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“a friend.” I wonder if that’s a lie.
    â€œI knew Marge way back when she used to come to dos at the Rotary club. Didn’t know her well, of course. Not a great socialite, our Marge. And she stopped coming when Frank died, but I heard the turnout was low, so …”
    â€œThat’s sweet of you,” I say.
    â€œThe ladies are from the church.”
    â€œRight,” I say. “Was Marge religious?”
    He shakes his head. “Not really. Too pragmatic for that I should think. C of E. You know, weddings and funerals.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œAnyway, you go talk to Jenny,” he says, opening the back door for me. “I’m sure that’s why you’re here.”
    I force a smile, take a deep breath, and step into the back garden. “See you in a bit,” I say as the door swings shut behind me.
    The sun is moving behind a neighbour’s bush and the temperature is dropping fast. Tom is already striding towards me, his jacket flapping as he walks.
    â€œTom!”
Jenny protests behind him, and then she sighs and simply looks the other way.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re here,” he says.
    â€œI can’t believe your stress levels,” I retort.
    â€œFunny guy. Can’t you just leave us alone?”
    â€œCan’t you just chill, Tom?”
    â€œChill? Jesus, you’ve got a nerve. Do you think Jenny wants to see you? Do you think I do?” His eyes are flaming. A vein on his forehead is pulsing like a beacon, and I can’t help but notice that there is something rather magnificent about him when angry.
    â€œToday isn’t really about you, Tom,” I say in a tone as warm as I can muster. “It’s about Jenny.”
    â€œAnd you think that what Jenny needs today is to see you?” Tom says. “You really think that the one thing Jenny needs right now is
your
sorry arse turning up?”
    â€œTom, I get that you hate my guts,” I say. “And I understand that. And I’m sorry about that. Really. But …” I see that Jenny is now standing and crossing the lawn towards us.
    â€œThis isn’t about me,” Tom says. “And I don’t hate your guts. I don’t give a fuck about you. But really. Her
mother
has just died. And the last thing she needs right now …”
    â€œI invited him, Tom,” Jenny says, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.
    â€œBut he’s a cunt,” Tom says.
    â€œMaybe, but I
invited
him,” Jenny says again.
    I would have preferred it had Jenny disagreed, but such is life. If you don’t want people to describe you as a cunt, you have to avoid acting like one, and as I have discovered, that isn’t always easy. Karma.
    Tom works his mouth, his cheeks are turning blotchy. He glances at me, and then turns away to face Jenny. “I’m sorry Jen, but … I really don’t think I can do this,” he says. He pushes past me into the house and slams the kitchen door behind him.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I tell her. “I had no idea that it would be so difficult.”
    Jenny thinks about this for a while, and then, unexpectedly she laughs – a genuine, honest, cackle of a laugh. “You didn’t?” she asks, tears in her eyes.
    I frown at her.
    â€œOh Mark,” she says, her mirth fading to bitterness as she speaks. “You’ve really no idea, have you?” She hands me her glass and heads back towards the swing chair. “Get me a refill. Vodka and tonic, ice, lemon. I need to get
spectacularly
drunk.”
    When I re-enter the kitchen, Tom continues our game of musical chairs by immediately returning outside. “Glad to see we’re being grown-up about this,” I mutter as I fish the vodka from the freezer.
    I wait a little while before returning outside. I watch Tom, his back to me, his arms flapping, as he protests to Jenny. It strikes me that he looks a bit like a