A Rural Affair

15

‘Saintly Sue and Luke seemed to be getting on rather well last night, didn’t they?’ Jennie said casually.

I was on my way back from the shop. Jennie was on her hands and knees in her front garden, messing around with a trowel, the second time I’d found her thus in two weeks. Generally she expressed the opinion that plastic flowers were the way forward, so authentic were they nowadays, and soil-tilling just another extension of a housewife’s shackles, only we got to rattle them in the fresh air.

I paused at her gate. ‘Yes, they did, didn’t they?’

‘You don’t mind?’ She straightened up anxiously.

‘Not in the least.’

I didn’t, really. Well, OK, I might have been a bit piqued that he’d spent so much time flirting and amusing her, but no more than that. ‘I’m seeing him on Tuesday, anyway,’ I assured her. I hated disappointing my friends.

‘Are you?’ She brightened, as I knew she would. ‘Oh, good. Oh, I am pleased.’

‘You sound like someone’s mother, Jennie.’

‘I am someone’s mother.’

‘Yes, but not mine.’ I smiled.

‘Fair comment.’ She paused. ‘Probably just humouring Sue last night, then?’

‘Most probably,’ I conceded, although privately I thought the giggling I’d heard behind the azalea bush in Angie’s front garden as I’d left the party might have been more than humouring.

‘Simon was on good form,’ I said conversationally, but not without a parrying thrust. A touch of touché.

‘Yes, he was, wasn’t he?’ she said lightly. ‘Although not with me.’

‘He was busy catching up with the Armitages, Jennie,’ I said, instantly regretting the parry.

‘You don’t have to placate me, Poppy. I’m married, remember? I’ve got my Toad.’ She grinned. ‘My life is complete. You’re the one that needs a man.’

She knelt and resumed her digging, humming to herself, which she didn’t do. I mean, years ago we all did; sing, even, but not recently. There was a strange contentment to her too, as she chivvied those weeds, which was as alien as the horticulture. I went distractedly up my path with the children. Something about Jennie and Simon’s behaviour last night had alerted me; the way they rather pointedly didn’t linger in each other’s company. It was as if, in private time, some modus operandi had been arrived at. As if they were beyond seeking each another out at a party and having tongues wag. Had some decision been made, I wondered nervously? I wasn’t sure. One thing I did know, though, was that the more I encountered Simon, the more I liked him. We’d had a good chat at Angie’s, and amongst other things he’d said how outrageous it was that the bus route from the village was in danger, and that for some old people it was their only independent way into town; they didn’t want to rely on lifts. Said it was the first thing he was going to tackle if he was elected, that and the threatened closure of the post office, which he was tackling anyway, elected or not. He was taking a petition round all the villages affected. Yes, a decent man. A sensible one too. Which Dan wasn’t always, I thought uncomfortably.

‘Where are you going, anyway?’ I heard her voice as I put my key in my door.

I turned. ‘Inside.’

‘No, with Luke?’

‘Oh. The King’s Head.’

Jennie looked astonished. Then delighted. She sat back on her heels on the grass. ‘Oh! How lovely!’

I too had been surprised when Luke had rung that morning, to change the venue.

‘Um, I know I said lunch in London, Poppy, but I’ve been thinking. What about dinner instead? At the King’s Head?’

The King’s Head was a fearfully expensive restaurant down by the river on the other side of the vale. It was very much London prices and fancied itself hugely; in fact it may even have been equipped with some Michelin stars. It was quite a number and not what I’d been expecting. On the other hand, I didn’t have to trek to London and pretend I’d been having a lovely time in Sloane Street, shimmying in and out of outfits, which, in my present mood, I was secretly dreading. I dreaded a lot at the moment. Wasn’t sure I had the heart any for any of this. Luke must have felt me hesitate.

‘I’d so love it if you said yes, Poppy. Please come,’ he said urgently.

It was a long time since anyone had insisted on a date with me, urgently or otherwise, and the King’s Head was a treat. I’d only been there once, on Phil’s birthday, and yes, obviously his mother and sister had come too. I rallied and agreed.

