I ached for you when Rupert died. You looked so broken and bereft. Like a baby bird with bones so frail, even the wind might make them snap. Rupert’s sudden death had left me grieving too. Aiden, Miles and I came to stay with you to help organise the funeral. Julie had already left Aiden. I made a point of not interfering, to keep in the background; to clean and cook and help with the washing. I didn’t suggest a hymn choice, or involve myself in your discussions about the eulogy. Our sons came with us. Ben was three years old and Harry was one. I thought seeing the children might cheer you. But it just harassed you. So I kept them out of your way, allowing them to watch a surfeit of Netflix cartoons in our bedroom. Then you complained about my bad mothering skills; because you thought too much screen time was bad for them.

Breathe, breathe, I told myself. You were grieving heavily. I had to give you kindness and space.

Funerals are always difficult. A rite of passage for the dead that society is obliged to move through, supposedly to comfort the relatives. It’s just personal – I know funerals comfort some people but they make me feel even worse. Rupert was good fun. Rupert and I clicked. I knew I was going to miss him. I was feeling sick, gut-wrenchingly sick that day. Goodness knows how bad you must have been feeling, Caprice. Although I was suspicious of your motives, you always insisted you loved him very, very deeply.

Black shiny limos were lined up on the drive, behind the hearse. Miles was shaking as I held his hand and we slipped into the first car together to join you and Aiden. Miles was very distressed by his father’s sudden death. My body ached in empathy with him. I wished him peace and solace with all the silent energy I could muster. From my soul. From my heart, my bones, my sinews. Aiden was using bluster and bravado to cover up his true feelings, but I knew he was devastated too. His eyes were hard and staring. Jaw locked. Lips tight.

‘Julie’s arrived,’ you said, pointing across the drive. ‘I wasn’t sure she was coming.’

She was running towards us, red-faced, wearing a black hat and trench coat. You wound the window down and she leant inside, gasping for breath.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Julie shouted.

‘Get out of the car,’ you hissed at me. ‘Julie needs to come with us. She might not know where we are going. You’ve been here all week. You know the way.’