And then they came, the tears that had stayed away for most of the day. Her mother wrapped her arms around her tightly and the two of them had to shuffle a little to find a position that felt right, given that Clio was no longer a child and they were out of practice with hugging. Clio felt her mother rub her back and whisper into her hair as she had done hundreds of times before, and she simply absorbed the unconditional love until her tears were gone.

‘Would you like a drink?’ her mother asked, after they had released each other. ‘I mean a proper one. I don’t know about you but a brandy would go down well with me.’

Clio nodded and allowed her mother to lead her into the drawing room where her father’s drinks cabinet stood. Her mother poured two generous measures and they both sank into armchairs, Clio kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs up under her.

‘It went all right, I thought,’ said her mother, seeking reassurance, and Clio nodded.

‘It was lovely,’ Clio replied. ‘Everyone was very kind and Dad would have loved it, all those people talking about him!’

Her mother gave a wan smile and nodded. ‘So many people came from the orchestra,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t expected so many.’

‘He was very much loved,’ said Clio, but when the words came out of her mouth she realised that they had a second meaning that she hadn’t intended.

Had she been there – Melissa? Or maybe Leah, whoever she was? Clio had tried to look out for women that she didn’t recognise or who couldn’t be explained away, but she hadn’t noticed anyone. That was a relief, at least. When she didn’t know anything for certain, she could tell herself that the notes in the little blue book had some other, totally innocent explanation.

‘There was talk of a memorial concert, too,’ said her mother. ‘In the spring, maybe. I think he’d have liked that.’

They sat there together, not speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.

‘I wondered if someone from all his Grand Prix trips might have come,’ said Clio after a while. She didn’t look up, but each of her senses was on alert to pick up any signal, however small, that her mother might give off at her loaded question; but there was nothing.

‘I’m not sure who,’ her mother replied. ‘I think that was something your father did on his own, as a kind of release from the busyness of the rest of his life. He certainly never mentioned anyone in particular.’