‘No. He works from early to late.’ Everything he said seemed to have a sarcastic ring. ‘It’s only me that lounges around.’ He was obviously imitating someone when he said the last two words – his stepmother, I guessed.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’

I didn’t pretend not to understand who he was talking about, simply nodded.

‘What do you want here, then?’

‘I thought we should meet. Given everything.’

‘You want to come in?’

‘It was only if your father was here.’

‘He isn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘About them, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Did you?’

‘Not about your husband,’ he said.

For a reason I didn’t understand, I found I was more comfortable with this wretchedly sarcastic, angrily self-conscious young man than I had been with anyone else since Greg had died.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Unless you think your dad would be angry.’

‘It’s my house too.’

‘Just for a few minutes, then. Maybe you could make me some coffee.’

‘And you can ask me questions about her instead of asking Dad. At least I’ll be honest. I’m not the one she made a fool of.’

He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have – had – on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.

‘Black coffee?’ He was filling the kettle.

‘White,’ I said. ‘So, you had no idea about Greg – my husband?’

‘Why would we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.’ I was getting very tired of this phrase. ‘Milena liked secrets.’ He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. ‘It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumour.’

‘So it wasn’t a surprise?’

‘Not really. The dying was, of course.’

‘What about your father?’

‘I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.’

I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. ‘So you’re not really sure?’

For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘They died together,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty intimate.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you mean?’

‘I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?’

‘I haven’t looked. Why should I?’

‘And your father?’

‘My father?’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.’

‘I see.’

‘You probably don’t,’ he said.

‘I guess not.’ I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. ‘Thanks, Silvio.’ I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.

‘You’re not what I’d expected,’ he said, at the front door.

‘What you expected?’

‘Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.’

‘It sounds like you’re making fun of me,’ I said.

Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.

A thought struck before I walked away. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’

I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.

‘I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,’ I said.

‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’

He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.

Chapter Seven

There was one thing I knew I had to do before the funeral. I’d been thinking about it since the inquest, imagining what it looked like, and recently I’d even started dreaming about it – jerking awake from dreams of a deep pit in the middle of London, Greg’s red car hurtling to the bottom, bursting into flames there. Porton Way. I’d wake with images of his face pressed against the windscreen, his mouth open in a scream of terror. Or of his body crushed against Milena’s as flames licked them.

If I’d asked Gwen or Mary, they’d have been eager to accompany me, but this was something I needed to do alone. And so, the day before the funeral when I was supposed to be making final arrangements, I headed east. It wasn’t an area of London I really knew, though it wasn’t far from where we lived (where you live, I corrected myself fiercely; not ‘we’ any more) and I mistook the route, getting off at Stratford. It took me about twenty-five minutes to walk to Porton Way, nearly getting myself killed as I dashed across the great arterial routes that lead east out of London. The sky, which had been grey when I left that morning, turned an ominous purple-brown; a storm was coming, and occasional raindrops splashed my cheek. A bitter wind was blowing over the London streets, whipping up litter and the last of the autumn leaves, which swirled along the pavement.

The entire area seemed to have been turned into a building site. Giant cranes punctuated the horizon and swathes of land had been turned into rubble and sticky mud, scarred with wide trenches. There were Portakabins behind high fences, men in hard hats driving diggers, temporary lights redirecting traffic.

Porton Way, lying at the bottom of a steep incline, was dismal, abandoned, full of half-smashed warehouses and the remnants of old houses, which had been brought to the ground in a pile of bricks and cement blocks. One house was still standing among the ruins, though its front wall had been ripped away. Even from below, I could still see the wallpaper and the old bathtub. Once people had lived there, I thought, sat in that kitchen.

I consulted the map, tracing the route Greg had driven with a finger. What a drab, dreary, ugly place to come for a tryst. But private. Even now, in the middle of the morning, there was no one around; it looked as though work had been suspended for the time being. As I trudged towards the fatal corner, it started to rain, the skies opening up and releasing an onslaught, water streaming down my cheeks, seeping into my inadequate jacket. The bottoms of my jeans were soon soaking. Water squelched in my shoes. My hair lashed wetly against my face. I could barely see where I was going.

But there I was, at the steep corner. This was where it had happened. Greg had gone straight across and plunged down that embankment. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Where had he landed exactly? Was there anything remaining of the car? I left the road and clambered down the slope, but the mud was like slippery clay and I half fell, putting out my hand to catch myself, ripping my sleeve on a thick bramble. I heard myself give a sob.

It seemed to take a long time to get to the bottom, and by the time I arrived I was muddy and sodden. My forehead stung and when I put a hand up, it came away red with blood, which trickled into my eye, making it even harder to see where I was going. I took off my scarf and held it against the cut.

And what was I doing there, anyway? What could I hope to prove – that Greg wouldn’t have come to this place? He wouldn’t, but he had. That he wouldn’t have taken his eyes off the road on a sharp corner? He wouldn’t but he had. That he would have worn a seatbelt? He would but he hadn’t. What did I expect to find – to feel? Some kind of – what was that horrible word the coroner had used at the inquest? – closure? Of course not, yet I knew I had to be there anyway, in some ritual that would have no effect and make no difference.

In fact, it was quite clear where the car had landed, although it had obviously been cleared away long ago. There was a charred patch of land, a small crater in the larger one of Porton Way. I made my way across and squatted. So, this was where Greg had died. I stared at the gash in the earth. I blinked away the streaming rain and pushed my hair back. Drops of blood escaped the scarf I still held to my forehead and I could taste them on my lips, their iron tang. The woman at the inquest had said Greg wouldn’t have suffered. Did he even know, as he was dying, that this was the end, or had it been too quick even for that? Had he thought of me?