I smile. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

*

‘Oh. My. God.’ Martha clutches her throat. ‘This place. It’s a treasure trove. It’s – is that a genuine Chesterfield Behind that other armchair?’

She starts clambering over one of Letitia’s many coffee tables in her eagerness to get to the armchairs; I reach out to steady her, laughing.

‘Easy, love. We’re going to need some help moving all this.’

‘And you’re sure we can use it downstairs?’ Martha asks Letitia, wide-eyed.

Letitia shrugs. ‘Why not?’ she says. ‘As long as it doesn’t go walkabout, I don’t mind lending it. Especially if it …’ She swallows. ‘I like the sound of a communal area. It might be a nice way to meet people.’

I pause in thought, fiddling with one of Letitia’s bowls of trinkets. There must be lots of people like Letitia out there. I can’t imagine other apartment blocks are any better at getting people together than this one. It must be hard, living alone in this city, especially for the elderly.

‘Do you think the landlord would let us use the space for something … a bit … bigger?’ I ask Martha.

‘Why, what are you thinking?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ I say. ‘But … Letitia, do you happen to have a few spare dining tables?’

‘I’ve got some in storage,’ she says. ‘In the basement.’

Martha looks like she’s about to faint. ‘Storage!’ she says. ‘There’s storage!’

‘Lead the way,’ I say to Letitia. ‘And we need to collect some assistants en route. I have just the people.’

The rude sandal-wearers who rolled their eyes at me are called Rupert and Aurora, I have discovered (thanks to thin party-walls). I knock firmly on their door, with Letitia and Martha on either side of me.

Rupert answers and looks immediately wrongfooted. He pats absently at his rounded belly and tucks his hair behind his ears.

‘Umm, hi,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name – Isla, was it?’

‘Eileen,’ I say. ‘Eileen Cotton. This is Martha, and Letitia. And you are?’

‘Rupert,’ he says, offering me his hand. It’s splattered with paint.

I shake it, but only after a beat or two. There’s neighbourly, and then there’s having no backbone.

‘Listen, Eileen, I’ve been meaning to catch you and apologise,’ Rupert says, looking abashed. ‘My girlfriend can be a little grouchy when she’s working on a new piece – she’s a sculptor. She was grappling with some tricky ironwork when we first met you and she’d not eaten for almost a day and … she was pretty rude. I’m really sorry. She is too.’

My smile becomes somewhat less haughty. ‘Well. We can all be bad-tempered when we’re hungry,’ I say graciously. ‘And if you’re looking to make amends, we have just the job for you. Come on.’

‘What … now?’

I turn to look at him again. ‘Busy, are you?’

‘No, no,’ he says hurriedly. ‘Let me just get some shoes. I’m all yours.’

*

We’re standing in a loose circle at the centre of our soon-to-be communal space, a hodgepodge of furniture on all sides, sunlight streaming through the beautiful old windows.

Now that they’re all looking at me so expectantly, my confidence is wavering. I felt like my old self for a moment there; now I’m reminded of that blank-faced circle in the village hall whenever I suggest a new idea at a Neighbourhood Watch meeting.

I swallow. Nothing ventured, and all that, I remind myself. What would Leena do?

‘I thought we could have a club,’ I say, fidgeting with the strap of my handbag. ‘There could be activities – dominoes, card games, Scrabble, that sort of thing. And a hot meal, if we can find a way to pay for it. Being here in London, at my age, it’s making me realise it might get lonely, for some older people.’

There’s a long silence.

‘It’s probably a terrible idea. Basil is always telling me my projects are too ambitious. But – I – once, when I was younger, I was going to come to London and work on something a bit like this, but for young people. And now I think it would be … well, it would feel very special for me to be able to create a community here, only for older people.’ I shrug rather helplessly. ‘Perhaps it can’t be done. I don’t really know where I’d even begin.’

‘Floorboards,’ Martha says suddenly.

We all look at her.

‘Sorry,’ she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. ‘But I think underneath this mangy carpet there are floorboards, and I just thought that might be the place to start if we want to make the place feel more inviting. And then we can have board games tables there, card games here – maybe bridge, my granddad loves bridge. And a long table here, along the back of the space, for everyone to eat together.’ She smiles at me. ‘I love your idea, Eileen. It’s brilliant. And it’s not too ambitious at all.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ Fitz says. ‘Or so Leena always tells me when I’m trying to make excuses not to apply for jobs.’ He winks at me. Fitz walked in just as we were dragging a large trestle table up from Letitia’s storage area, and – bless him – he dropped his bags and rolled his sleeves up and got stuck right in. He’s been moving furniture ever since.

‘What do you think, Letitia?’ I ask, rather nervously. ‘Do you think anyone would come?’

‘I would,’ she says after a moment. ‘And I think there are other people like me, out there, though I’ve never been very sure how to find them.’

That’s the next challenge, certainly. I unzip my handbag and pull out my project diary, itching to get started on a new list.

‘I’ll speak with the landlord again, and then I’ll email around the building to check they’re all happy,’ Martha says.

Letitia pulls a face. ‘Do we have to ask everyone in the building? Whoever complained about me sitting here before, they probably don’t want a whole lot of oldies pottering around down here for a club, do they?’

My face falls. ‘Oh.’

‘Someone complained about you sitting down here?’ Fitz says, straightening up from where he’s trying to pull up a corner of the carpet on Martha’s instruction. ‘Jeez, that’s awful!’

Letitia shrugs.

‘Well,’ Fitz says, ‘whoever it was, they’ve probably moved out by now. I’m pretty sure Leena and Martha and me are the longest running residents here these days.’

‘I’ve lived here for thirty years,’ Letitia says helpfully.

Fitz gawps at her. ‘Oh. Wow. You win.’

‘I could run an art class,’ Rupert says suddenly, gazing at the corner of the room Martha has yet to allocate to any purpose. ‘For the club. Aurora and I could do it together. We’ve got loads of old bits and bobs, spare paints and chalks, that sort of thing.’

I beam at him, heart lifting again. ‘Wonderful!’

‘And the guy in Flat 17 is a magician. I bet he could do the odd show, or even a workshop,’ Rupert offers.