Gail Rosenstock rang as Annalise was getting into her car. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Paul.’
‘Thanks Gail. I’m not sure that it’s fully hit home yet.’ It was the truth. Annalise wasn’t convinced he was gone. It was even harder to take in the idea that he had lied to her. Evie and Grace were both convinced he’d only married them. She was crazy with rage and emptiness, while she could see that they were just as gutted at losing him. She couldn’t say this, especially not to Gail.
‘Christ, Annalise, I’m so sorry; I can’t imagine what it’s like.’ Gail Rosenstock spoke her next words slowly. ‘It’s public interest.’
‘Oh please, Gail. I can’t think about that. Not today.’
‘It’s not your job to think, Annalise. That’s my job and I’m just doing my job.’
‘Save yourself the time; nobody knew him. They hardly remember me.’
‘Of course they knew him. He was married to the most famous artist in Ireland. He’s been one half of a famous couple for longer than you’ve been married to him.’ Gail could be downright abrasive at times.
‘Whatever. The most important thing for me is my boys.’ It was true. Dylan and Jerome had been the centre of her world since they’d arrived, but they had left room for Paul and thoughts of a career. Since the accident, that had changed; they had expanded to fill the gaps that had been left behind and now they were as essential to her as oxygen. ‘I have to get the funeral over with and then maybe I can think.’ Annalise fastened the seat belt, turned the key in the ignition. ‘It’s going to be a small affair, just family and close friends.’ Annalise may have been too upset to have breakfast, but she knew she didn’t want the details of Paul’s life spread across the newspapers – not when it was so obviously the last thing he’d have wanted. Not until she could figure out exactly what their lives had been about.
‘Maybe, but we all remember Jackie O when JFK was buried, don’t we? And which image do we remember best? Her wedding day or the day of his funeral?’
‘I think she wore Chanel.’
‘No, it was definitely Givenchy.’ Gail was never wrong when it came to iconic fashion.
‘To the funeral? Was it?’ Annalise regarded her hands critically; chewed nails gave away too much. ‘I can’t think about dresses.’
‘Well, I’m sure Grace Kennedy will be there. There’s a woman who’s good at stealing a front page. The photo editors love her. You don’t want to be outdone by the first wife. Not at this stage.’ There was almost a touch of malice in her voice, but then maybe that was just Annalise’s imagination. ‘Anyway, the funeral will get plenty of press. I’m sure some of the dailies will send round a zoom lens.’
‘I can’t talk to the press about this. Not yet. I just…’
‘Of course, dear. Anyway, sometimes it’s best not to say anything at all. Let your eyes do the talking. That, and a nice simple black dress and maybe a slim string of freshwater pearls. When is the funeral, by the way?’
‘Nothing is arranged yet.’
‘Oh?’ Gail always had an acute gossip radar, as if she could smell it on the breeze.
‘We have people coming. It’s all been so sudden.’ She didn’t add that most likely the funeral would be organized in a four-way square off.
‘How did he… Do they know what caused the crash?’
‘It was a car crash; he was avoiding a dog on the road. He was giving a… a family friend a lift.’ Annalise knew that Gail would try to take out of the situation as much as she could. If there was something worth telling the press about, she’d do it.
‘Well, if you think of anything you need, darling, from styling to whatever…’ In the meantime, she’d get the media wheels rolling. If there was anything to be made out of the whole mess, well, Gail wasn’t going to be losing out. ‘So,’ she sounded as if something else had snatched her attention. ‘Do ring if there’s anything I can do for you, and of course, when the funeral arrangements are made, I’d like to pay my respects and all that.’
‘Of course. Thanks, Gail.’ Annalise pressed the end call button. At least she had a focus. It might not help her get over the shock of Paul dying, but thinking about having to stand next to Grace Kennedy at his graveside made Annalise feel sick. Grace was a cool beauty. Her skin was flawless, almost porcelain – the fashion term for pasty-faced. Her long dark hair and intelligent eyes dominated her appearance. Although you might not notice what she wore, that was only because she exuded a creative vibe that was a heady mix with her international success. People like Grace didn’t need to make an effort; she could turn up in a sack and she’d look cool and self-composed. Annalise didn’t want to think about the effect if she did pull out all the stops. She quickly rang the hairdresser and the beautician; she could not meet Grace Kennedy again looking like Worzel Gummidge. Anyway, she had a funeral to get ready for. If Givenchy was good enough for Jackie O, it would certainly be good enough for Annalise. She tried to keep the sick feeling from rising in her throat, not sure if it was grief or rage. Why did he have to leave her like this?
