Simon eventually called, if I understood what he said he’d gleaned from speaking to the clinic, then Stella was suffering from a form of delayed shock or some form of post traumatic stress. Either did not sound very nice. If she began doing things to avoid mentioning Des or anything associated with him, then it was possibly PTSD. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t told him.

He would be back tomorrow for a few hours before he had to dash back up to London again, the bank was under siege, some American billionaire was trying to sell short on their shares. He’d apparently made millions in nearly wiping out two British banks already. I wondered how such people slept at night, but then having seen a film about the men who kill seal pups for their fur, I began to believe there is no evil to which men won’t sink if the money’s good enough. Good enough that had an irony to it, somewhere.

Simon came and went back, Stella stayed in denial but in reasonable spirits. Dave Lane phoned, Des’ funeral was the next Wednesday. Tom decided he would stay. I seemed to spend much of my time cooking and cleaning, Stella did lend a hand some of the time and Tom did tidy up my garden so my house was looking really neat and tidy.

On the Wednesday morning, after breakfast and the clean up following it, I went up to change. I had a black skirt and lace blouse I would wear with a black jacket and my boots. Stella borrowed my navy suit and looked really elegant in it, especially with the hat. Tom borrowed a black tie from my father’s stuff–I was still clearing it, and bought himself a new white shirt.

We arrived at the crematorium about twenty minutes before the service and mingled with a few others who’d come early. I knew parking was a pain, hence our early arrival at Westbury.

Eventually the family arrived and Simon came running up the driveway, he’d been helicoptered to Bristol’s Filton airfield and had a taxi from there. He’d been a friend of Des and I knew he’d do all he could to be there. He was still breathing heavily as we went in and took our seats. There were probably fifty people and I wondered how many would come to my funeral, probably less than this. Maybe I needed to make more friends?

The service was standard fare, the odd hymn, a few prayers, a eulogy from a priest who’d never met him, another hymn, another prayer and then the committal. His mother was distraught and his father looked pretty upset too. Stella, however seemed bemused rather than in mourning, although I know I was glad I’d used a waterproof mascara.

Outside people gathered and chatted. I handed a cheque to the undertaker for a local wildlife trust, which was in place of flowers. A single rose had adorned the coffin. Several people seemed to know each other and Simon and I sloped off to talk.

“I can’t stop, the taxi is coming back for me in ten minutes, but I had to come and say goodbye to him. He might have been an arsehole, but a very likeable one.”

“He was a nice bloke, really.” I said and began sniffing again.

“Yeah, I guess.” Simon agreed and after hugging and kissing me, he left, saying goodbye to Stella and Tom as he went.

“Please adjourn to the Swan Inn,” called the undertaker, and in answer to the question, where is that?, shouted, “Follow the silver Jaguar.” So we did. Tom drove my car, he was enjoying it so much, I began to wonder if I’d ever get it back–there was no way I was driving around in that old heap, he had.

At the ensuing ‘Wake’ as people describe these things, erroneously as it happens, Tom had a little too much lubrication, so I had to drive us home. I did manage to speak with Dave and Sue, although they both seemed a bit shell shocked, unsurprisingly.

Stella, seemed to move amongst the mourners without showing much emotion at all and she snacked and chatted with several. Tom remarked on her seeming aloofness. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As we left, Dave led me off on my own again. “Can you call by here, on Friday morning? No need to make an appointment.” He pushed a business card in my hand. I glanced at it, it was a firm of solicitors, with names I’d never heard of. I promised I would try. “You know, Cathy, I don’t think you’ll ever appreciate how much he loved you.”

“Dave, please, his fiancée is over there, and I think she’s on the verge of some sort of breakdown. She’s been acting very strangely since this happened. The other day, she wanted to buy a wedding dress, today she seems unaware of their engagement. I’m really worried for her.”

“Yeah, that would explain why she’s acting like someone who came in a wedding party rather than a funeral cortege.” We looked at Stella who was laughing and joking with some young man.

I nodded to Tom, who despite his slight inebriation, collected her and brought her to the car. “You pair of killjoys, I was enjoying that,” she accused as she got in my car.

“Stella, that was the funeral of your fiancé. It’s hardly a time to be laughing and joking.”

“Well if that’s the case, why don’t I feel anything?”

“I don’t know, Sis. Perhaps it’s just too much for you to take in, so you’ve sort of sidestepped it.”

“Come on, Cathy, surely I’d know if I was upset or not, and I’m not–am I?”

“Do you remember the bridal shop?”

“I remember someone asking me to get you home, because you’d been taken ill. I thought we were just having a girly day out.”

“It wasn’t quite how I remember it.” I felt myself blushing.

“Oh well, I’m obviously crazy then, aren’t I?” Stella said this quite forcefully. It was as if she wanted me to deny it for her, I found I couldn’t. “So I suppose you’re going to send me back to the funny farm again?”

“Me? No, I have no authority to send you anywhere, nor would I want to if you didn’t want to go.”

“You say that to my face, what were you talking to Dave about?”

“We were talking about Des, his son, remember him? And the reasons why he couldn’t come to the piss up after the funeral.”

“I wondered where he was,” said Stella, absently.

“Stella, he was at the funeral.”

“Was he?” she said with some surprise. “I didn’t see him.”

“He was in the wooden box, geez, Stella, get a grip.” I felt so exasperated, I was choked with my own grief and here she was pretending she hardly knew what was happening–maybe she didn’t.

“Oh, I didn’t notice and please don’t shout at me, everyone gets at me.”

“Stella, we love you and we are worried because you don’t seem upset by all this. Everyone else is, so why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t bloody know, all right, so don’t keep on to me. I can’t remember him, okay. It’s like it never happened. All I can recall is my time with him when we were at school.”

I drove home in silence, Tom was nodding off in the front passenger seat and Stella kept watching me, glancing at her, in the rear view mirror. The tension was broken for a moment when Tom, farted noisily, apologised and went back to sleep.

As we got back home, Tom, woke up and after a few minutes managed to get himself indoors. Stella and I were already talking in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. “D’you want me to leave?” she asked, “seeing as I don’t conform with your model of grief?”

“Not at all, I love having you around, perhaps we could get some riding in soon?” I said back, all of it lies. I felt like I was sitting on a time-bomb of indeterminate fuse. If she’d gone ape, throwing things about and screaming or tearing her hair out with grief, I probably could have coped. It was the unemotional element of this which frightened me. If it broke, it could be like Krakatoa going up.

“Yes, I quite fancy a bike ride, maybe tomorrow then? I’m going up to change.” Stella went upstairs. Tom staggered about, looking more tipsy than before.

“Why don’t you go and have a lie down, Tom?” I said to him.

“Erm, yes, okay.” He staggered off, one pace forward and two back. I almost suggested he face the other way, he’d get there quicker. Instead, I took his arm and helped him up the stairs.

I got him into his room and was about to enter mine when I thought it seemed rather quiet in Stella’s. I opened the door after gently knocking and she was sitting by the open window, wearing very few clothes, my suit was folded very carefully on the chair. Her legs were out of the window by the look of things and she hadn’t seen or heard me.

I was transfixed by the scene before me. She was clad in her underwear only, sitting on the edge of the open window and then I spotted it–around her neck was a piece of clothesline attached to the leg of the bed. She was talking to herself–I think, it certainly wasn’t to me. She edged closer to the windowsill and the fifteen foot drop below it. I could feel the icy cold sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had to get to her without startling her and causing her to jump or fall. The problem was, I was frozen to the spot, I literally couldn’t move. She inched closer to the edge again and I heard her sob, “Wait for me, Des.”