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OCTOBER 2019

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the man, bowing his head slightly as he shook her hand. Hers was limp and he grasped it with both of his as she looked at him, wondering who he was and whether she cared.

She could stay an hour and that would be enough. Then she’d make an excuse and get home. Sophie couldn’t stand being here; the rumble of conversation in the background already making her feel as if people were moving on, the memorial service already in their rear-view mirrors.

She stood in a huddle with Libby, her parents, Sam, Will, some friends from university who’d made an appearance, sipping wine and simply trying to get through it. Once in a while someone she didn’t know would clasp her hand and give her an emphatic ‘sorry for your loss’; otherwise, people tended to cluster with others they knew and fall into conversation – perhaps about Tom, perhaps about cancer, perhaps about something completely different.

‘Have some more wine,’ Libby told her, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘You’ve nearly made it.’

And it was true. She’d made it through the service, through the readings and the Humanist sermon that described someone who only half-sounded like Tom. She’d made the journey between there and here, dazed, in the back of a limousine. And now she’d spent almost sufficient time here to be able to call it a day, and slip away to actually start grieving.

It was odd, all the expected protocol of death. She understood it was a chance to honour Tom, to say goodbye. But all it had done so far, in reality, was make her feel very much on the periphery of things. Julie, Tom’s mum, was holding court, resplendent in a black shift dress and angled hat. His father, Doug, sipped wine and talked quietly in the corner. They’d become distant, their dealings with her brief and business-like. Somehow as if they resented her. Perhaps because she’d taken Tom from them in his final years.

‘Maybe they just can’t deal with it,’ Libby had suggested when she’d mentioned it. ‘Nobody’s their best self when coping with grief.’

She’d nodded. ‘I suppose.’

‘There’s no suppose about it! You smashed my best coffee cup the other day, remember? When I said the wrong thing?’ Libby’s tone was teasing, as light as it could be in the circumstances. She slung an arm around Sophie. ‘And it was fine. Because I’d probably do the same. But maybe this is their bad behaviour. Not about you at all.’

Whatever was driving their behaviour, it still made everything feel like a battle. Tom’s last will and testament – the hastily drawn-up document he’d made with his solicitor after his diagnosis – named her executor and gave her ownership of the flat, and most of his stuff. Julie had spoken to her after reading it, asked if they could perhaps find a few ‘mementoes’ of their son. ‘Nothing of value,’ she’d added – as if Sophie really cared about that.

‘Of course. It’s important to have things to remember him by.’

In truth, she didn’t want any of it, would have happily moved back to her parents’ and left the flat for them to sort out. But she’d also wanted to follow Tom’s wishes, so she’d dutifully taken the decision to sell the flat and put the proceeds in an account so she could think about it later.

‘That’s very kind,’ Julie had said, her voice stiff and cold. ‘Thank you. Although as his parents, we’re in no danger of forgetting Tom, don’t you worry about that.’

Had she deliberately misunderstood? Been insulted? Sophie hadn’t known. But she’d realised at that point that any hope she’d had of keeping a relationship with them – for Tom and because, legally she supposed, they were her family too – was lost.

‘Idiots,’ Sam had said when she’d told her afterwards.

‘I know. It’s just… they’re my last connection to him.’

‘I get that. But if they’re somehow blaming you for Tom’s death, or treating you as an outsider, then they’re not worth it. It wasn’t them sitting beside Tom’s bedside for all those hours at the end. They probably just feel guilty that they didn’t make it in time, you know, to say goodbye properly.’

‘Yeah, although his mum said if he’d been at home as she’d wanted…’

‘Sophie. He was home.’

‘Yes, I know. The flat was his home.’

‘No, sweetheart. You were his home.’

Now, standing with her unwanted drink, she thought again about his last moments. The way his eyelids had flickered open that last time and looked at her. Gone was the desperation he’d had in earlier months, the raging against his fate, the fear about what might happen. Instead, his expression had been kind; serene.

He’d lifted his hand just slightly and she’d covered it with her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. And he’d smiled.

‘Love you, Tom,’ she’d said.

He hadn’t said it back. But his eyes had told her everything she needed to know.

Once he’d gone, she’d sat there for another hour, the nurse hovering, waiting for her to be ready, then laid his fingers gently on the bed as if she might still cause him pain, and left the room.

His parents had booked into the local hotel three nights earlier – despite their actual home only being half an hour away. When she’d called them with the news, his mother had abruptly ended the call. Moments later, she’d called back, apologising. ‘I just thought you’d let us know if he was going… imminently,’ she’d said. ‘It seemed so unfeeling.’

‘I didn’t know.’

They’d all known it would be only days, maybe hours. But never when. Never quite how. Sophie had offered them the chance to stay in the flat, but they’d declined, not wanting to be too much trouble, apparently.

‘It’s their own fault,’ Sam had told her later.

‘Yes, but… I mean, their son died and…’

‘Your husband died.’

‘Yes.’

‘You were there.’

‘Yes.’

‘They could have been too. You gave them every chance.’

‘I know.’

Sam had taken her by the shoulders, made sure she had eye contact. ‘Then, Sophie, you have to let them deal with that in their own way. If they’re any sort of decent people, they’ll be glad he died holding the hand of someone he loved, that he had that comfort in the end. And drop this weird kind of… what? Competitive grief?’

She’d nodded, mutely. Not ready to really accept that Tom was gone, feeling a strange sensation of grief and denial, each fighting the other, and the numbness that came with them both.