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until she finally accepted my proposal. Colin will remember me rushing here to ask for her hand, only for her to miss the Eurostar I was patiently waiting on with a ring box.” Now she’s starting to appear for me, flighty and infuriating, but always somehow forgivable. I couldn’t believe how tenaciously her university boyfriends would hang on—it would be a game for her, like chicken, seeing how far she could push them. “I finally proposed at the top of the Eiffel Tower, seriously worried she’d turn me down for being such a cliché. And she could have, being Sally—but happily she didn’t, a fact many of you could attest to because you were . . . here.” Not me, I think, narcissistically. Not me. William looks into the middle distance, steadying himself, then looks at his daughter and gives her a pained smile. “And before long we were bound for New York, Sally unselfishly putting her own blossoming career in PR on hold to follow mylatest posting. I don’t think she ever regretted it though, because the result was our daughter, Madeline.” He looks to her as he says it. I can only see her profile from here, her face set as if she’s repelling the weight of us all looking at her—what poise she has for one so small. “Madeline was a great joy to us both, and I know the proudest achievement of Sally’s all too short life.” He pauses, too emotional to continue. “My wife was a unique creature, a person of great beauty both inside and out. I will remember her wit, her vivacity, her sharp intelligence. She never missed a trick, never let me get away with anything, and I hope she will continue to watch over us from wherever she is now. I believe she will, because it is unthinkable to me that a spirit as vivid as hers could simply cease to be. And all I can do, all I can promise, is that I will ensure that that spirit lives on via Madeline and me, that our lives going forward are a testament to her. She will never be forgotten. My beloved . . . beloved wife.”
    He looks to the coffin, puts the pads of his fingers to his lips, and strides back to take his place next to his daughter. Just for a single, self-centered second I wonder if anyone will ever love me the way he loves Sally, will mourn me the way that he mourns her. Even so, I haven’t seen him shed a single tear.
    The same cannot be said of me. Sally’s well and truly here for me now and I do nothing but sob for the rest of the funeral, my face red raw and my handbag stuffed with sodden Kleenex. Her father’s eulogy is equally heartbreaking, memories of childhood taking their place alongside William’s picture of her as a wife and mother. Finally it’s over, and we file out to the strains of Mozart’s Requiem. The burial is family only, and the cowardly part of me isrelieved—I don’t think I could bear the finality of watching the ground swallow her up.
    The wake takes place at Sally’s large, well-appointed and slightly tasteless parental home. I don’t want to be a snob, I always liked them, but there’s a definite leaning toward brass horseshoes and slogan-ridden doormats. It’s thronged with people, and I feel a bit disoriented. William is standing next to Sally’s parents, fielding a barrage of people who are determined to offer their condolences. Somehow I can’t tear my eyes away. What was he to Sally? Did he become the answer that she’d been looking for, or was he another question—a puzzle that she rattled and shook to try and get it to settle into the shape she wanted? I watch his face, the reflexive way he molds it for each person, as they clumsily try to express the inexpressible. Each one of them thinks it’s a moment of connection, but I can see the switch flicking on and off like a light. He’s retreated to a place far away from here—perhaps it’s the only way to endure it.
    “Livvy!” says Lola, appearing at my elbow, her eyes brimming over. “I still can’t believe it.”
    “Me neither,” I say,