Tuesday night at eight, then, with Felicity, Angie’s daughter home for half term, babysitting, I made my way down the lanes across country, having elected to drive myself and maintain some independence. The hedgerows shivered darkly in the breeze, shaking themselves dry after the rain, the fields behind them damp and browned off for the winter. It was a beautiful soft autumn evening and I was tempted to just drive on up to the Beacon and sit in the car, watch the stars gather over the wide flat valley floor below, such a treat it was to be out of the house at night, no children. I knew the rules, though, and dutifully turned left where the lane plunged through the wood to Cumpton, then swung round the corner and under the arch of the pretty white inn, clad in dazzling red Virginia creeper, to the car park.

Luke was already in the dining room when I arrived: a good sign, I felt. I’d relied a lot on signs recently. I crossed the room to his table in the corner, remembering to hold my tummy in.

‘Poppy!’ He stood up, one hand holding the bottom of his tie. ‘How lovely. You look amazing.’ We exchanged a peck.

I didn’t really. I looked OK. I had on my usual Jigsaw black, which had seen better days, and a bit of make-up, but I hadn’t made a huge effort. Not because I didn’t like Luke, but because I was flat inside. Odd.

These last few days, instead of rallying a bit after Sam’s revelation, getting angry even, I’d dipped. Dived, perhaps. Yesterday I’d even found myself mechanically going through the motions. Of living. Having been there once before, I was terrified. My hands froze on the tin of beans I was opening. Second tin that day. I ran upstairs, riffled through my drawers and found the old bottle, which was empty, of course, because I’d flushed the pills away. But then I rang the nice GP and she prescribed some more, surprised I’d stopped taking them so soon. We had a bit of a chat over the phone and I assured her I was fine really, just feeling a bit low. But I’d come off the phone exhausted. At the effort of sounding fine. Had to sit on the side of the bed for a few minutes, holding my knees.

Yet now, here I was, cranking up a smile in this softly lit, plushly carpeted dining room, taking my chair opposite Luke, who looked for all the world as if Angelina Jolie had sat down to join him.

‘I thought we’d have champagne.’ He indicated a bottle already chilling in a bucket beside him. ‘Is that OK with you?’

‘Perfect,’ I assured him.

Within moments, a suave sommelier had glided noiselessly across to pour some for me, purring, ‘Madame,’ as he did. The King’s Head was a bit like that: gliding waiters, melba toast, elaborately arranged pink napkins, puddings from the trolley. Expensive, but old-fashioned and parochial. The sort of place where, if you had the right parents, you might easily have been taken as a child. All quite easy to mock these days but, having not had the parents, I rather liked it, I decided, as the waiter slid away as if on roller skates. Luke raised his glass.

‘To a lovely evening,’ he murmured, smouldering over his glass, eyebrows waggling.

Relieved he was playing it for laughs, I raised mine back in mock salute. ‘A lovely evening,’ I agreed with a grin.

‘Isn’t that what we’re supposed to say in this sort of joint?’ Luke’s eyes roved around incredulously, taking in the flickering candlelight, the napkins in the shape of swans, the throne-like chairs, the well-heeled couples chatting politely over aperitifs. He leaned in. ‘Then you’re supposed to ask me if I had a good day at the office,’ he hissed, ‘and I ask you how your day has gone. If you got the ironing done.’ He grinned and popped a large chunk of bread roll in his mouth, chewing hard. ‘How was it, anyway?’ he asked out of the side of his mouth, amidst a few crumbs.

My day was like all my days: hear Archie cry, get up, give him a bottle, get Clemmie out of my bed, where she’d been sleeping the last few nights, take her to school, put Archie down for a nap, collect Clemmie, entertain children, push push push that buggy, bed.

‘Oh, you know, pretty hectic as usual. Every day is different, which is so nice.’ I tried to sound breezy. ‘How about you?’ I was keen to turn the tables; didn’t want to talk about myself. Didn’t want to talk much at all, really. ‘D’you know, Luke, I’m not entirely sure I even know what you do. What exactly is re-insurance?’

‘Re-insurance?’ He looked surprised. ‘Oh God, it’s bollocks. You borrow a shed load of money, and then you lend it to someone, and then you borrow some more and lend it to someone else, and then it all comes back to you, and everyone takes a cut along the way. Pretty cynical, if you ask me, but am I bothered?’ He gave a dazzling smile as he chewed hard. ‘Not remotely!’

