“I’m sorry.”

Christine sat down opposite me, then stood up and filled the kettle but didn’t switch it on. She turned toward me. “Is there a particular reason you came?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Her face took on the eager, helpful expression I’d become so familiar with since Greg’s death.

“You were friendly with Greg.”

“That’s right,” said Christine. “I was devastated when I heard.”

“Would you say you were close to him?”

“It depends what you mean by close.” Her tone was cautious now.

“I read your emails to each other.”

“Yes?”

“He thought blue suited you.” Her expression had changed: no longer eager but embarrassed. I pressed on. “How close?”

“You mean . . .” She stopped.

“Yes.”

“You poor thing,” she said softly.

I stared at her. Shame flushed through me, leaving me clammy. I gripped the table with both hands. “You’re telling me there was nothing between you, then?”

“We were friends.”

“Even though you told him he was a very nice man and complimented him on his tan and asked him how things were at home, and he said you looked radiant?”

There was a nasty little silence, and then she said, “It didn’t mean anything.”

“He never tried to make it go further?” I felt abject, and also disgusted by myself.

She gazed at me with a pity that made me want to crawl under a stone.

“I heard he was with another woman,” she said.

“Who from?”

“People. I didn’t know who she was. Greg and I were just friends.”

I thought of Christine and nameless other people talking about Greg and the other woman in the car. A wave of nausea assailed me. “I ought to go. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. About everything.”