‘Zaza gave me this one, really good SPF for your face … we’re so high up and the sun will catch us without us even knowing with this breeze. Your cheeks are looking a little rosy,’ she presses, massaging some lotion into her hands before sweeping it across her face.

‘Go on then,’ I say, holding out my hand as she squeezes some on.

I copy her action and rub the lotion through my hands before smearing it across my face haphazardly. I’ve never been one for ‘self-care’ like this. I’m the get-up-and-go sort, not the kind to spend hours looking at myself in the mirror while preening myself like a hedge.

‘I forgot to say – Bronagh, mum of the kids, she assumed we were married,’ Vicky says, raising her eyebrows at me.

I laugh at the thought.

‘I mean, it’s not that funny,’ she says with a tut.

‘It was that look,’ I explain.

‘I did say they’d be speculating,’ she says, putting the lotion back in her bag.

‘You did,’ I nod.

‘It’s nice that you spent some time with the boys.’

‘They were sweet kids,’ I shrug. ‘Typical teenagers, moody and smelly.’

‘Did they tell you about their dad?’ she asks.

I look up to see her biting her lip.

‘No …’ I say, unsure if I want to hear the answer.

‘Died a few months back,’ she says, just holding my gaze.

‘Shit …’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, no wonder they were quiet,’ I say, wondering whether I should’ve asked them more questions or gone deeper with the chat. Would they have even wanted that? I doubt it. It’s been so hard to have normal conversations with anyone once they find out about Pia, and I imagine they’ve been experiencing the same. Everything awkward or forced. I know how difficult it is to navigate grief and I’m in my thirties, I’ve lived a bit of my life at least. I can’t imagine what it must be like for them. Not that grief is ever something that should be compared. ‘Life can be so cruel,’ I say, aware of a bitterness in my mouth as I say it.

My friend moves next to me and squeezes my hand firmly, not letting it go.

We sit in silence.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks quietly.

‘I hate that question,’ I say honestly, feeling relieved I didn’t know about the boys’ dad and wasn’t put in a position where I asked them the same thing.

‘Why?’

‘Because when I’m asked and I’m feeling fine I suddenly feel like I shouldn’t be, or it makes me question if I really am. It makes me wonder if I’m doing a pretty good job of pretending to be fine when actually I’m not. I wonder if I’m doing the whole fake it till you make it thing.’