Some people know instinctively how to respond to your moods. Gwen is like that. Greg and I once had a conversation about who of our friends never irritated us and she was the only name we both agreed on. She senses when to stand back and be dispassionate, even critical, when to come close, hug you, show you love and physical affection. Mary and I regularly argued, but Mary argues with most people, almost for the sake of it—you see a contrary gleam come into her eye and you know she’s in one of her itchy, confrontational, emotionally volatile moods and there’s nothing to be done about it except ride out the storm—or leave the room. I usually leave the room. But Gwen, with her soft mop of golden hair, her gray eyes, her quiet clothes, her calm and reflective manner, doesn’t like to raise her voice. At university people who knew her called her “the diplomat,” a tag that was both admiring and sometimes slightly resentful, because she seemed to hold back from intimacy. But I had always liked her reserve; it felt like a privilege to be let into her tiny circle of friends. Now, when I answered the door to her, she didn’t open her arms, inviting me to step into them to cry and be comforted. Instead she looked at me with a grave tenderness, putting a hand on my shoulder but letting me decide if I wanted to break down or not. And I didn’t. I wanted, needed, to hold myself together.

As she drove me toward the hospital in King’s Cross, she didn’t speak and allowed me to stay silent. I stared out of the window at passersby, suddenly fascinated by the idea of people who were doing today what they had planned yesterday. Didn’t they realize it was temporary? It might all seem to be going smoothly, but one day, tomorrow or the day after or in fifty years’ time, the charade will come to an end.

We arrived at the hospital and discovered that we had to pay to park. I got suddenly and pointlessly angry. “If we were going to the supermarket instead of to the morgue, we wouldn’t have to pay.”

“Don’t worry,” said Gwen. “I’ve got the change with me.”

“What about people who come day after day?” I said. “People with dying relatives.”

“You probably get a discount,” said Gwen.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said, and then I stopped, aware that I was behaving like those people I see shouting in the street, arguing with voices in their own head.