I laughed despite myself. No way would Phil have described his job in such derisory terms. No way would he have not wanted to sound important, either. But then, if I compared every man I met to Phil, they’d be bound to look good, wouldn’t they? I must stop using him as a sounding board.

‘I’m just a little cog in the wheel,’ Luke went on, popping in more bread. ‘A minion, who’s shunted from pillar to post rather like the cash. But who isn’t, in a financial organization these days? Unless you’re up there with the fat cats, you’re bound to be taking orders. Course, come the revolution, it’s guys like me who will rise up and give the management a run for their money.’ He tapped his chest. ‘The real workers.’

‘I thought Angie said you had your own business?’ I said without thinking, then realized it sounded as if we’d been talking about him, which of course we had. I blushed.

‘Did she?’ He looked up from buttering his bread, surprised. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I did start Parkers with some other guys, but no way do we own it. That’s just Chinese whispers got out of hand. No, as ever, there’s a brace of Ruperts at the top, typical old-school types, although my immediate boss, my particular cross to bear, is called Gary, who’s definitely comprehensive material. In fact my mum would have him down as secondary modern. Sweet man, he’s got a dotted line tattooed around his throat saying: Cut.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I am not. He’s a barrow boy made good. He had that pleasing feature adorned on his body on his eighteenth birthday. No doubt rat-arsed and with his mates giggling outside.’

‘God, I bet he regrets that.’

‘Just a bit,’ he said cheerfully, popping in the last of his roll. He was moving onto the bread sticks now. ‘You don’t see it until he gets hot and bothered and loosens his collar and tie, then he suddenly remembers and does it up in a hurry. We’re always turning the heating up and switching the air con off. So yeah, he’s my line manager, then above him is Rebecca, a red-haired vamp who wafts down the corridors in very tight skirts, desk-perching along the way. If she asks you to step inside her cubicle you keep your hands on your belt and your wits about you. She’s been known to pounce in broad daylight.’

I giggled. ‘You wish. That’s just boys fantasizing. I bet she’s thoroughly professional and you’re all scared stiff of her.’

He grinned. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Although she did snog the new trainee at the office party. Still, we’ve got to have something to talk about in between haircuts, haven’t we? Something to brighten our day.’

‘Is that how you chart your life? With haircuts?’ I was feeling a bit better now. Slightly warmer as I looked at the huge menu I’d been presented with.

‘Well, it’s not a bad staging post, is it? And it’s amazing how nothing much happens in the six weeks or so in between. And don’t you love the way you can tell barbers anything and it’s going nowhere? Giuseppe – he’s my man – asked me the other day how it was going, and I told him I’d made a million on the markets before lunch. He was hugely impressed. We had a good old chinwag about what a clever chap I was. He’d probably forgotten it by the time he moved on to the next client, but I went back to the office with a massive grin on my face, thinking I had made a million. It’s got to be the way forward, hasn’t it? Better than any therapy crap?’ He took a huge gulp of champagne.

I laughed, enjoying his candour. ‘Perhaps you really will make a million? Then you can set up on your own without Gary and Rebecca.’

‘Yeah, I’d love to do that,’ he said wistfully. ‘Except it’s getting harder these days. It’s not like in the eighties when you could do it in your tea break and have a pile in Gloucestershire by the weekend – swimming pool, helipad, all the toys. The banks are less accommodating now. Back then you could blag your way into making anything sound like a new business venture, but they’re a bit more savvy now, not so quick to hand over the loot. You need a bit of capital too. Anyway,’ he said quickly, ‘enough of me and my crummy little life. What about you, Poppy? How are you? That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing, by the way, really catches the light.’

I touched the fake turquoise pendant from Accessorize around my neck, amused. I rather liked Luke’s blatant attempt to charm me every so often. Any minute now he’d go down on one knee and break into ‘Love Me Tender’, like Dad.

‘Thank you, I bought it specially,’ I told him. ‘I thought it matched my eyes.’

‘Well, it would if they were blue. Nice try, Poppy, but I’d already spotted they were brown.’

I laughed. ‘Just checking. Wouldn’t want you to be flattering me.’

‘Flattery? Me?’ He widened his eyes in mock protest. ‘Perish the thought.’ He cheerfully filled up our glasses. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Well what?’ I studied the menu.