*
It was late when she got home, but Madeline never minded if she was running a little behind. Annalise had managed to get a deep conditioning treatment for her hair. She felt like Cameron Diaz, but without the pink leisurewear or taste in younger unsuitable men. Paul had convinced her earlier in their relationship to ditch the hair extensions. Her hair was soft and natural, apart from the colour she paid dearly for every few weeks. Gail had called it ‘newscaster style’, and maybe that was what it was. Most of the models on the scene today wouldn’t get a look in without a head full of extensions and four hours a day at the gym. She was lucky; it may not make her edgy, but even Gail conceded, it made her cute and quirky. Later, one of the girls from the salon would drop over, do her nails, give her a good overhaul, maybe then she’d feel like herself again. She doubted it. It would take more than exfoliation to wipe away the melancholy that was threatening to overtake her. She’d never been depressed, but she guessed that it must feel a bit as she did since Paul had died. She gathered up the last of her energy to tuck the boys into bed – snuggling in beside them was always the best part of the day.
‘When will Daddy be coming to read us a story?’ Jerome asked from beneath his heavy lashes. She had tried to explain to them what had happened but she knew they didn’t understand, and maybe she was glad of that. At least there was so much less they needed to know for now.
‘Oh, darling, I’ll have to read the stories from now on.’ She reached down inside the bed; there was always a stash of books lying between bed and wall. Housekeeping would never be her chosen sport. She pulled out a copy of the Billy Goats Gruff; an easy one to start with. Annalise had never read a book without pictures. Although she didn’t advertise it, secretly it was something she was proud of. Intellectual types always intimidated her; she convinced herself that readers must have very empty lives. It made her feel superior. ‘Precious, even though Daddy can’t read to you anymore, he’s keeping a very special eye over you.’
‘Madeline says we have the best Daddy in Ireland because he’s going to come everywhere with us and he’s inwisible.’ Dylan stretched up on his pudgy short arms.
‘Well, she’s right.’ Annalise worked hard to keep a smile in place.
‘Do you think he’d mind if I married you when I got older, Mummy?’ Jerome’s eyes were quizzical, working out something far greater than just his future matrimonial status.
‘I suppose you could do worse.’ Annalise rubbed her nose against his soft skin. She could do this for hours on end, but knew it would soon become a contact sport with Jerome and she silently thanked Paul for giving her these two precious parts of him.
‘Only an inwisible Daddy is cool. But,’ he lowered his voice in case Paul might be listening, ‘well, an inwisible husband is not much use, is he?’
‘Hmmm.’ Annalise thought for a moment. ‘But just like you will always love Daddy, so will I,’ she said and it was true, in spite of everything that happened in the last few days. She was angry, yes, but when she looked at her adorable boys, she knew she’d always love their father for giving her them at least. ‘And what’s even more important to remember is that he will always love you.’ When she kissed both boys and snuggled them in, she had a feeling that they helped her learn as much about love as she could ever teach them.
*
She sat in the quiet of her untidy designer kitchen and stared blankly at the celebrity gossip site she had opened on her iPad. When Paul was here, this was her escape. The clothes, the lifestyles, everything about how celebrities lived absorbed her. It was her secret vice, her cigarette, her glass of wine, her gym workout. Suddenly, it seemed empty and vacuous. Perhaps she was just too lonely for it to work its magic on her. She tripped down the hall when the front door bell rang, plastering a fake smile on her lips – the show must go on.
It was Madeline, a bottle of wine in one hand and her aromatherapy kit in the other. ‘Your dad has gone off to a sales conference. I thought the best thing I could do was pop over and see if we couldn’t make you feel a little better.’ She held up the gift that she’d purchased just the Christmas before. ‘A nice relaxing shoulder massage, what do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ She’d go for anything to pull her together. ‘Do you mind?’
