Look at the following sentence, found in the text: “Zoe loo...

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The cab had arrived ten minutes late, then had got stuck in a monumental traffic jam on Charing Cross Road. ‘Sorry, love, nothing doing,’ the driver had said. Joanna had looked at her watch, chucked a ten-pound note at him and jumped out of the cab. As she’d hared through the streets towards Covent Garden, her chest laboring and her nose streaming, she’d wondered whether life could get any worse.

Joanna was snapped out of her reverie as the congregation suddenly ceased their chatter. She opened her eyes and turned round as Sir James Harrison’s family members began to file into the church.

Leading the party was Charles Harrison, Sir James’s only child, now well into his sixties. He lived in Los Angeles, and was an acclaimed director of big-budget action films filled with special effects. She vaguely remembered that he had won an Oscar some time ago, but his films weren’t the kind she usually went to see.

By Charles Harrison’s side was Zoe Harrison, his daughter. As Alec had hoped, Zoe looked stunning in a fitted black suit with a short skirt that showed her long legs, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon that set off her classic English-rose beauty to perfection. She was an actress, whose film career was on the rise, and Matthew had been mad about her. He always said Zoe reminded him of Grace Kelly his dream woman, apparently – leading Joanna to wonder why Matthew was going out with a dark-eyed, gangly brunette such as herself. She swallowed a lump in her throat, betting that Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle that his ‘Samantha” was a petite blonde.

Holding Zoe Harrison’s hand was a young boy of around nine or ten, looking uncomfortable in a black suit and tie: Zoe’s son Jamie Harrison, named after his great-grandfather. Zoe had given birth to Jamie when she was only nineteen and still refused to name the father. Sir

James had loyally defended his granddaughter and her decision to both have the baby and to remain silent about Jamie’s paternity.

Joanna thought how alike Jamie and his mother were: the same fine features, a milk and rose complexion, and huge blue eyes. Zoe Harrison kept him away from the cameras as much as possible – if Steve had got a shot of mother and son together, it would probably make the front page tomorrow morning.

Behind them came Marcus Harrison, Zoe’s brother. Joanna watched him as he drew level with her pew. Even with her thoughts still on Matthew, she had to admit Marcus Harrison was a serious ‘hottie’, as her fellow reporter Alice would say. Joanna recognised him from the gossip columns – most recently squiring a blonde British socialite with a triple-barreled surname. As dark as his sister was fair, but sharing the same blue eyes, Marcus carried himself with louche confidence. His hair almost touched his shoulders and, wearing a crumpled black jacket and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he oozed charisma. Joanna dragged her gaze away from him. Next time, she thought firmly, I’m going for a middle-aged man who likes bird watching and stamp collecting. She struggled to recall what Marcus Harrison did for a living – a fledgling film producer, she thought. Well, he certainly looked the part.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen’. The vicar spoke from the pulpit, a large picture of Sir James Harrison in front of him, surrounded with wreaths of white roses. ‘Sir James’s family welcomes you all here and thanks you for coming to pay tribute to a friend, a colleague, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and perhaps the finest actor of this century. For those of us who had the good fortune to know him well, it will not come as a surprise that Sir James was adamant that this was not to be a sombre occasion, but a celebration. Both his family and I have honoured his wishes. Therefore, we start with Sir James’s favourite hymn “I Vow to Thee My Country”. Please stand’.

RILEY, Lucinda. The Love Letter. London: Pan Books, 2018, p. 13-15.