Then there was her absent father, reconnected now but a figment of her imagination for most of her life. She didn’t have all those petty squabbles or embarrassing moments to refer back to, there was no point of reference, no resentment bubbling under the surface for years and years. He was just not there. She knew how difficult her mother was; if she told her father she didn’t want him having a relationship with Imogen, then it explained why he hadn’t been around. Irene Grey had a knack for getting her own way. Imogen felt like maybe she should hate her father for not being there. But she didn’t; she blamed her mother for it instead.

She smoothed her dress down with the palms of her hands. She didn’t even know if anyone would see her in it, apart from her father, Elias. She hadn’t invited Adrian to the funeral as she felt that it would add an extra dimension of complication to their already complex relationship. She had invited the friends of her mother’s that she knew about and just hoped that word would spread, because her mother’s life was a mystery to her. She probably knew her mother as well as her mother knew her, which wasn’t that well at all. Even though she had visited her frequently, her mum had always been into something new, some new hobby or collection or charity. Imogen had tuned most of it out. She wished her mother was there now and she would listen, she would take an interest in what she was saying and not just fob her off and look for an excuse to leave.

Imogen imagined Irene telling her that she was putting too much mascara on as she dragged the wand across her eyelashes until they clumped together. Going to a funeral like that was just asking for trouble. Imogen wasn’t a crier, unless you counted movies like Armageddon and The Shawshank Redemption. She had managed to fine-tune her apathy in the real world, but as soon as she was immersed in fiction she seemed to be able to connect to the part of her that had emotion. She was thankful for it. If it wasn’t for those experiences, then she might worry about her own humanity; it was reassuring to know that the idea of a meteor hurtling towards the planet and wiping everyone out was distressing to her.

When she felt like she had enough war paint on she pinned her hair back, ready to put on her mother’s yellow pillbox hat with black net across the eye. It was in the box of things she had taken from her mother’s place. Just one box from her mother’s hoard, Imogen hadn’t wanted any more than that. There were no great memories among all of Irene Grey’s possessions; she seemed to collect and discard items indiscriminately, and so Imogen had arranged for house clearance to go and sort it out after she had taken the few items she had wanted.