And with that she stormed out of the house. As she left, she could hear Patricia calling Adrian on speed dial. ‘Adie, come quick. It was awful!’

Judith stood outside and leant against the wall, catching her breath. She’d forgotten that Jack was still on the line and had witnessed the whole showdown.

‘Well, that went well,’ he said.

And Judith promptly burst into tears.

53

Catrin

People had warned her against it. It’s too soon, they said, and You’ll regret it, and You don’t need to make any decisions yet … Funny, she thought, how some people were experts on grief. Some people knew the timetable. The schedule, the itinerary of bereavement. Some people acted like they knew best.

Except they didn’t.

From the very first night she’d slept in their bed without him, she knew she would have to move house. Actually, she hadn’t slept alone in their bed, ever. Because from that first night, Romy had slept in there with her, clinging to her mama like a petrified fawn. And so it had continued, in the days that followed, when they stayed at her parents’ house. Catrin was only marginally aware of her daughter’s presence during those heavily sedated, emotion-numbing nights. Only marginally aware of the warm snuffling bundle of love that lay next to her, desperate for her assurance, her help, her consolation. But Catrin had no comfort to offer, other than to lie next to her. In fact, she could barely speak. And if breathing had been optional, she really wouldn’t have bothered.

It went on around her.

Life.

For weeks it felt like her head was submerged in water – she could hear the voices of the people in the room, discussing what was best, but the sounds were smudged and incoherent and muffled, and the smiles that everyone seemed to cast in her direction were tentative, as if they sought permission.

This whole epoch had been saturated with shock and Diazepam. It was the only way she could survive, stay alive – with the help of lots of legal drugs – though she wasn’t quite sure what she was staying alive for … Except the little snuffling fawn.

Except for her child.

Yes.

Except for Romy.

The fog had eventually, and so, so slowly, begun to disperse. But in myriad ways she wished it hadn’t. Because when everything did begin to clear, everything also began to ache. Her arms, her legs, her chest, her head … everything throbbed, and stung, like frostbitten fingers in front of the fire, like ancient, battered trees emerging from the winter snow, near dead, gasping and desperate for the tiniest ray of life-giving light from a watery sun.

Hah. Sun. Sol. There was no Sol any more and there was no sun.

So her world would be eternally, continually, irredeemably grey. Yes. She knew this. But that was OK. As long as she didn’t have to feel the sting any more, the open wound that would not heal – the cut, the burn, the near obliteration of her soul. Yes, as long as she didn’t have to feel that, then great! Smiley face, smiley face, smiley face.