He couldn’t really care about me. In fact, I didn’t want him to. He hadn’t known Greg and he didn’t know me, and if I suspected he was feeling real emotion about my loss, it would be creepy, as if I had caught him breaking into my house. So he was giving a performance, just well enough, and as I paged numbly through the brochure, it struck me that everyone I had dealt with had been performing as well. The coroner had been respectful and serious but he had finished in time for lunch; he might have gone straight to his club and laughed about the ridiculous case he had just heard or he might have forgotten about it and told dirty jokes, or gone back to his office alone and drunk whisky from a half-bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk. It didn’t matter. While sitting in the court he had played the role of coroner in the presence of a grieving widow. The policewomen had acted the way you act when you tell a wife that her husband has died. If they had been returning a lost cat to a little girl, they would have acted in the appropriate style for that. The registrar at the hospital had performed in the way you perform when a relative comes to view a body.

It couldn’t just be a matter of behaving according to their emotions because they couldn’t feel those emotions any more, not when they had done it a hundred times. And why should the hundredth grieving family member not get the same treatment as the first? In reality, the hundredth probably gets better treatment than the first. When the emotion is real, you can’t handle it: it overflows and comes out in the wrong way. When it’s real, you’re not dignified and sombre: you grin inappropriately and say the wrong thing and make awkward gestures.

I wondered if it was only the doctors, policemen and undertakers who were performing. Wasn’t it a bit true of my friends as well? I thought of Gwen and Mary. When something really big happens, like a death, we play parts we’re familiar with. They were being the supportive best friends in time of crisis, using the repertoire of concerned expressions, gestures and consoling phrases, taking my hand, touching my forearm. I was the same, of course. I was in the starring role. This was another feeling that almost drove me mad, the sense that I had to act myself, that I had convincingly to impersonate emotions I wasn’t really feeling. I hadn’t played the part in those terrible seconds when I was told and must have given a bad performance, stammering, forgetting my lines; confused and shocked rather than grief-struck. But when I had entered Mr Collingwood’s office, I had been safely in the role of the widow, just as he had been in the role of the undertaker. This extended to my costume – dignified and restrained, but not black.

‘Do you have any thoughts, Ms Falkner?’

The tone remained subdued, but now he was reminding me that time was limited. Greg hadn’t left a will, let alone instructions for a funeral. He hadn’t been planning to die. I had tried to think what he would have wanted. ‘What he would have wanted’, that awful patronizing way of talking about the dead, as if they’ve been reduced to caricatures: Greg would have wanted this, Greg would have been amused by that. If Greg had planned his own funeral, he would probably have come up with something strange and homemade, a Viking pyre, ashes shot out of a cannon, buried at sea. I couldn’t compete with him there. I just needed it to be simple.

I made the decisions quickly. Cremation. A non-religious ceremony. Maybe somebody could say something, we could play a piece of music. Then there was the question of the coffin. More irrelevant thoughts kept coming to me. When we had decided to get married, Greg insisted on getting me an engagement ring and we went to Hatton Garden together. It turned out that Greg knew all about types of metal and carats and stones. Things I had never even thought of turned out to be important. I was sure he would have had strong views on the coffin. The mahogany was probably dubiously sourced. The plastic lining on the cheapest would probably contribute to global warming. Maybe all cremations did. He knew things like that.

‘Do people really buy cardboard coffins?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Collingwood. ‘Some families like to decorate them, paint them and so forth. They can look…’ he seemed to search for the right word ‘… remarkable.’

I could have done it. I could even have built the coffin. I had made most of the things in our house or, at least, restored them.

‘I think I’ll spare people that,’ I said.

I chose a coffin made from woven willow because it didn’t look like a coffin. Mr Collingwood said approvingly that it was chosen by many people who were concerned about environmental issues. For some reason that irritated me and I suddenly wished I’d chosen one made of hazardous waste. Mr Collingwood excused himself and withdrew into a small office at the back. I heard the grinding sound of a printer and he returned with a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk towards me. ‘We believe it’s important to give a written estimate,’ he said.

I looked at it and gulped. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized…’ Then I stopped, suddenly ashamed. It didn’t seem a decent subject to haggle over but I had been startled. The estimate was more than we had paid for our car, and that hadn’t been particularly cheap. Mr Collingwood wasn’t disconcerted – he must have had worse cases than me. He assured me that the funeral could be as simple as I wanted.

I studied the estimate, item by item. ‘You will organize the whole funeral?’

Mr Collingwood nodded.

I took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ I said.

I meant to go straight home. There were so many things that needed doing, so many tasks and lists and duties. Instead I went into Kentish Town station, took a southbound train and got off at Kennington. When I came out of the station I felt, as I always did when I came south of the river, that I had emerged in a city in another country, even if the language was deceptively similar, as if I had arrived in New York or Sydney. I knew that the Livingstones had lived at number sixteen Dormer Road, so I went into a newsagent’s and bought an A-Z. It took only a few minutes to walk there – but in those minutes I went from one world, of high-rise blocks and dilapidated tenements, to another, of discreet wealth and cool grandeur.

The Livingstones’ house was large and white, set back from the road. I instantly disliked its pillared porch and raked gravel, and this helped me march up the short sweep of a drive and ring the bell before I had time to think about what I was doing or prepare an explanation. Only when I heard footsteps coming towards the door did I feel a tremble of anxiety go through me.

‘Yeah?’

Why had I assumed it would be Hugo Livingstone, Milena’s husband, who answered the door? The youth who stood in front of me was tall and skinny, all angles and joints. I thought he must be in his late teens. He had long, dark, unbrushed hair, eyes that were almost black. He was wearing boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt; as on the day of the inquest, he had a stud in his nose. I smiled cautiously at him but he stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a flat, assessing stare on his face.

‘Is Hugo Livingstone in?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘You’re his son, aren’t you? I saw you at the inquest.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He gave a mock bow, knees knobbly below his boxers, quite unembarrassed by his state of undress – indeed, I thought he was revelling in it. ‘Silvio Livingstone.’

‘Silvio?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an assertive tone, as if daring me to comment on it.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I said.

‘Stepmother.’ The way he said it was so blatantly contemptuous that I was startled. He must have seen my expression change for he gave a challenging grin.

‘I’m sorry all the same,’ I managed. ‘Do you know when he -’