‘I asked how you were. Only …’ He hesitated. ‘You didn’t seem yourself at the book club the other day.’ It was said kindly. I looked up, startled at the change of tone.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, you were … well, distracted.’ He gave a small smile. ‘I even found myself giving Saintly Sue the eye in defence. Might even have made a prat of myself. Sorry, if I did.’

I stared at him, surprised. Right. I had been distracted, but I hadn’t known it had shown. And actually, I did remember Luke greeting me very enthusiastically at Angie’s: bounding across the room, giving it lots of chat. But I’d been thinking about Marjorie and Cecilia at the time, had lost track of what he was saying. As he’d talked animatedly, I’d gazed beyond him, to Angie’s horses in the field, thinking what a nice life they led: no dead husbands, no in-laws, just friends, snoozing together, nose to tail. I’d possibly even forgotten to answer. And now I came to think of it, had his face fallen? Had he looked a bit piqued? And then later, when we were leaving, had he tried to make me jealous? Perhaps he’d been deliberately flirting in the garden with Sue? Suddenly I realized this was quite an up-front admission; a genuine apology too. I also remembered how hard it had been to get up this morning. Clemmie shaking my shoulder when Archie cried, saying it was time for school, Mummy. Quickly swallowing my pill. How I’d almost taken two. I put the menu down. Regarded my dinner companion. His eyes across the table were warm, concerned.

‘Sorry, Luke. I had a lot on my mind at the book club.’

‘D’you want to talk about it?’

I considered this. Then shook my head miserably. ‘No. D’you know, if you don’t mind, I don’t think I do.’ How many more people needed to know my dead husband’s family had sided with his mistress? No more, I felt. And this was supposed to be a pleasant evening out.

It helped, though, getting that out of the way, and we glided through the first two courses. There were no smouldering looks over the Dover sole, no observations about my jewellery. Just nice, general chit-chat.

‘You’re not supposed to know we call her Saintly Sue, by the way,’ I chided him as I tucked into a heavenly chocolate mousse. ‘That’s a girly secret.’

‘Well, it’s not a very well kept one. And I got it from one of the girlies’ mouths too. Angie told me. She’s massively indiscreet, by the way, which is great,’ he grinned.

‘I know. Peggy calls her The Only Virgin In The Village.’ The wine had clearly got the better of me.

‘Who, Angie?’ He feigned astonishment.

‘No, idiot. Sue.’ I laughed.

‘Ah yes, so I gather. Angie told me that too. Apparently she’s Keeping Herself Nice For Her Husband, which is lovely, isn’t it?’ he said naughtily. ‘So very twenty-first century. And something of a challenge too.’

I burst out laughing, a sound I hadn’t heard for a while. Not a combust like that, anyway. ‘Fancy rising to it?’ I asked.

‘God, no.’ He shuddered. ‘Too pi for me. Massive knockers, of course,’ he added reflectively, and with mock regret.

I laughed. As I savoured the last of my mousse, licking my spoon, a thought crossed my mind. ‘How did you start playing the organ, Luke?’

He gave a knowing twinkle across the table. ‘You mean, what’s a likely lad like me doing with something as sensitive as a musical instrument? Tinkling the ivories?’

‘Well, no, I –’ I reddened.

He grinned. ‘It’s all right, everyone’s a bit fazed by it. My dad was a concert pianist. He taught me.’

‘Oh! How amazing.’

‘Yeah, amazing but not very lucrative. Only the really brilliant guys get to the Wigmore Hall. My dad was more Hackney town hall. When times got really tough he started playing in hotel foyers. South of France, mostly.’

‘Which is where your mum lives,’ I said in surprise. ‘Didn’t you say she lived in a hotel in Monte Carlo?’

‘Er, yes, although she sort of works there too. When Dad died she got a job on reception. Been there ever since.’

‘Oh. Right.’

As I drank my coffee it occurred to me that Luke put quite a gloss on what hadn’t been the easiest of rides. Pulling the wool, some might say. I wondered if the sister at Vogue was on reception too. But I decided I rather liked him for bigging it up; for not turning his life into a hard-luck story, an excuse to hang failure on.

