‘How is your dad this week, Jake?’ said Marc.

‘Not bad. I mean, he brought a woman home last Friday night but, like, he didn’t sit on the sofa and cry afterwards. So that’s something.’

‘Jake’s father is handling his own grief in his own way,’ Marc said in my direction.

‘Shagging,’ said Jake. ‘Mostly shagging.’

‘I wish I was younger,’ said Fred, wistfully. He was wearing a collar and tie, the kind of man who considers himself undressed without one. ‘I think that would have been a marvellous way to handle Jilly dying.’

‘My cousin picked up a man at my aunt’s funeral,’ said a woman in the corner who might have been called Leanne; I couldn’t remember. She was small and round and had a thick fringe of chocolate-coloured hair.

‘Actually during the funeral?’

‘She said they went to a Travelodge after the sandwiches.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s the heightened emotions, apparently.’

I was in the wrong place. I could see that now. Surreptitiously, I gathered my belongings, wondering whether I should announce my leaving or whether it would be simpler just to run.

Then Marc turned to me expectantly.

I stared blankly at him.

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh. Me? Actually, I was just leaving. I think I’ve … I mean, I don’t think I’m –’

‘Oh, everyone wants to leave on their first day, dear.’

‘I wanted to leave on my second and third too.’

‘That’s the biscuits. I keep telling Marc we should have better ones.’

‘Just tell us the bare bones of it, if you like. Don’t worry. You’re among friends.’

They were all waiting. I couldn’t run. I hunched back into my seat. ‘Um. Okay. Well, my name’s Louisa and the man I … I loved … died at thirty-five.’

There were a few nods of sympathy.

‘Too young. When did this happen, Louisa?’

‘Twenty months ago. And a week. And two days.’

‘Three years, two weeks and two days.’ Natasha smiled at me from across the room.

There was a low murmur of commiseration. Daphne, beside me, reached out a plump, beringed hand and patted my leg.

‘We’ve had many discussions in this room about the particular difficulties when someone dies young,’ said Marc. ‘How long were you together?’

‘Uh. We … well … a little less than six months.’

A few barely hidden looks of surprise.

‘That’s – quite brief,’ a voice said.

‘I’m sure Louisa’s pain is just as valid,’ said Marc, smoothly. ‘And how did he pass, Louisa?’

‘Pass what?’

‘Die,’ said Fred, helpfully.

‘Oh. He – uh – he took his own life.’

‘That must have been a great shock.’

‘Not really. I knew he was planning it.’

There is a peculiar sort of silence, it turns out, when you tell a room full of people who think they know everything there is to know about the death of a loved one that they don’t.

I took a breath. ‘He knew he wanted to do it before I met him. I tried to change his mind and I couldn’t. So I went along with it, because I loved him, and it seemed to make sense at the time. And now it makes a lot less sense. Which is why I’m here.’

‘Death never makes sense,’ said Daphne.

‘Unless you’re Buddhist,’ said Natasha. ‘I keep trying to think Buddhist thoughts but I’m worried that Olaf is going to come back as a mouse or something and I’m going to poison him.’ She sighed. ‘I have to put poison down. We have a terrible mouse problem in our block.’

‘You’ll never get rid of them. They’re like fleas,’ said Sunil. ‘For every one you see, there are hundreds of them behind the scenes.’

‘You might want to think about what you’re doing, Natasha, love,’ said Daphne. ‘There could be hundreds of little Olafs running around. My Alan could be one of them. You could actually be poisoning the both of them.’

‘Well,’ said Fred, ‘if it’s Buddhist, he’d just come back as something else, wouldn’t he?’

‘But what if it’s a fly or something and Natasha kills that too?’

‘I’d hate to come back as a fly,’ said William. ‘Horrible black hairy things.’ He shuddered.

‘I’m not, like, some mass murderer,’ said Natasha. ‘You’re making it sound like I’m out there slaughtering everyone’s reincarnated husbands.’

‘Well, that mouse might be someone’s husband. Even if it isn’t Olaf.’

‘I think we should try to steer this session back on track,’ said Marc, rubbing his temple. ‘Louisa, it’s brave of you to come and tell your story. Why don’t you tell us a bit more about how you and – what was his name? – how you met. You’re in a circle of trust. We’ve all pledged that our stories go no further than these walls.’

It was at this point that I happened to catch Jake’s eye. He glanced at Daphne, then at me, and shook his head subtly.

‘I met him at work,’ I said. ‘And his name was … Bill.’