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of attention. Maybe in a weird kind of a way they were about to become the cool kids to hang out with.
    There were condolences and hugs for me, too. Mothers I knew, and some that I didn’t, came up to me and said if there was anything I needed, I should just pick up the phone. Oh, and Jim/Tom/Dave was great with a wrench. If I needed any jobs doing around the house, he would be more than happy to oblige.
    Some of the mums said that they were heading down the road to the coffee shop. Why didn’t I come along? It would do me good. I thanked them for all their kindness and declined. I was too immersed in grief to socialize. I wanted to get home. Back to my cocoon, where I didn’t have to pretend that everything was OK.
    I was heading back to the car when I saw Imogen Stagge striding towards me. Was she wearing pj’s under her raincoat?
    “Sarah . . . I’ve only just heard.” Imogen made the Queen sound like Eliza Doolittle. Her hug involved much vigorous back rubbing. I felt like a forlorn Labrador being greeted by its mistress. As she released me, I could see that she was indeed wearing pajamas. Tartan flannel. The trousers were tucked into a pair of dog-eared Ugg boots. “Dreadful news. Just dreadful. How
are
you? And how are the children coping? They must be devastated, poor little mites. I think if anything happened to Oliver, I’d completely fall to pieces.”
    “We’re bearing up,” I said.
    “Good for you . . . Doesn’t help to wallow. Now then . . . it occursto me that what you need is something to keep you occupied. And in my role as chair of the PTA, I have been put in charge of organizing the spring bring-and-buy sale and I’m on the hunt for people to man the barricades.”
    Mike had loathed Imogen, on the grounds that she was bossy, condescending and most of all—posh. “And as for that disingenuous charm, they’re taught it at school—how to engage the lower orders in conversation and make them feel like nobody else in the room matters. Five minutes later they can’t remember who the fuck you are.”
    It was well-known that Imogen came from a titled family and was in fact the Honourable Imogen Stagge.
    I rather liked her. I admired her self-confidence—the fact that she said what was on her mind. I knew this was mainly down to class. The highborn tended not to go in for self-doubt, but it occurred to me that her assurance was also born of age. Having been delivered of the Honourable Arthur (her second son) in her mid-forties, Imogen was now over fifty and by her own admission had reached the stage in her life when, “Quite frankly, I don’t give a flying fart what anybody thinks of me.”
    “I know it’s only January,” Imogen was saying now, “but the sale will be upon us in no time. What do you say?”
    “Well, actually . . .”
    “First planning meeting is next week. I’ll put you down, shall I?”
    “I don’t know. . . . You see, things are still pretty . . .”
    “Come on. . . . It’ll take you out of yourself.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Good girl. That’s the ticket.”
    She patted my arm and urged me to keep my chin up, before striding off again.

    •   •   •
    I t was a few more days before I could persuade Mum and Dad that I was strong enough to be on my own and that they could go home. So far I hadn’t had the luxury of being able to grieve alone. I needed that. They went, but not without a fight and not without making sure my fridge and all my food cupboards were full to bursting. Even then, Mum popped in every day with a chicken casserole or some chopped liver—“To keep your iron up.”
    As the weeks passed, the nature of my grief changed. I started to feel angry. It hit me at the oddest times—while I was emptying the trash or loading the dishwasher. I would look up at the ceiling and rage: “How dare you bloody die and leave me alone and broke with two children to bring up.” Then I would call Mike a bastard son of a bitch and collapse