Whenever he was asked to tell the story of how he met Cara, Flick could almost feel the wind in his hair and the judder of the handlebars. As a boy, he loved coasting downhill to the town square, where his presence scattered the nuns and mums like chickens. More than once he had laughed at the fists and shouts thrown in his wake.
As the sand trickled between her fingers and skimmed the polished mahogany of her father's coffin, the first thought that came to Edna was that it was soft and granular, which was unexpected; the second went along the lines of oh-crap-that's-my-father-in-there-and-he's-going-underground-soon. It occurred to her that she must have missed the eulogies and the vicar's rambling attempt at canonising a man who was widely accepted to be a jerk. Stuart had clamped her arm in his clammy hand. He seemed more distraught than she was. As she stepped forward, past the grave and into the shade of the trees, she tried to wriggle out of Stuart's embrace. Whenever he held her bicep, it felt as though he was measuring her and making mental notes about how she could get the best out of her next gym session. It was an occupational hazard for a personal trainer, this much she knew, but it made her feel inadequate. Her sister Genevieve blew her nose into her husband's hanky and the collective winced at the sound. Edna tried to hide her giggles. She hoped it would look like a body-wracking sob. The snorts didn't help. Stuart leant closer.
