Of course, there would be press here, and being in public was the last thing Marcie wanted. She probably couldn’t have come even if she’d wanted to.

Justin led the humanist service, his voice strong and unwavering. He was a former singer; used to masking unwanted emotions. He not only managed to keep his tears at bay, he made a couple of jokes that pierced through even my grief.

I didn’t get too close when we all trudged out to the burial plot. It was windy now and grey clouds were gathering overhead. This was the real business of death. Not the flower-filled chapel, but here, in the cold, as six pall-bearers solemnly lowered Patrick into a hole in the cold, hard earth. How could this be right? How could a man with such energy and vitality be snuffed out? My limbs felt heavy with grief, but my own tears still didn’t come.

The wake was in a nearby pub. I hovered awkwardly, a small glass of wine in my hand, attempting small talk with people I usually laughed and got pissed with. But not today. After half an hour I left. The mood was too jolly; I needed quiet.

When I left the pub, instead of heading towards the bus stop, I retraced my steps back to the cemetery.

I walked slowly, reading the names and dates engraved on the headstones. Vera Edwina Edmunds, loving wife, and mother to James and Rosemary was thirty-four when she died – the same age as me.

I kept walking, not caring which direction I went, but after a few minutes I realised that I was approaching Patrick’s grave. It had been filled in now; a brown rectangular scar on the green grass around it. A woman was standing in front of it with her back to me. She was wearing a long dark coat and her hair was hidden under a felt hat that looked familiar. She turned her head slightly, and I gasped.

It was Marcie Tyler.