‘I haven’t brought much with me, but I have some oils, if you’d like?’ Madeline dug deep into her bag, pulled out two small brown bottles. She began by working on Annalise’s shoulders, silently kneading out the tension, the grief and maybe a little guilt too. She had already seen that Annalise was carrying far too much tension; she was helping to iron it out of her, rubbing it away with her loving hands. Annalise felt small tears begin to sting her eyes. ‘They say it’s not unusual for the oils to bring your sadness or whatever you are feeling out. It’s better out than in.’ Her voice was soft and so soothingly familiar it made Annalise cry all the more.
‘I’m not sure why I’m crying,’ she said amidst the sobs.
‘You have just lost your soulmate. When you lose your husband, especially a man like Paul, it’s okay if you cry for weeks, or months. You just go with it.’
‘That’s just it, though,’ Annalise said as she felt a shiver course along her shoulder. Madeline followed it expertly. Buzzing it as if it were an errant bee, the sensation was calming. ‘I’m not even sure that we were married.’ She took a deep breath, knew she had to tell Madeline what was weighing so heavily on her. ‘You know he was married before to Grace Kennedy?’ She inhaled deeply, the scent of lavender relaxing her. ‘I suppose too, that I’ve always been a little scared of her, but now...’
‘I’m sure she’s perfectly lovely. After all, Paul wouldn’t have married her otherwise,’ Madeline said softly.
‘Not like that. She always seemed to be just so…’ She shuddered, lifted her head a little. ‘Fucking perfect.’ There, she’d said it. ‘They seemed to be perfect together, and she is just so…’ The words were hiding from her, but she knew they would come. ‘She’s so successful, smart, and bloody talented too. Whereas I’m just…’
‘Yes, but don’t forget, you were a Miss Ireland just a few years ago.’ Madeline was soothing her.
‘Oh, yes. For all of five minutes.’ It still annoyed her that she could have been so stupid. ‘It’s not just her, though. There’s more.’ She could feel the tears well up in her—round two. ‘I can’t believe he was married to Evie and he never told me. He’d married Evie long before he married Grace. He was married to someone for almost twenty years and I didn’t know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘In all the time we were together, he was married to someone else, and I suppose that means, he was never really married to me at all.’ Annalise began to sob. She’d finally said the thing that had been haunting her since she met Evie Considine.
‘Well,’ Madeline’s voice was a cool unfamiliar whisper, ‘that means he probably wasn’t married to Superwoman either,’ and she gave a small throaty laugh. ‘That has to give you some joy.’
‘It’s the strangest thing.’ It had completely caught her by surprise once she grasped it. ‘It doesn’t help at all.’
‘You need a massage every week, Annalise. You need to work this sadness out of your system. But for now, you’re just going to have to get through the next few days and Paul’s funeral.’
‘I’ve enjoyed this. It’s done me good.’
‘You should get a proper massage done tomorrow at the salon. Go for the works.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Annalise thought for a moment. ‘No, tomorrow I’m dropping the boys of at nursery while I sort out something to wear for the funeral.’
‘You will need something that makes the Superwoman look not so super?’
‘Do you realize you’re talking more like an agent than my mother?’
‘It just makes sense. You need to be looking and feeling well for the boys, Annalise, just as much as you do for yourself or anyone else. You should ring Gail, get one of her fashion girls to go out with you, sort you out for something nice.’ Madeline was wrapping her coat about her, tugging the belt closed snugly. ‘I’ll sort the boys, don’t worry.’
By the time, Madeline left, Annalise felt as if she could just drop into her bed. It was a combination of emotional exhaustion and aromatherapy oils. Like a real therapist, Madeline had managed to make her feel much better by just listening to her. Annalise had never been very chatty, since the Titanic incident she had a feeling she didn’t have much to say that might interest anyone. Normally an empty vessel, tonight she couldn’t stop talking.
The upside was, when she hit the pillow, she was out like a light. It was nine o’clock before Annalise surfaced the next day.
*
Annalise had closed up her Twitter and Facebook accounts when she married Paul, but Gail had insisted that she open them again for the relaunch of her career. Gail had taken over the accounts. Now they were being run by whatever unfortunate girl was currently interning with her for peanuts and the anticipation of a half-decent reference. The girl, Tina, was earning her stripes. Annalise’s Facebook page had been inundated overnight with likes and messages from people across the globe. All Gail had done was put about some of the scantest details, but it was enough to bring in a rush of traffic. She was trending worldwide on Twitter. ‘You had better get a direct line to Ricardo Tisci, you’re going to need something knockout for that funeral, my girl,’ she said to Annalise when she rang to tell her.
