“What I need,” said Frances, “is the world to stop for about a week while I get the backlog sorted out and my life in some kind of order. Milena—may she rest in peace—wasn’t the most organized of women. I keep discovering things she’s done or promised that there’s no record of. At least,” she glanced around the room, “no record that I can lay my hands on.” She watched me as I picked up the sugar lumps one by one, swept up the biscuit crumbs, picked up the mass of sodden kitchen roll and dumped it in a bin-bag. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I quite like clearing up mess,” I said. “With your work, though, you should chunk it up. You can’t clear it all at once. Maybe you should get extra help in, for the time being at least.”

“I can’t do anymore,” said Beth, grumpily.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Frances.

I gathered some loose sheets of paper from the floor. “What do you want me to do with these?”

“Nothing. You’ve done more than enough as it is. I’ll sort them out later.”

“I can put them into piles for you, if you want. I’m quite good at organizing stuff.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’m not doing anything right now. I’m . . .” I hesitated . . . “between jobs.”

“You’d do that?” For a moment she looked as though she was about to burst into tears or hug me.

“Just to sort this lot out. After all, it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t offered me coffee.”

Beth pottered around to not very much effect while Frances and I sorted the papers: venues, catering companies that Party Animals used, parties being planned, quotations. There was nothing that gave me any hint of the personal life of Milena Livingstone, although there were papers with her dashingly scrawled signature, and Frances referred to the dozens of sympathy letters she’d received and hadn’t yet replied to.

Beth made coffee in a jug and brought it in mug by mug, with an air of triumph. I felt strangely, absurdly relaxed, even though I was there under false pretenses. It was a relief to be helping someone instead of being the one in need. Maybe it also felt good to have a holiday from being me, the grieving widow and “betrayed wife,” pitied friend with a great big bee in her bonnet. When the time came for me to go, Frances, seeming slightly embarrassed but also a bit desperate, asked if there was any chance I could pop back. I replied, trying to sound casual, that I’d be glad to help out and suggested the next day.