unexpected rush of love for him. ‘Would you like some time on your own?’
‘Could you stay with me?’
‘Of course.’
I hovered, not sure whether to go or not, floundering in the unfamiliar territory of Patrick taking the lead in an emotionally charged situation. I wanted to step forward myself, to rub my hands over the newness of her name on the gravestone and feel her love through my fingers. I felt ashamed of missing her so much. Whenever I mentioned her to Mum or my other friends, there was this unspoken sense that unlike when my dad died, the death of a friend was something you could brush off in a week, as though lifelong friends like Ginny were two-a-penny, able to be replicated by a casual acquaintance you met at the tennis club or someone you had a coffee with who you’d never think about again if they moved thirty miles away. A proper friend knew about your pre-marriage astounding lack of judgement with Derek the disco dancer and still loved you. Or occasionally reminded you about that night on the Pernod and black, but in a way that made you feel an intimate part of their history rather than a stupid outsider. Someone to whom you could open the door in your pyjamas, hungover to hell and not be mortified about being braless. Most of all though, a friend like Ginny never left me feeling that I wasn’t enough, that she’d ever decline a call from me because she wasn’t in the mood to speak to me. Except for that weird period of life – after my dad died and she got pregnant – when I didn’t feel she was there for me, or at least not in the way I wanted her to be. But we were young and none of us understood what losing a parent meant back then. If I hadn’t experienced it personally, I’d probably have assumed that she just wanted to be left alone too.
Patrick glanced round at me as Victor started to cry. He put his hand up, as if to say, ‘I’ve got this.’ He rested his arm around his shoulder and said, ‘Better out than in, mate. She’d be so proud of how you’ve coped. She loved you so much, your mum.’
For the first time since he’d been with us, Victor sobbed, proper from-the-heart howling, the sort that contained the desperation borne of realising that you’re left behind and the only way to survive is to let go of someone you want to cling onto forever.
I watched, expecting Patrick to do that face he often did when Phoebe cried because she hated the way she looked in a new dress, or when my mum burst into tears when Frank Sinatra came on the radio and reminded her of my dad. The expression that signified ‘Not really sure how to handle this, you’d better take over now.’ But he didn’t. He just stood firm, saying over and over again, ‘You let it out. You’re all right. We’re here for you. Hang on in there.’
I wandered over to a nearby bench. I watched Patrick speaking to Victor, gently, until eventually he wiped the back of his sleeve across his face, placed both of his hands on the top of the gravestone and stood for a few seconds as though he was trying to absorb the essence of Ginny through the marble. They walked back towards me, Victor with his head bowed.
I got up. ‘Are you all right, love?’
He nodded.
I tutted in sympathy. ‘I hope we haven’t made a mistake in bringing you.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Let’s sit here for a minute,’ Patrick said. ‘Jo, you go to the grave.’ It felt less like something he thought I needed and more a dismissal. As I walked over, I didn’t know why I had that sense of not being included so often these days. I forced myself to be a grown-up, to feel glad that someone was able to reach Victor, even if it wasn’t me and even if Patrick never bothered to understand what was going on in Phoebe’s head in the same way.
I crouched down by Ginny’s grave, longing to feel her presence. I recalled her telling me how I had to do this one thing for her, had to make sure her boy was okay. ‘He’s got so much to offer, Jo. Don’t let losing me be the thing that defines his life.’ I screwed up my eyes, attempting to remember the feel