Suddenly, it seemed to Annalise as if they were talking about much more than the funeral of her dead husband. In fact, it was as if they weren’t talking about Paul’s funeral at all. Perhaps it was a survival mechanism, but she managed to block out the reality of what loomed ahead. They were talking about her personal relaunch party. It was an occasion that could land her onto the pages of magazines around the globe. ‘We could be talking deals out of this, and not just some two-bit presenting gig on Southside Afternoon. I mean, we could have a chance at the big labels. You have all the credentials. You just have to keep quiet. Adopt a Kate attitude: seen but not heard.’ It sounded good to Annalise either way. If Grace Kennedy could have a serious kick-ass career, she really did not see why she couldn’t too.
*
Pausing briefly to stroke one of Paul’s suits and feel a pang of loneliness, Annalise pulled out skinny jeans, a white shirt and a giant electric-blue scarf. She rubbed her forehead. It was thumping impressively, and when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror, she decided she should throw some bronzer on over a thick layer of foundation. That would have to happen on the way to town.
She managed to get her make-up on as she drove. It was far from her best attempt. Her skin was dehydrated; probably stressed, in spite of the facial. To make things worse, a heavy plop of foundation fell on her white shirt and when she tried to rub it off, it left a greasy dark stain on her lovely scarf.
She had hardly walked into the shopping centre when a photographer spotted her. He seemed to be hanging about outside Harvey Nicks, maybe waiting about on the off-chance. Either way, he spotted her long before Annalise noticed him. She felt jaded, a hundred and four years old, when she spotted him snapping.
‘Look,’ she managed to smile once she reached him, ‘if you want to get some pics, no bother. I’ll pose for you right here, walk along the lot. But don’t use those ones.’ She knew that what he’d taken before she noticed him would not be good.
‘Sure.’ His voice was a little tinted with the clipped sounds of a Scottish suburb. ‘Great.’ He got her to walk the length of the shopping centre, browse outside shops, and pull her hair this way and that. After fifteen minutes, she’d had enough. Knew they would not be good images anyway, but with a bit of luck, they’d be better than his earlier shots, her face grimacing with a lurching headache.
‘So, we’re okay?’ she asked him as she bolstered her oversized bag higher on her shoulder.
‘Sure, thanks for that,’ he said, but he didn’t make eye contact and Annalise had a feeling she should have asked for him to delete the first images before she let him take any more.
‘You’ll only use the ones I posed for?’
‘Sure, no worries. The others are as good as wiped.’
Inside the shop, she did not fare much better. They had a divine Givenchy dress, perfect for the day, but it was in navy. There was no way she could wear navy to Paul’s funeral – was there? It was the right length, hitting her just at her knees, the scoop neckline showed off just the right amount of collarbone, and the sleeves fell in fabric so delicate it might have been chiffon, but it had the look of something classic. It was perfect: sexy, smart and very dignified. ‘I’m afraid we can’t get it for you,’ the assistant said.
‘But there must be a black version somewhere, surely in this day and age?’
‘We sold the very last one this morning. I’ve just had a stylist looking for the same dress for a client and it’s nowhere to be found.’ She moved in closer, as though they were friends, ‘And let me tell you, her client would have it flown from Australia if it was available – filthy rich.’
‘So that’s that?’ Annalise was deflated; it really was the perfect dress. ‘There’s nothing we can do to track it down?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s just impossible.’ She glanced at Annalise, finally recognizing her. ‘I’m sorry; I heard your husband died.’ She scanned the shop, her eyes racing across the rails. ‘But maybe, maybe that dress was a bit too classic for you.’
‘Excuse me?’ Annalise felt as if she had been struck.
‘I mean, too old-fashioned; it’s a bit twinset actually. You should be aiming for something a little more daring?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m after something for my husband’s…’ It was too hard to finish the sentence.
‘I mean, still respectable – we don’t have anything here that would make you look cheap, but you could be chic and cool.’ She looked across the rails. ‘I couldn’t imagine Cara Delevingne wearing anything from that section.’ She cast a critical eye towards the navy dress that was steadfastly in the hands of a fifty-something in need of more than magic knickers to carry it off. ‘Or Kate Moss, or Karlie Kloss or…’ The girl was pulling down black dresses from a rail of mixed designers.
