The day that Cassidy died, the rest of us were in London.

The three of us were good-naturedly receiving some ribbing from DJ “Dashing Jed” on the U.K.’s third-tier radio spot. Earlier in the day, Emily had made sure that the typical ground rules were laid out: Don’t talk about Merry’s family. Don’t talk about Rose’s most recent visit to rehab. Don’t pry into my failed marriage. And, most of all, don’t mention Cassidy, our vacant fourth.

The cubby we sat in was well worn, with yellow carpet up the walls, and a sharp scent of dampness or mold, like someone had trod into the room with wet rain boots and shut the door without letting it air out. The deejay sat next to Merry, who was drawing hearts on the table with the eraser end of a pencil.

“So, ladies, you appear in the new Stan Harold movie, Lunch at Midnight. Tell me, how was your experience on set with Stan?”

Rose leapt to take the lead, as she always did. “It was wonderful working with Stan. I’ve seen all of his films since the mid-nineties, so it was an honor having a part in his new movie.” She was smiling like she knew there was a camera secretly recording somewhere in the rows of equipment, but I’d stipulated that we not be videotaped before agreeing to do the radio show. I didn’t feel like having my weight discussed in the comments section of YouTube. I sat with Dashing Jed opposite me, elbows on the edge of the table and hands cradling my face.