‘His efforts might have changed procedures so that other children were saved,’ I said. ‘And you wanted him to give it up just so that he and his wife could feel better. Anyway, I’m not like that man. I don’t have a dying child to nurse. I don’t have a partner I might be neglecting. The only way I could neglect my husband now would be to allow people to have the wrong idea about him when he’s dead and can’t speak for himself.’

‘If you believe that, why are you here?’ asked Judy. ‘You know I’m not a policeman. I’m not someone who can evaluate evidence or discuss the legalities. I’m a person who helps people heal. So they don’t have to go out into the world and do things, they don’t have to set things right or revenge themselves on their enemies. They simply give themselves permission to be normal.’

‘That’s why I came,’ I said. ‘It’s like a reminder. You’re a reminder to me that there’s another way of living. It’s like someone who’s incredibly depressed trying to remind themselves that there will be a time in the future when things don’t look as they do now. There’ll come a time when I’ll buy shoes and meet people for drinks and flirt and be a good friend again…’

‘You make being normal sound frivolous.’

‘I don’t mean to. What I mean is that coming here is like looking through a window at a garden I’d love to go into and that maybe I will some day. But for the moment I’m not giving myself permission to be normal, quite the opposite. I’m giving myself permission to be abnormal. I’m going to stick with my charts and my conspiracy theories and I’m not going to play the part of the grieving widow who’s accepting and passive and basically invisible.’

Judy shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ she said. ‘These aren’t just roles you can choose between. You can’t put off healing as if it were a foreign holiday.’

I thought for the moment. ‘Maybe I’m on holiday now,’ I said. ‘A holiday from being normal and nice and what everybody wants me to be.’

‘It’s called grief,’ said Judy.

‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘The grief comes later, when I know what I’m grieving for.’

Chapter Twenty-four

There were some things, however, that I couldn’t put off, no matter how much I wanted to. ‘I’m dreading it,’ I said to Gwen on the phone, just before I left. ‘Why am I dreading it quite so much? It’s almost like a phobia.’

‘Then don’t go. Say you’re ill.’

‘I might as well get it over with.’

I’d seen Greg’s mother and father at the funeral, and spoken to them briefly twice since then, I’d erased several of their messages from my answering-machine, along with some from his brothers and his sister Kate. I had tried not to think about them because I knew that, whatever I was going through, it was probably worse for them. No parent should ever bury a child. Greg was their first-born. However they had treated him when he was alive – his father had patronized him, bullied him and lost his temper with him, while his mother had compared him unfavourably to his more conservative and prosperous siblings – they had loved him in their fashion. And presumably it made it still more painful to have lost him before they had had a chance to become reconciled. Their last words (Paul had accused Greg of being part of the selfish generation who hadn’t even given his parents grandchildren yet) had been bitter and heated.

They were waiting for me at Bristol Temple Meads station, and I climbed into the back of the car before leaning forward to kiss their cheeks and hand over the flowers I’d bought.

‘You’re a bit late,’ said Paul, starting the car and fiddling with his rear-view mirror, so that for an instant I found myself gazing straight into his slightly bloodshot eyes.

‘The train was delayed.’

‘You’d have done better to drive.’

‘I don’t have a car,’ I said. The fact hung in the air between us. I didn’t have a car because Greg had died in it. With someone else.

‘You’re looking well,’ said Kitty, unenthusiastically, as the car drew away from the kerb and joined the queue nosing out on to the main road.

‘Thanks.’ I knew I wasn’t. ‘You too, Kitty. How have you been?’

She turned in her seat and gave me her plaintive smile. ‘I’ve got a bit of a sniffle this morning. I think I’m coming down with a cold.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But I meant since Greg’s death.’

‘Oh,’ she said, flummoxed. Paul coughed. Clearly Greg’s death was a taboo subject.

‘It’s been hard,’ said Kitty. ‘Very hard. Especially with -’ She stopped dead. Her eyes filled with tears and she started fiddling nervously with her hair.

‘With him dying with another woman?’ I suggested.

Paul coughed again, then said, ‘Here we are. Our humble abode.’

The house was scrupulously tidy and filled with objects Paul and Kitty had collected over the years: the teddy bears on the sofa, the thimbles in the glass cabinet, the snow domes ranged along the mantel, the glass cats on top of the piano that nobody had played since Greg had left home at eighteen. There were photos on the window-sill, and while Kitty went off to get lunch for us, I examined them. ‘Where have all the photos of Greg gone?’ I asked Paul.

He gave his short cough. ‘We thought you might like them. I’ve put them in a bag for you to take, with things like his school reports.’

‘But don’t you want them? I mean, now more than ever, I would have thought -’

‘This has been painful for his mother,’ he interrupted me. ‘The photographs upset her.’

Kitty called from the kitchen, announcing lunch. As we sat down to eat, I made myself say what I had come to say. It came out sounding too much like a prepared speech. ‘One of the reasons I’m here is that I wanted to give you some things of Greg’s as keepsakes, Ian, Simon and Kate as well as you two. Just books, mostly ones I thought you might like. There are photos too. But if you don’t want them…’

‘Well,’ said Paul. He blinked at me. ‘We can have a look at least.’

‘I brought you his one and only tie.’

‘Paul’s very particular about his ties,’ said Kitty. ‘Nothing fancy.’

‘I just thought it would be a memento.’

We were sitting on three sides of the small table, with a curried egg salad in the middle, and the fourth – where Greg should have been, his complicit smile meant just for me – empty. Kitty divided the salad neatly into three and put my portion on the plate in front of me. I could feel her eyes on me. She and Paul had never taken to me: my job was too odd, not a proper job at all, really; my clothes were strange; they didn’t approve of my opinions, which was strange because I’d never thought of myself as someone who had them. Yet now here I was, the publicly wronged and tragically widowed daughter-in-law.

‘Aren’t you hungry, Ellie?’ said Kitty.

‘This is lovely.’ I took a determined bite of my egg and swallowed it with an effort. ‘I just wanted to say that it seems strange to me that we’ve never talked about what happened.’

Paul looked grim and embarrassed and didn’t speak.

‘I didn’t like to ask Greg about things,’ said Kitty, placidly. ‘If he had come to me and said he wasn’t happy I would have listened. I’m his mother after all. I suppose he must have had his reasons for doing what he did.’

‘Our marriage was very happy,’ I said, pushing the plate away.

The two of them exchanged a glance.

‘It must be hard for you to bear,’ said Kitty.

‘I don’t need to bear it,’ I said. ‘That’s another reason why I’m here today. I wanted to tell you that Greg was a good man. He was the most loving husband.’ I looked at the clock on the wall: I had only been there for twenty-five minutes. When could I decently leave? ‘I trusted him.’ Then I corrected myself: ‘I trust him.’

‘It was awful,’ I said to Joe, who had insisted on taking time off work to pick me up from the station and drive me home, even though it would have been much quicker to catch the Underground, and even though I didn’t want to go home. It was warm and luxurious inside the BMW and I sank gratefully back into the seat.