‘Well, I just put the mayonnaise on one side, and … Yes. I’m sure you – all right, Cliff, love, I’ll come home. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

I wince. Has he actually just summoned her home to make him a sandwich? That feels so ridiculous – if Ethan tried to do that, I’d … I’d probably laugh, actually, because it would be so absurd I’d know he would have to be joking. Presumably it’s different for Betsy’s generation, though – it wouldn’t be strange for a woman to make all her husband’s meals fifty years ago, I suppose.

Betsy puts her phone back into her handbag, then tries to get up too quickly and doesn’t quite have the momentum for it. She rocks back into the chair, helpless, like one of those dolls with a weight in the bottom.

‘Do stay,’ I say, conscious I’ve said all the wrong things. ‘I’m sure your husband can wait, if you want to have a—’

‘My husband cannot wait,’ Betsy says sharply. ‘I have to be off.’

I move to help her up.

‘No, no, I’m quite all right,’ she says. Once standing, she fixes me with another very serious look. ‘I hope you understand what you’re taking on here in Hamleigh, Leena.’

I can’t help it – my lip twitches. Betsy’s frown deepens.

‘I’m sure it all looks very easy for someone like you, but Eileen does an awful lot around here, and we need you to step up. You’ll be taking on her responsibilities for the May Day Planning Committee, I gather?’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say, managing to look serious this time.

‘Good. Well. I’ll drop around your task list in due course. Goodbye, Leena,’ she says, and then, with what I would genuinely describe as a flounce, she heads for the door.

8

Eileen

It’s a miracle that I’m still here, quite honestly. So far, since arriving in London, I have brushed with death five times.

1) I was nearly crushed by what I have now learned to be a ‘pedibus’: a strange vehicle propelled by a lot of whooping young men cycling and drinking beer at the same time. I had to really dash across the road to avoid them. I’m a little concerned about how my knees will feel tomorrow, but at least they’re still attached to the rest of me.

2) I stood on the left on an escalator (not the done thing, I’ve learned.)

3) I ate a ‘stir fry’ cooked by Fitz (dreadful cook. Awful. I’ll try and teach him a thing or two while I’m here.)

4) I changed trains at Monument station (the map says it’s the same station as Bank, but I’m not convinced. The walk from one train to the next seemed to go on for yonks. My legs were already jiggered after my run-in with the pedibus; I had to have a sit-down next to a busker playing a ukulele. He was very understanding. He gave me his amp to sit on.)

5) I met the cat that lives next door, a feral tabby with half an ear missing. It launched itself down the stairs at me, hissing, and then immediately conked itself out on the banister. Small mercies.

I’m loath to admit it, but I’m exhausted, and more than a little shaken. London is all so fast, and everybody is so miserable. One man on the underground swore at me for getting on too slowly; when I stopped to get a map out in Oxford Street a lady bashed right into me and didn’t even say sorry. Then once I was back at Leena’s building, I ran into the neighbours from downstairs, a young, arty couple wearing socks and sandals, and when I tried to make conversation, I saw the woman roll her eyes at her husband.

I’m very out of place here. I’ve only seen three other people who looked over the age of seventy all day, and one of them turned out to be a street artist wearing an Einstein costume.

I must say it’s crossed my mind that it would be a little easier if I weren’t on my own – if I had Wade with me, say – but Wade would never have come to Oxford Street. I don’t miss him, but I sometimes miss the idea of a husband, someone whose arm I could lean on for a tricky step down off the bus, who might take hold of my umbrella while I paid for my cup of tea.

I must stay positive, though. My adventure is only just starting, and it was bound to feel difficult at first. I just need to keep busy. Tomorrow night, Leena’s friend Bee is coming to the flat to help me with my ‘online dating’. Leena says Bee is a real expert. Who knows, perhaps by Thursday I’ll have myself a date.

The milk in Leena’s fridge has begun to coagulate; I pour it down the sink with a sigh, and get my handbag for another trip out. This time, without the distraction of rude neighbours in socks and sandals, I take a proper look as I get to the bottom of the stairs. There’s a large open area between the stairway and the door to the building; it’s got three sofas at strange angles, one stained with something suspiciously dark, the others with something suspiciously light. The carpet is worn, but there are two lovely big windows sending sunlight streaming in. It was designed as a communal area, I expect – what a shame nobody’s done anything with it.

When I get back from the shops, the feral tabby hops off the dark-stained sofa and pads over to rub its head against my legs. It’s not quite walking straight. I hope it didn’t give itself some sort of brain injury with that banister incident. I spotted the cat’s owner this morning, heading out of the building with her trolley bag. She’s a hunched old lady, going bald. I hesitate, watching the cat meander its way to the stairs.

If it was Ant or Dec, I’d want someone to tell me. Things may be done differently around here, but a good neighbour is a good neighbour, wherever you are.

I head up the stairs and knock on the cat-owner’s door, setting my shopping bag down between my feet.

‘Yes?’ comes a voice.

‘Hello!’ I say. ‘I’m Leena’s grandmother.’

‘Who?’

‘Leena’s grandmother.’

‘Whose grandmother?’

‘Leena. Your next-door neighbour,’ I say patiently. Perhaps the lady is losing her marbles a little. It’s started happening to Penelope – terribly sad, though on the plus side she seems to have forgotten that she can’t stand Roland. It’s been something of a second honeymoon for the two of them.

‘Which one’s that?’ the woman asks. Her voice grates as if her throat needs clearing. ‘The lesbian or the natty dresser or the other one?’

I blink. Martha’s definitely the lesbian – she told me all about her girlfriend after I rather put my foot in it asking who the baby’s father was. And, as much as I love my granddaughter, if she’s not wearing a suit, she seems to be wearing something with an iron-on picture of a television star on the front. Not exactly a natty dresser. Which leaves …

‘The other one?’ I hazard.

‘The woman with all that mousey scraped-back hair? Short, runs everywhere, always frowning?’

‘Leena’s hair is lovely,’ I say sharply, and then bite my tongue. ‘But … yes. That’d be the one.’

‘Oh. Well. Thank you, but I’m not interested,’ says the lady, and I hear her shuffling away from the door.

‘In what?’ I ask, startled.

‘Whatever it is you want,’ the lady says.