When we said goodnight in the car park, there was just a chaste kiss on the cheek, no lingering, and no expectation of coffee back at my place either. Although he did express a desire to see me again a few days hence.

‘Would you have supper with me again, Poppy? Or maybe we could go and see a film. Avatar is supposed to be good.’

It seemed to me that twice in one week might reasonably be construed as Going Out With. Did I want that? I mean, the occasional one-off supper was nice, but did I want to go out with Luke? Fun though he was?

‘That sounds lovely, but can I ring you? I haven’t got my diary and obviously I need to get a sitter.’

‘Or I could ring you?’

‘You could,’ I hedged, ‘but I’m usually so preoccupied with the kids. I’ll ring you.’

And there we left it. Off he went to his car, rather a smart BMW, I noticed, casting me a last smile over his shoulder, and off I went to mine.

Interesting, I thought, as I drove home; that blatant attempt, not to seduce me, but to romance me. It was rather refreshing. No pressure. It smacked of doing things by the book. Dinner, a chaste kiss, then another date, then perhaps coffee, then another date, and only then, perhaps, a grapple on the sofa. And he’d made me laugh too. Even though I hadn’t been in the mood, he’d brought me out of myself. Added to which there was that rather sweet admission during supper, which had disarmed me. Why then, hadn’t I agreed to another date? Thought twice?

Because you think too much, I told myself wearily as I pulled up outside my house a few minutes later. I sat there a moment. Jennie would agree. Jennie, who’d be disappointed in me, I thought guiltily, glancing at her front door. For not jumping at it, not giving him a chance.

‘Just give him a chance!’ I could hear her squeal, almost through the party wall. ‘You don’t have to marry him!’

I knew myself too well, though; knew I found someone else’s ardour very attractive, even if it wasn’t mine. Knew I found vulnerability and little admissions like that hard to resist. So, to that end, self-protection worked best for me. In order to prevent myself falling for a charm offensive, I just wouldn’t expose myself to it. Simple.

I was about to get out of the car, when I sank back in my seat. Stared ahead through the windscreen into the night. Self-protection. Was that the same as not wanting to see the truth? Not wanting to know the truth? Had there been moments in my married life when I’d been deliberately blind? It was a question I’d asked myself a lot lately. And the answer was always no. I’d never had an inkling about her. There were definitely occasions when, even in the privacy of my own head, I’d been dishonest about certain things – about loving Phil in the early days, for instance – but this was not one of them. She’d come as a bolt from the blue. Yet she’d played such a huge part in my life. Had been there for four years. I narrowed my eyes into the night.

Suddenly, on an impulse, I put the key in the ignition and started the car again. Without giving myself time to think, I drove back up the lane. It was early. Ten past eleven. And I’d told Felicity, who was babysitting, twelve. I had time. And no children to inconvenience me, either. I’d attempted this the other day, but Clemmie had complained, wanting to know why we were sitting in the road outside someone’s house, Mummy, and Archie had started grizzling, so with a pounding heart I’d driven away. The heart was still pounding, I decided, and I knew I should probably turn around now, in that lay-by, go home, but I found myself driving through the next village. Then up the hill. I sped along the common, wide and spreading but eventually narrowing almost to a verge, where the houses set behind it were closer to the road. One of which was hers.

I’d found it the other day, a tiny flint cottage, seemingly in the grounds of a bigger one: Meadow Bank Cottage and Meadow Bank House. It did appear to have its own little walled garden, though, so it could be separate. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in the set-up, more in the woman inside. Why? Why was I sitting here in the middle of the night, post-date, engine purring, heart racing, crouched at the wheel like some private detective? Because presumably she’d sat outside mine, I reasoned. And I felt that to know her was to understand her a bit better. But Phil was dead now. Surely I should move on? Not before something was silenced, I reasoned. Something inside me wanted to lie down and be quiet, and in some warped way I felt that once that had happened I could go on dates and not have a sinking feeling in the pit of my tummy, not feel detached. I wanted to be able to bang my palm on my forehead and say: ah, I see. Now I get it. Now I can toss those pills away and go out on the town. I wanted to make some sense of the last four years, and, since Phil was no use to me now, I was left with Emma.

