‘Oh, relax, darling.’ Enigma comes to a neat stop next to them. ‘My word, it’s chilly. But otherwise a lovely day for it, isn’t it?’

‘I must say, you two look very…colourful,’ says Ron.

Enigma, who comes up to Ron’s waist, is wearing a fire-engine-red jacket with a diagonally striped skirt. With her short, permed purplish-grey hair and apple-pink cheeks, she looks like a brightly wrapped lolly. Rose is tall and ethereal, with long, impractical white hair that she still wears the same way she wore it when she was sixteen, clasped at the back with the same tortoise-shell hairclip. For Connie’s funeral she is wearing a gorgeously coloured turquoise suit with a matching long, filmy scarf that changes from blue to green in the sun. She has tied a piece of the same material around her walking frame. Actually, they look quite presentable; Grace knew Margie had been worried they’d have flowers or birds painted on their faces, which did cause people to stare.

‘Yes, we do look colourful!’ says Enigma snappishly. She doesn’t take any rubbish from her son-in-law. ‘That’s because we’re celebrating Connie’s wonderful, colourful life!’

‘Colourful,’ says Ron. ‘That’s an interesting choice of word, Enigma. Makes it sound like Connie might have rather unsavoury secrets in her past.’

There is a moment of strange, loaded silence. Margie wrings her hands. Enigma punches her fists into her sides and narrows her eyes ferociously. Rose’s nostrils become pinched and regal. ‘What a remarkably inappropriate thing to say,’ she announces with devastating disdain, and gives Ron a look as if he were a filthy boy, caught in the act of doing something truly repugnant.

It is always interesting to see Rose switch from vague and dreamy to crushing and cold; unless, of course, you are on the receiving end, which Grace had been occasionally when she was a teenager, especially when she went through her brief but memorable pierced nose and shaved head stage.

‘My sincerest apologies, Rose.’ Ron is as smooth as expensive liqueur. ‘You’re right. It was a poor attempt at humour. I should leave the jokes to my witty wife, shouldn’t I, Margie?’

19

The morning of Aunt Connie’s funeral there is frost on the grass outside Sophie’s flat.

‘Sophie, Sophie, Jack Frost has been!’ Gretel used to call on mornings like this, with such excitement in her voice that Sophie would leap from her bed and run to her window to see their white-spangled front lawn.

Sophie had believed in Jack Frost, the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny for an embarrassingly long time. It was her mother’s fault. She was too good an actress. For example, she described accidentally running into Santa Claus one night in the kitchen when she went to get a glass of water in such authentic-sounding detail: Santa had had such a fright that he’d said ‘Lordie me!’ and had to sit down and have a Milo and an Iced Vo Vo. He’d got crumbs in his beard. From outside on the driveway Gretel could hear the sleigh bells jingling in the breeze and the reindeers snorting and pounding their hooves.

On Christmas Eve and frosty mornings Sophie still feels a faint shivery tingle of that old magic. It makes her feel better as she eats her porridge. Aunt Connie’s funeral seems like some sort of horrible public-humiliation test.

She wears the black dress because Claire had been so adamant that it was right. Sophie has lost all confidence over what is right or wrong about this whole thing.

The funeral is at noon at Glass Bay. She plans to go in to work for a couple of hours and then catch a train from the city to Glass Bay, where she can get a cab to the church. She has allowed an hour and a half, to give herself plenty of time. Timing is crucial. Too early will appear too eager: OK, let’s get this over with so I can get my hands on the old biddy’s house. Too late will appear blasé: Just dropping by to pay my respects…by the way, where are the keys to this house I’ve been hearing about?

In the end she is running late. A girl tumbles excited into Sophie’s office to make a report of sexual harassment. She has clearly not been sexually harassed (you should be so lucky, Sophie catches herself thinking, rather unprofessionally) but these things must be gently defused like a ticking explosive device.

Then the train stops inexplicably for twenty minutes in between stations. By the time she gets to Glass Bay and she is pelting up the stairs in her stilettos, she is hyperventilating with a mix of guilt and nerves.

There are pounding footsteps behind her and a man in a suit is suddenly running by her side. ‘You’re not going to Connie Doughty’s funeral, are you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ she says breathlessly as they both keep running.

‘Me too,’ he says. ‘We’ll share a cab then. That train–could you believe it? I was bashing my head against the window.’

Sophie laughs. ‘I was thumping my fist against the seat in front of me.’

She manages to get a fleeting impression of a big nose and deep laugh-lines. He is running easily, his briefcase held under one arm.

Stop it, she thinks. Stop it. It’s not him. If you think it’s him, it won’t be him.

‘Here’s one!’

She watches him run ahead and flag down a cab.

Nice square, broad back. Stop it!

He turns around and smiles at her. ‘Our luck’s changing.’

Well, mine certainly is. His smile is funny and friendly and sexy all at once. Stop it, stop it, stop it!

He opens the cab door for her and she slides across the seat. He hops in beside her and gives the cabbie the address of the church. It seems like the space in the back of the cab is very small and intimate. She can smell his aftershave. As he pulls back his sleeve to check the time she can see his very masculine-looking forearm. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sophie!

‘Well, hello,’ she says. She can feel her smile is radiant and possibly beautiful. ‘I’m Sophie Honeywell.’

‘Aha,’ he says. He raises one quizzical eyebrow, James Bond style. He really is extraordinarily sexy. ‘So you’re Sophie.’

Oh God, it seems like it has been years since the last time she has felt this. Instant mutual attraction. She is not imagining this. Chemistry is frothing and fizzing all over the place. She can feel it in her kneecaps.

He reaches out to shake her hand. ‘Hello, Sophie.’

Sophie puts her hand in his: warm, dry, enfolding hers. She lets her eyes drop to her watch. It’s five to noon.