‘Or Miranda Kerr?’ So Miranda was dark-haired and more successful than her? But they both had children. They were the same age and Miranda had managed to bag Orlando. For that alone, she was a hero. ‘Okay, show me what you’ve got.’ In the end, she settled for a version of the navy dress, only a little shorter, a little lower at the neck and sleeveless. She picked up a pair of Jimmy’s and a bright red bag – because, as the assistant assured her, every girl needs a colour pop.
Annalise was back in time to pick up the boys. The whole trip had taken less than two hours. At least it was one job done, she told herself, even if she wasn’t entirely confident that she’d come out with the best dress in the shop. She was just about to put some frozen chips in the oven for the boys when her phone pinged. A tweet from Gail. She opened it quickly, and then felt the blood rush from her head. A cold sweat overtook her whole body. The tweet had a link to Celebrity Post: a new site that carried all the latest celeb photos from around the world, with a small side panel for current Irish news. Annalise did not have to trawl through the site, because there, at the very top, was the most unflattering photo of her. Her tan make-up and careful bronzing could have come from a gypsy wedding promo. Still, the blue scarf managed to drain her, so the dark shadows beneath her eyes were huge. Her expensively honey-highlighted hair resembled bleached straw and her slumped posture shouted ‘dumpling, dumpling’. Everything about the image was wrong. It was all wrong. ‘Grieving Model Still Makes Time To Shop’. The headline was enough to warn her that even if the photo editor was going to be kind about her appearance, the sentiments were not. She did not look as if she was in mourning. The images veered from making her resemble a truculent teenager to a vacant gamer – none of them flattering.
‘Oh my God.’ Annalise could hardly breathe as she heard Gail Rosenstock pick up on her mobile.
‘Indeed.’ Gail breathed deep. ‘Not exactly what we’re going for. I thought we could aim for cookery programmes, parenting advice for single mums and maybe some Boden work.’
‘Oh God. I cannot believe that guy. I even posed for him; he promised me he wouldn’t use anything that wasn’t flattering.’
‘Annalise, sometimes you can be so dim. He’ll make most money on the bad ones. The good ones, anything you posed for, are ten a penny. And it looks as though there was an agenda…’
‘What?’
‘Well, it seems a little vicious. Have you read the article?’
‘Oh no.’ Annalise clicked back into the site. It was a litany of abuse, taking apart her whole image, then it moved on to Paul’s death and the fact that there were no funeral arrangements yet. ‘Where do they get off?’ Annalise had felt the wrath of the press before. It seemed a long time ago, but this was even worse. They were calling into question her marriage to Paul, her good character, even her role as a caring mother.
‘It’s almost litigious – but not quite. They manage to get the message across without actually saying the words. It’s all down to the images…’
‘It looks bad, I can see that. But I really only went out so I could pick up something for the funeral.’
‘Look, it’s a one-off. We can fix this. In fact, if we play our cards right, we might even be able to make it work in your favour. Look at all the Hollywood stars, they’re constantly complaining about being papped. They’ve even started up their own lobby group to get the laws changed so this kind of thing can’t happen when people are off duty.’ Perhaps Gail was already on the road to fixing things in her mind. ‘Don’t worry, darling; we’ll set things straight. But for the next while, do a Mossie on it as we said, okay?’
‘Never complain, never explain,’ Annalise recited. Same as the prayers she once said each day at the convent school; they meant nothing, but they didn’t leave you easily.
*
Grace Kennedy had left a message for her to say they would meet at Evie’s house in the afternoon to agree on the funeral arrangements. Annalise just wanted to run away and hide. Instead she sat down in the centre of a large train set Paul had been putting together for the boys and lost herself for a couple of hours while they raced the trains and rearranged the various miniature houses and trees along the line. All thoughts of Kasia Petrescu and Grace Kennedy and Evie Considine fell out of her head for those few blissful hours. She almost expected Paul to arrive in the door and tell her it had all been some terrible mistake. She pulled down her laptop and began to browse through photos of herself and Paul in happier times. She found a head and shoulders shot of their wedding day. It was a beautiful black and white portrait. The quality was a little grainy – the camera was not designed for wedding snaps, but at the time, it didn’t seem to matter. They stared lovingly into each other’s eyes. A secret smile played about both of their lips; they had just embarked on their ‘happy ever after’. She posted the image to her Twitter account, added in a few words about her love for Paul and closed down her computer. Enough.
