To Judith

so sorry to hear about lovely George

best

Lana x

It was brief, but thoughtful nonetheless. Lana must have swallowed a lot of pride to write that. Which is why Judith had emailed her the night before. Death and dying make people do things they might not normally dream of doing. She was learning that. Of course, Lana’s response was predictably melodramatic, but that was the actress in her.

Judith did wonder if she’d made a mistake suggesting they meet up. They were such polar opposites now: no longer childhood friends but grown-up women. Was she going to regret it? Her doubts were redoubled when she saw the feature in the Sunday Edition. Did she really want to be friends with someone who was such a liability? How could Lana talk about private matters like that so publicly? It was embarrassing.

She’d rung Catrin to rant about the article. Predictably, Catrin had tried to defend Lana, saying that the journalist was a scummy rat who was only out for dishing dirt and had twisted Lana’s words to such a degree they were unrecognizable. And then there was Becky Williams sticking her oar in. Catrin reckoned Becky had been heard boasting in the Jolly Sailor that the newspaper had paid her five hundred pounds for her ‘story’. And she’d bought a new sofa with it. That may well be the case. Judith didn’t think for one minute that Lana would go out of her way to be malicious; it just made her consider how unreliable she was. And made her question whether she needed a friend like Lana in her life. Probably not. But she’d deal with it when she returned from Cyprus. She could always change her mind.

Iannis was at the airport to meet them. This time there were no smiles, no giggling grandchildren, just solemnity and sorrow and an overwhelming respect for an impending family death.

‘He is near the end,’ he whispered when he hugged her.

All around them, holidaymakers were buzzing like flies – sunhats and suitcases and excitement at the prospect of two weeks of hedonism. And there were they, four sad souls in amongst this throng of celebration, heading towards inevitable bereavement.

When they arrived at her father’s house, Judith was surprised to discover he wasn’t in bed as she’d expected. He was lying on the couch in the living room. Cleo had made it so pretty for him. And comfortable. Surrounded by soft downy pillows and propped up with cushions so that he could still be part of what was going on. The room was filled with flowers from Cleo’s garden, and candles and bunches of herbs. It was like a living shrine. And so eerily quiet.

But it seemed to keep her occupied, and George, bless him, half in this world and half in the next, his eyes barely open, lay there with the faintest of smiles to remind them he’d not quite gone.

Judith sat next to him and held his hand, which was surprisingly warm.