flowers set against the wall.

Stephanie sees me looking at them. ‘I got them from next door. They’re for the funeral.’