‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve come all this way!’ said Catrin, panicking.

‘Cat, what were you thinking?’ Judith finally found her voice. ‘This is so out of order.’

‘I had to do something,’ she said. Judith shook her head. ‘And Lana’s just as pissed off with me as you are.’

They looked over to where Lana was now having photos taken with some of the guests. She seemed to Judith to be lording it all over the place with her unashamed showbiz ego.

‘She looks anything but pissed off, you ask me, Cat.’

‘Please come,’ said Catrin. ‘For Romy, if not for me.’

Judith hesitated and Gareth shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Cat, but I’m not going anywhere near that woman. Jude, if you want to go I’ll pick you up later.’

She was torn. It felt churlish not to go.

‘I’ll come for an hour,’ she said at last. ‘But do not think for one minute I’m going to speak to her.’

‘God forbid,’ muttered Catrin.

And Judith thought how rare it was to catch a sarcastic tone in the voice of her lovely friend.

37

Gareth

It had been a secluded plot seventeen years ago. And back then he’d welcomed the privacy. Out at the edge. In the shade of a magnolia that was too shy to blossom except in April, for one glorious, brief, blink-and-you-miss-it fortnight. He always tried to visit during those magical two weeks if he could, to witness the spectacle: the majesty of the confident white blooms, standing to attention like a naturally forming candelabra. And he’d think the same thing every time he saw it: that the tree should bear a sign saying, Come see the flowers! For a limited period only! There were no blooms today, of course. Being July, it was too late in the year. And this was an unplanned visit. But it just seemed the best place to hide whilst Judith did her bit at the party. Normally he brought flowers with him. And a hip flask of whisky to drink a little private toast. He began clearing away the dead flowers from last time, all dried up now and faded.

As the years had gone by, new plots appeared with every visit. A sad indictment of the cycle of life, the wheels of mortality that kept relentlessly turning: headstones bearing names and dates, declaring never-ending love, promises of eternal remembrance, quotes from the Bible and a hundred poems. It was a double-edged sword – he was glad now that her little grave was no longer alone, but sad at the reason for it being so. Headstones always looked brand new, he thought. Even those that dated back to the 1960s looked pristine and newly hewn. Hers was white marble, guarded by a pretty cherub atop the words they’d chosen back then in a fug of confused despair.

In loving memory of

Georgia Metcalf

born and died

December 13th, 1987

cherished daughter of Judith and Gareth

twin sister of Jack

Sleep safe in heaven, angel

Until we meet again.