Page 16 of The Do-Over

‘Same, but I wondered whether you could spare me a couple of hours. I need some of your wisdom.’

‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’

‘Behave. I’ll buy you breakfast.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘So, what’s up?’ he asks, a little over an hour later. We’re settled in a café about ten minutes’ walk from my house, sipping our coffees. He’s taken full advantage of the fact that I’m paying the bill by ordering a full English breakfast with all the extras, whileI’ve gone for a more figure-friendly avocado on sourdough toast with poached eggs.

‘I think I’m just feeling a bit unsettled,’ I tell him. ‘The combination of the memorial service and my subsequent conversation with Rebecca and Alice.’

‘What was wrong with the memorial? It was practically a state funeral. If I get something half as grand when I snuff it, I’ll be pleased.’

‘Would you though? Let me ask you a question. Of the people who turned out yesterday, how many do you think were there because they genuinely cared about John?’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘Let me ask it a different way. Why did you go?’

‘Because it was expected. Martin wanted a good turnout from the firm.’

‘And that’s my point. We were all there because we’d been instructed to go, not because we wanted to pay our respects to a much-loved friend and colleague. All those bigwigs were probably there for the same reason. And, if you think we disliked him, that’s nothing compared to the loathing his wife and mistress felt for him. The whole thing was a charade.’

‘It was still spectacular though. What’s your point?’

‘I had a dream last night. I was in a cemetery, watching a burial. It was pouring with rain, you know, like it always is in films. There was a priest there saying some words, and the undertakers, but no mourners. Not one. Even my father had a better turnout than that. It made me sad to think that someone could die and nobody cared enough to attend their funeral. So I moved closer for a better look.’

‘Right,’ he says, looking baffled.

‘I glanced down at the coffin. There was a brass plaque on it with the name of the deceased. It was my name.’

‘But this was just a dream, Thea.’

‘Yes, but it got me thinking about a phrase, and in the end I had to get up and google it. It turned out to be Charles Darwin, who said “a man’s friendships are one of the best measures of his worth”. I’d change it for gender-neutral language, of course, but he’s got a point, don’t you think? None of the people at John’s memorial would probably have referred to him as a friend, and I found myself asking who my friends were.’

‘I’m your friend.’

‘You’re probably my best friend, and you’re the only person at Morton Lansdowne I’ve told about my father, but how much do you really know about me?’

‘I know lots about you.’

‘Go on then. What’s my mum’s name? What was my favourite TV show when I was growing up?’

‘Umm…’

‘Let’s start with an easier one. What’s my sister’s name?’

‘Ah, I can do that one. It’s a herb. Rosemary?’

‘Not bad, but it’s a spice. Saffron.’

‘That’s not a measure of friendship though. Friends are there when you need them, like I was this morning.’

I laugh. ‘You’re all heart. Free breakfast and the possibility of a shag didn’t influence your thinking at all.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Thea.’

‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m not myself this morning. Ignore me.’

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