Abruptly, I hear the American accent of my brother-in-law. ‘Charles Prince.’

Deep breath. ‘Look, I’m so, so sorry I didn’t make it.’

‘Your own sister’s wake! For Christ’s sake.’ His voice is tight with rage, and I guess the only reason he’s not shouting at me is because he’s surrounded by mourners, whom I hear murmuring in the background. ‘Everyone is here – except you.’

‘Something came up.’

He’s not listening.

‘The boys could have done with the support. I could have done with the support.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ginger thinks something terrible must have happened to you. How selfish can you be? It’s the worst day of her life, it’s the worst day of my life, how could something have come up for you?’

‘Sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.

‘Not good enough. On top of everything else, there was a break-in while we were at the funeral.’

Too slowly, I process what he’s said. ‘What do you mean?’

It’s not just anger in his voice. He’s overwhelmed. ‘Someone broke in while we were out. Put a brick or something through the glass back door. Mess everywhere.’

‘Fuck. That’s awful. What did they take?’

‘Jewellery, that sort of thing.’ Intake of breath. ‘Some candlesticks your mum gave us. They left the Nintendo.’

‘I am so sorry, Charles.’

‘Her office looked ransacked. The police think they were looking for cash.’ He pauses. ‘Hold on . . .’ Someone is talking to him in the background. ‘I have to go.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

He hangs up. All my dealings with my family leave me feeling useless.

Marilyn stands over me and gives me a maternal hug. It’s the most intimate gesture she’s ever made. I tell myself not to cry again.

‘You can still sort this out, you know,’ she says. ‘I’m here if you want to talk.’

For a moment I think she means it. But then I remember she’s saying what everyone says.

*

I am in a black cab, stucco-fronted Nash terraces on my right, Regent’s Park on my left. I can no longer separate the emotional battering from the way I feel physically: the burning wine I drank in Marilyn’s flat weighs heavily, and I feel crushed, like my bones have all been broken.

‘Everything all right in the back, sir?’ asks the driver. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Difficult day,’ I say, skirting the truth. The choice to be with Marilyn, the choice to have sex, was an escape from the agony I would feel at the wake. I have always been terrible at confronting pain. But even an arsehole – as Marilyn had called me – should know better than to think you can outrun pain as big as this.