‘Are you looking for some sort of … detention?’ he asks, tilting his head, bemused.

‘I really messed up,’ I say, frustrated now. ‘I’m just trying to fix it.’

‘It’s fixed.’ Jackson pauses. ‘But if you really want a job to do, one of the classrooms does need a lick of paint. I could do with a hand on that.’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say. ‘Just name a time and I’m there.’

‘OK. I’ll let you know.’ He ducks down to crouch beside Hank, scratching his ears, then glances up at me. ‘You’re all right, Leena. It’s fine. He’s all under control again, see?’

Hank might be back under control, but I don’t feel like I am. What was the matter with me out there in the fields, crying like that, screaming into the wind, running in circles? Bee’s right: things aren’t how they should be. This just isn’t me.

10

Eileen

When Bee waltzes into the flat, I find myself rather tongue-tied. She’s simply the most glamorous person I’ve ever seen. Her face is breathtaking, though – or perhaps because – it’s asymmetrical, one eye higher than the other, one corner of her mouth curving a little more. Her skin is a beautiful creamy brown and her hair is extraordinarily straight and shiny, like black water sluicing over a dam. For a moment I try to imagine what life must be like when you’re that young and beautiful. You could do anything, I think.

Half an hour with Bee and I am astonished to discover that this is apparently not the case at all.

‘Can’t find a man in this godforsaken city,’ Bee says, refilling our wine glasses. ‘They’re all shit – excuse my language. Leena keeps telling me that there are good men out there, that you have to kiss a few frogs, but I’ve been smooching amphibians for almost a year now and I am losing. The. Will.’ This last part is emphasised by several long swigs of her drink. ‘Sorry – I don’t want to dishearten you. Maybe the over-seventies is a better market.’

‘I doubt that,’ I say, heart sinking. This is daft. I’m embarrassed even to be discussing my love life with someone like Bee; if she can’t find a man, how on earth am I meant to do it? I couldn’t even keep my own husband.

Bee catches my expression and puts down her glass. ‘Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m just worn out and sick of crappy dates. But you! You have a whole world of fun ahead of you. Let’s take a look at your dating profile, shall we?’

‘Oh, no, don’t you bother yourself with that,’ I say weakly, remembering all the embarrassing things Leena wrote on there. Loves the outdoors! Young at heart! Looking for love!

Bee ignores my protests and flips open her laptop. ‘Leena gave me your login,’ she says, tapping away at the keys. ‘Ooh, there’s already a few gents messaging you!’

‘Are there?’ I lean forward, nudging my glasses up my nose. ‘Gosh, does that – oh my lord!’

Bee snaps the laptop shut. ‘Ooh,’ she says, widening her eyes. ‘Well. That’s a landmark moment for you right there. Your first dick pic.’

‘My first what?’

She makes a face. ‘Wow, this is worse than telling my daughter where babies come from. Umm.’

I start laughing. ‘It’s quite all right,’ I tell her. ‘I’m seventy-nine. I may seem like an innocent old lady to you but that means I’ve had fifty extra years to see the horrors the world has to offer, and whatever that was, it’s got nothing on my ex-husband’s warty behind.’

Bee descends into giggles. I don’t have time to reflect on the fact that’s the first time I’ve said ex-husband out loud, because Bee’s opened the laptop up again, and there’s a very large image on the screen.

I tilt my head. ‘Gosh,’ I say.

‘Looking pretty spritely for a man of eighty,’ Bee comments, tilting her head the opposite way from mine.

‘And sending this photo is meant to do what?’

‘Excellent question,’ Bee says. ‘I believe it’s meant to make you want to have sex with this man.’

‘Really?’ I ask, fascinated. ‘Does that ever work?’

‘It’s a great mystery. You’d think not, but then, why do they keep doing it? Even rats can learn that ineffective mating techniques should be abandoned, right?’

‘Maybe it’s like flashers in the park,’ I say, squinting at the screen. ‘It’s not about whether you like it – they just like showing their todgers.’

Bee bursts out laughing again. ‘Todgers!’ she repeats, wiping her eyes. ‘Ah, Leena was right, you are a gem. Now. Shall we block this particular gentleman from communicating with you further?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say, thinking of Letitia’s tea leaves yesterday. ‘That’s enough todgers for now, I’d say.’

‘How about this guy?’ Bee asks.

I look rather warily at the screen, but this time it’s a smiling face staring back at me. It’s a very handsome gentleman, actually, with silver hair swept back from a heavy, important brow, and excellent teeth. The photo looks like it might be professional.

‘Is he real?’ I say. You hear all about these people on the Internet who turn out to be strange ladies in Texas.

‘Good question, especially with a headshot like this.’ She taps away on the keyboard for a while. ‘OK, I’ve searched by image and the only other place this picture is used is here. Same name, the bios match up … He’s an actor, I guess!’ Bee shows me a website for a theatre; the picture appears beside a description of Tod Malone, apparently playing the role of Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night at the St John’s Theatre. ‘Hmm, he sounds fun. Shall we message him back?’

‘What’s he said?’ I ask, peering over Bee’s shoulder.

‘Hi there, Eileen! It sounds like you’re in London on an exciting adventure – I’m fascinated to hear how that came about …’ Bee reads.

‘May I?’

Bee pushes the laptop my way; I start typing.

‘My granddaughter wanted a break in the countryside, and I wanted some excitement in the city,’ I write. ‘So we swapped lives …’

‘Ooh, I like it,’ Bee says approvingly. ‘That dot dot dot! Very mysterious.’

I smile. ‘Why, thank you.’

Bee clicks to send the message. ‘Now we wait,’ she says, reaching for the wine again.

‘Why don’t we look at your dating profile in the meantime?’

‘Mine? Oh, God, no, you don’t want to see that.’

‘I’ve shown you mine!’ I point out, taking a sip of my drink. I’ve not drunk wine for a very long time, but it seems to be a feature of life in Leena’s flat. There’s a stack of bottles underneath the television, and always at least one white wine in the fridge.

‘I use an app, actually, not a site like this one,’ Bee says, nodding at the laptop. ‘So it’s on my phone.’

‘I can cope with looking on a phone,’ I say patiently.

Bee makes an apologetic face. ‘Yeah, sorry.’ She chews her bottom lip, then, after a moment, pulls her phone towards her across the counter and types in a series of numbers. ‘Here.’ She scrolls through the pictures of herself. There’s a short description underneath: Busy working mum. Short on time, low on patience, high on caffeine.