Emma got out her cigarettes and her lighter. The Connie of yesterday would have commented on this. She missed the Connie of yesterday; she missed her barbed comments and her piercing search for authenticity in the everyday.

‘There’s something nice and paradoxical about a cigarette in the fresh air,’ Emma said, expecting no response and getting none. She lit up and put her cigarettes back in her pocket, glancing at her phone as she did so. There was a message from Si on it: See you at orchestra X.

She stared at the text. What did he mean? Was it the concert tonight? She checked her phone diary. No, it wasn’t for another couple of weeks. There was only one conclusion: he hadn’t meant that text for her. She read it again and stared at the kiss in particular. He never sent kisses after messages. If it wasn’t meant for her then who had he meant it for? Who was in that orchestra who received his kisses? Emma looked up into the cold blue sky. And down again at the screen.

I doubt it, she wrote, and then deleted it. Then she texted again: Was that for me? And then deleted that as well and put her phone away. She was paranoid. She was counter-transferring. Just because she fantasized about other men during their sexual intercourse, it did not mean her husband was being unfaithful. She took a long deep drag, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and shifted herself so that she was facing Connie.

‘I know it’s not going to be today, Con. But you’ll have to start communicating with me again, love,’ she said. ‘It’s the only way I’m going to be able to help you.’

Small birds were fixing a nest in the bush to her right. There was much twittering and excitement and Emma watched them for a while. A bold bee in an out-of-season venture flew out from the thicket and began inspecting Connie’s blanket. Emma brushed it off.

‘OK, well I’m going to carry on talking; you can just listen. Firstly, I want you to know that it is not surprising you couldn’t cope when your mother died. You’d lost your people, your props. You were grieving, Connie. You’re still in grief. A triple grief . . .’

Still no response. Emma turned her attention back to the busy little birds in the bush. ‘I know what grief is, Con . . .’ she said in a small voice. ‘I know what self-hatred is.’ One of the birds hopped out on the grass and was looking at Emma, cocking its head at her. She smiled. ‘But we are made of resilient stuff . . .’

She took a long slow drag, exhaled slowly and sat there for a while, the two of them statue-still. But time was running out.