Stupid, I thought later when I’d sat across the road and watched the dark little house for ten minutes, eyes wide like a rabbit’s. What are you doing, Poppy? Go home and leave the past behind. She’s nothing to you now; get going. Still I sat. It helped, somehow, that the cottage looked empty and forlorn. Perhaps she was sitting inside in the dark feeling sad, as I did sometimes? Unable to light the fire, turn on the lights. More probable, of course, was that she was out. I smiled wryly to myself in the dark. Look at you, Poppy. Look at what you’ve become. A stalker. And not even stalking a man.

Giving myself a little inward shake I turned the key in the ignition, and reversed with a flourish into a driveway. Then just as I was about to turn left into the road, a black Mini Cooper swung past me into the little gravel drive opposite. It disappeared around the back of the flint cottage. It all happened terribly quickly, but not so fast that I didn’t make out the blonde driver and the briefest glimpse of a male passenger beside her. I sat, frozen. Turned off the engine and slid right down in my seat, pulling my scarf up over my face. A few seconds later, the downstairs front room of the cottage sprang into light. Emma came towards me across the room, laughing, head thrown back. She was wearing a tight pink cardigan with lots of silver chains around her neck, white jeans which showed off her figure, and her face was alight, blonde hair flopping over one eye. She reached for the curtain cord with one hand and flicked her fringe back in a practised fashion with the other, before turning, no doubt to the man who’d followed her into the room, as the curtains swished shut.

I sat there as if I’d been shot. Barely breathing. I tried to marshal my thoughts which were spinning like a kaleidoscope. So Emma had a man. And she definitely had him, there was no doubt about that: no mistaking the body language, the tight clothes, the flirtatious laugh. And she was looking good too, which surprised me. She’d scrubbed up. Moved on. Stepped right over Phil, over his grave. For this was not a girl to let the grass grow under her feet, particularly the grass on a mound. Why was I surprised? Because I’d thought true love would last a bit longer? Because Phil was barely cold? But perhaps it hadn’t been true love for her. Perhaps she hadn’t been besotted with him. But if not, what had been the point? Just sex, I supposed. An affair. For four years. I took a deep breath. Exhaled shakily. You really do need to get out more, Poppy. Need to grow up.

I drove home slowly, trying to work out how I felt before I had to make small talk with my babysitter. It was one in the eye for Phil, surely? Emma wasn’t exactly beating her breast and rending her hair, so stick that in your pipe, Mr Shilling; nobody’s mourning you now. I glanced guiltily up to the heavens, feeling bad. Guilt. Another feeling that had ambushed me lately. But why should I feel guilty? Emma should be the one with her life turned upside down, yet she was way ahead of me. No life on hold for her. Oh no, just the money, please, I thought suddenly. I could see her holding out her hand, clicking her fingers impatiently, nails freshly painted. Just hand it over. I gripped the steering wheel hard. Yes. Right. We’ll see about that. Had it helped my resolve, I wondered, seeing that little vignette? D’you know, I believe it had. As I drove up to my house I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, caught my own eye, as it were. For some reason it reminded me of Mum. Or … was it the woman I might have been, had Mum not died? Whoever it was seemed flintier than me. Had more of a glint to her eye. She seemed to say: find a bit of inner strength, Poppy dear. A bit of steel, hm?

Felicity was just putting my phone down hurriedly when I went into the kitchen. She went pink.

‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Poppy. I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, unwinding my scarf and thinking that every time Felicity babysat I found her on my phone, something that never happened with Frankie.

‘Gosh, I love your bag,’ she gushed in a confident manner. ‘Is it new?’

‘No, I’ve had it for years, but thanks.’

Flattery to ingratiate, I thought uncharitably as I took my coat off. Understandable, of course, in a fifteen-year-old who’s been found running up my phone bill. She flicked back her long tawny hair as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag from the table, just as Emma had crossed the room to the window and swept back her fringe. Some girls knew the way forward, didn’t they? Had the savoir faire, the pretty learned manners. Did I want Clemmie to flick back her hair with a jewelled hand? I wasn’t sure. I tailed Felicity thoughtfully down the hall to the door.

‘Have you seen anything of Frankie, now you’re back?’ I asked. The girls had been at the village school together.

‘Frankie?’ She turned at the door. ‘Um, no, I haven’t. I must get in touch with her.’