*
Annalise Connolly put away her e-cigarette; she had a feeling that Evie would not approve. Menthol. All the girls were smoking them. It wouldn’t be so easy to keep her figure once she turned thirty. She knew girls who ate nothing for four days a week, apart from coffee and menthol cigarettes, and still they managed to put on weight. She was lucky. Lucky? Well, she pinged back after each pregnancy, but that was it now. No more. Grace Kennedy was wise, stopping after one.
She didn’t like Grace Kennedy. Not from the moment she set eyes on her in that awful hospital. Truthfully, her dislike predated ever actually meeting her. Too much arty coolness mixed with sophistication for Annalise to handle with sang-froid. She tried to tell herself the woman was just a walking cliché; she wore charcoal urbane clothes and expensive hair, silver clanging jewellery and edgy rich perfume. God! She wasn’t looking forward to this. What would it be? A showdown? Paul never spoke about Grace or when they’d been married. He never spoke about Delilah and Annalise was glad of that. Sometimes she pretended that he’d forgotten Grace Kennedy. Annalise always thought that must be a good thing. It was obvious that Grace Kennedy was not the kind of woman men ever forgot. Despite her youth and her pretty face, Annalise hadn’t the advantage, after all, in a comparison with that intimidating woman. Annalise had a feeling that nothing would overwhelm Grace.
And bloody hell, there was Evie as well. Annalise couldn’t think about Evie Considine. She couldn’t believe that Paul might once have been married to someone older than Madeline. Each time Evie threatened to rise up in her consciousness, she pushed her down as swiftly and fiercely as her emotional strength would allow. Annalise wasn’t even going to try to get her head around that union.
Madeline had said she didn’t think Annalise had taken it in yet. ‘The shock, darling. It’s natural. You need time. I’ll take the boys home. You have a bath. You need to come to terms with it. Call me if you need me. But darling, you need to grieve. It’s important.’ She’d said words like those over and over again, as though trying to convince herself as much as her daughter. And she was right to have left her alone. Annalise was beginning to feel the enormity of it all hitting her. Paul was dead. In a car accident. With some girl young enough to be his daughter, for Gods sake. Some foreign girl that Annalise had never heard of before, travelling in Paul’s car in the dead of night. A pregnant girl. Had Paul known? Was it Paul’s? Her brain, the rational part, was telling her that it couldn’t be.
And she had to come to terms with the fact that Paul Starr had never really married her. How could he have, not when it looked as if he never divorced Evie? He had never truly married Grace Kennedy either, and now it seemed as if he had been about to move on again. With Kasia Petrescu. Was it really that simple? And with his death, it was out in the open now.
Part of her, the part that could not make up her mind if she loved or hated him anymore, wanted to pick up the phone and tell the world. Well, tell her agent at least. She was not sure what had stopped her so far.
Bastard! Dying, with some strange woman, leaving her condition of matrimony in doubt! Had he even loved her?
Had she loved him? Sure, she’d needed him; he took care of her, and protected her from the harsh world in which she’d found herself back then. Her knight. Her hero. So, gratitude, yes. But love?
And now she had to trail all the way out to Evie Considine’s house. The funeral would be an understated blip with her in charge. Not what she wanted for her husband, not what she’d have chosen if he’d actually been hers. She stood, straight and rigid. If the Connollys were old money, she could imagine her grandmother living somewhere like Carlinville. While her own father’s mother lived in a small cottage, one in a row of seven with a narrow backyard that ended too close to the railway tracks. She could imagine lounging across one of Evie’s antique sofas, telling some awestruck reporter about her family’s illustrious lineage. Ahh well.
But when she arrived at Carlinville later that day, Annalise found something that surprised her. Although prosperity was visible in Carlinville House, there was also something else here. It reeked of decay and desperateness. Annalise couldn’t quite articulate what it was at first, but she only had to look at Evie, then she knew. She knew without any doubt. This is what it was like when you had nothing and no one to live for. Loneliness pervaded everything; a silent, stealthy presence that eventually overtook everything else.