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I don’t know Corinne any more than Corinne knows me, but I really do feel for her now. This will all be such a terrible shock. There’s no love lost, for sure – she even boycotted the wedding – but whatever the differences between her and her father, it seems a shame she has to find out like this.
    ‘I did. This morning,’ Pru tells me. ‘And she says she’s okay with the date.’
    ‘Poor thing.’
    ‘Yes. Poor thing. She sounded pretty pole-axed. I’ve given her your number so you can run the arrangements by her. She said she’d call you this evening. That okay?’
    ‘That okay.’
    ‘And I’ll drive Mum over once Doug’s in from work. About seven? We’ll stop at hers on the way to get some clothes. And her address book, of course. She’s got a guest list she’s working through. You know, friends she’s inviting –’
    ‘Guest list? You make it sound like a party.’
    Pru tuts. ‘Not me . But, hey. You know Mum.’
    I do, and yet I don’t. We are still all observing the proprieties at the moment. And in fairness to her, when she and Pru arrive (plus my eleven-year-old niece, Chloe, who has come along in the hopes Jake will be here for her to dote on), Mum does look very much the newly bereaved widow. Pale. A tad distracted. A mite shaky. A little quiet. And though I know much of her current demeanour probably has as much to do with having been present at my nephews’ eighth birthday party as her recent bereavement, there is still an air of quiet grief about her. Which is novel. Mum doesn’t do quiet as a rule. Or, indeed, going to bed at ten.
    This, however, is exactly what she does.
    ‘I’ve made Sebastian’s bed up for you,’ I tell her , on our way up the stairs. ‘With two quilts. And I’ve plugged in the fan heater, too.’ I know it’s June but my mother can’t be doing with draughts. Or plants in the bedroom, for that matter. Or semi-skimmed milk. Or Ainsley Harriott. Or frozen peas. Or Gordon Brown’s mouth. Already compiling a things-she-can’t-be-doing-with memo in my head, I leave her to orient herself.
    Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the kitchen, when the silence is shattered by a bone-shaking scream. I climb the stairs, breathlessly, three at a time.
    She’s sitting up in bed, with a hand clutched to her nightie. ‘What on earth’s happened , Mum? Are you okay?’
    She’s still a little shaky. She’s had a nightmare, I imagine. But she’s certainly wide awake now.
    ‘It’s understandable you’re having bad dreams,’ I tell her gently. ‘What with everything that’s happened. Your mind’s probably teeming with horrible thoughts.’
    ‘It’s not that !’ she snaps. ‘It wasn’t a dream ! It was opening my eyes and seeing THAT! ’
    I fetch the ladder, move the bed out, climb the treads, get my balance. And then I carefully remove Jordan from the ceiling.

Chapter 4
    A TEXT !
    Hi M . Hi J . Hi S. Got yr txt. Sorry bout Hugo. Wot a shock! Poor nana. Hope she bearing up. Give her hug 4 me. Madrid 36 degrees 2day!!! Hope Barcelona cooler. XXX.
    It was a terrible day for a funeral. And not just because it was also the day I should have been starting my new job and now couldn’t (irksome though that was). It’s because funerals, to my mind, demand a bit of meteorological gravitas. Roiling black cloudscapes. Squally rain. Hail. None such on this day however. All elbowed out of the way by the sun. You never did see such a big blue sky (except perhaps in Madrid, of course). There wasn’t so much as a cobweb of a cloud, and the heat was so fierce they had to keep spraying all the wreaths. My mother was fanning her face with her order of service – a hastily compiled pamphlet with a cross on the front that had been printed on paper in that washed-out shade of green that made it look like an old take-away menu.
    ‘I told you I should have worn my lilac,’ she hissed at me. ‘I’m melting in this wretched thing.’
    ‘Shh. We’ll be inside soon,’ I