Somehow I knew she wouldn’t. Since she’d gone to boarding school, Felicity’s social path had been very different to Frankie’s. Not her fault, of course, but a shame, when they’d been close.

‘But it’s nice she’s got a boyfriend, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Frankie? I didn’t know.’

‘Oh. Well, I may have got that wrong. Maybe don’t say anything to Jennie? Just in case?’

In case of what, I thought, nevertheless agreeing as I closed the door behind her. In case he didn’t exist? Or in case he wasn’t suitable? The latter, probably. I did hope Frankie hadn’t been serious about flirting with the teachers at school. Don’t be ridiculous, Poppy. Nevertheless I couldn’t help thinking that if it was just a sixteen-year-old boy, why hide it? Why wasn’t Jennie up to speed? I went back to the kitchen to turn out the lights. Perhaps she was and didn’t want to share with me. Recently Jennie had become more secretive, and I respected that. We couldn’t know everything about our friends, could we? If we did, where would it end? Laying bare the contents of our heads and hearts and saying: here, take a gander at that? Imagine the shock on their faces.

The following morning, on my way to the village shop with the children, I felt perkier. On a scale of one to ten – always my acid test – I was five, rather than four. It was a beautiful blue-sky morning, so perhaps that helped, and being late in the year, long dramatic shadows were cast at my feet as I walked across the green. Trees mostly, but also the shadow of a man, right behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Odd Bob, dressed uncharacteristically in a tweed jacket and tie, appeared to be tailing me. I turned. Stopped.

‘Hi, Bob.’

How bizarre. He appeared to have a buttonhole. A little white carnation in his lapel. He beamed. Caught up with me.

‘Hello, Poppy. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. You look very smart.’

‘Oh, you know. Thought it was about time.’

For what, I wondered as we continued to the shop together.

‘Um, Poppy. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me next week.’

I stared. Couldn’t believe my ears. Odd Bob? Jacket and tie? Outside the village shop?

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, I thought maybe we could go to the King’s Head. How about Saturday?’

I blinked rapidly. Found my voice.

‘Well, that’s very kind, Bob, but I’m afraid I’m busy on Saturday.’

‘Sunday?’

Sunday wasn’t a natural night for a date, but Bob, minus a social compass, wasn’t to know that. I knew if I refused he’d say, ‘Monday?’ And so on until Christmas.

‘I’m afraid I’m not really ready to go out yet,’ I said, more kindly.

‘Really? You look fine. Just brush your hair, or something.’

I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t mean … sartorially. I mean, because my husband’s just died.’

Disingenuous, of course. And Bob was on it like lightning.

‘So how come you were ready last night?’

None of the usual codes and conventions to let him down gently would be of any use; it was like dealing with a child. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the usual posse of mothers who loitered outside the shop with their babies in buggies after buying milk and papers. They’d ceased their chatter and were listening avidly, amused.

‘Well, I suppose that’s what made me realize I’m not quite ready,’ I said finally. And oddly, it had a ring of truth about it. ‘I didn’t know, until I went.’ This was obviously deeply unchivalrous to Luke, but it was said quietly, out of hearing of the mothers. And since Bob, like a child, only understood the truth and not coded subtlety, it was the way forward. His face cleared.

‘You didn’t enjoy it.’

‘I wouldn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.’ I felt hot. Hoped my antiperspirant wasn’t going to let me down. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but it felt a bit strange to be out.’ True again.

‘You wouldn’t with me,’ beamed Bob.

Wishing my own social code didn’t prevent me from seizing him by the lapels and roaring, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bob, stop this silly nonsense now!’ I found myself inclining my head, as if conceding that this was indeed a possibility. Suddenly I wondered if, total pushover that I was, I’d find myself next Saturday night at the King’s Head, opposite Bob, who might even bring his twelve dogs along; and who might, the following week, be supplanted by Frank, or Dickie Frowbisher, and all the other oddballs of the parish thereafter.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, quite firmly for me – remembering the inner strength, remembering Mum and the steel I was going to find – ‘but I simply can’t make it. Goodbye, Bob.’

And with that I pushed my buggy and my small child past him and headed into the shop for provisions. The eyes of the village, I felt sure, were upon me.