“Firstly I need to confirm that you are relatives of Diana Goodwin—“

“Yes,” Ollie says, “she’s my mother.”

“Then I’m very sorry to inform you,” the policewoman starts, and I close my eyes because I already know what she is going to say.

My mother-in-law is dead.

2: LUCY

10 YEARS AGO . . .

Someone once told me that you have two families in your life—the one you are born into and the one you choose. But that’s not entirely true, is it? Yes, you may get to choose your partner, but you don’t, for instance, choose your children. You don’t choose your brothers-or sisters-in-law, you don’t choose your partner’s spinster aunt with the drinking problem, or cousin with the revolving door of girlfriends who don’t speak English. More importantly, you don’t choose your mother-in-law. The cackling mercenaries of fate determine it all.

“Hello?” Ollie calls. “Anybody home?”

I stand in the yawning foyer of the Goodwins’ home and pan around at the marble extending out in every direction. A winding staircase sweeps from the basement up to the first floor beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier. I feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of a Hello! magazine spread, the ones with the ridiculous photos of celebrities sprawling on ornate furniture, and on grassy knolls in riding boots with golden retrievers at their feet. I’ve always pictured that this is what the inside of Buckingham Palace must look like, or if not Buckingham, at least one of the smaller palaces—St. James or Windsor.

I try to catch Ollie’s eye, to . . . what? Admonish him? Cheer? Quite frankly I’m not sure but it’s moot since he’s already charging into the house, announcing our arrival. To say I’m unprepared for this is the most glorious of understatements. When Ollie had suggested I come to his parents’ house for dinner I’d been picturing lasagna and salad in a quaint, blond-brick bungalow, the kind of home I’d grown up in. I’d pictured an adoring mother clasping a photo album of sepia-colored baby photos and a brusquely proud but socially awkward father, clasping a can of beer and a cautious smile. Instead, artwork and sculptures were uplit and gleaming, and the parents, socially awkward or otherwise, are nowhere to be seen.

“Ollie!” I catch Ollie’s elbow and am about to whisper furiously when a plump ruddy-faced man rushes through a large arched doorway at the back of the house, clutching a glass of red wine.

“Dad!” Ollie cries. “There you are!”

“Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.”

Tom Goodwin is the very opposite of his tall, dark-haired son. Short, overweight and unstylish, his red-checked shirt is tucked into chinos that are belted below his substantial paunch. He throws his arms around his son, and Ollie thumps his old man on the back.

“You must be Lucy,” Tom says, after releasing Ollie. He takes my hand and pumps it heartily, letting out a low whistle. “My word. Well done, son.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Goodwin.” I smile.

“Tom! Call me Tom.” He smiles at me like he’s won the Easter raffle, then he appears to remember himself. “Diana! Diana, where are you? They’re here!”

After a moment or two Ollie’s mother emerges from the back of the house. She’s wearing a white shirt and navy slacks and brushing nonexistent crumbs from the front of her shirt. I suddenly wonder about my outfit choice, a full-skirted 1950s red and white polka-dot dress that had belonged to my mother. I thought it would be charming but now it just seems outlandish and stupid, especially given Ollie’s mum’s plain and demure attire.

“I’m sorry,” she says, from several paces away. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

“This is Lucy,” Tom says.

Diana extends her hand. As I reach for it, I notice that she is almost a full head taller that her husband, despite her flat shoes, and she is thin as a street post, apart from a slight middle-aged thickening at the waist. She has silver hair cut into an elegant, chin-length bob, a straight Roman nose, and unlike Tom, bears a strong resemblance to her son.

I also notice that her handshake is cold.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Goodwin,” I say, dropping her hand to offer the bunch of flowers I’m carrying. I’d insisted on stopping at the florist on the way, even though Ollie had said, “Flowers aren’t really her thing.”

“Flowers are every woman’s thing,” I’d replied with a roll of my eyes. But as I take in her lack of jewelry, her unpainted nails and sensible flat shoes, I start to get the feeling that I’m wrong.

“Hello, Mum,” Ollie says, pulling his mother in a bear hug, which she accepts, if not quite embraces. I know, from many conversations with Ollie, that he adores his mother. He practically bursts with pride as he talks about the charity she runs single-handedly for refugees in Australia, many of them pregnant or with small children. Of course she would think flowers were trivial, I realize suddenly. I’m an idiot. Perhaps I should have brought baby clothes, or maternity supplies?

“All right, Ollie,” she says after a moment or two, when he doesn’t let her go. She pulls herself upright. “I haven’t even had a chance to say hello properly to Lucy!”

“Why don’t we head to the lounge for some drinks and we can all get to know each other better,” Tom says, and we all turn toward the back of the house. That’s when I notice a face peeking around the corner.