Bee looks rather chastened. ‘Right,’ she says, peering at the nearest shelf, which happens to be paperback romance novels. She perks up. ‘Ooh, I’ll take that man,’ she says, pointing to a shirtless gentleman on a Mills & Boon cover.

I take her by the arms and steer her towards the crime and thriller section. She’s unlikely to find a man if she’s dawdling next to the romances; the only other person in sight is a shifty-looking lady who has clearly given her husband the slip for a couple of minutes and plans to make the most. Ah yes: there’s a blond-haired gent in jeans and a shirt browsing the John Grishams. Well, he’s certainly a contender to look at him.

‘What do you think?’ I whisper, retreating behind some cookery books and gesturing for Bee to take a look.

She leans past to look at the blond gentleman. ‘Ooh,’ she says, cocking her head in thought. ‘Yeah, maybe! Oh, no, wait, those shoes … Boat shoes are a shorthand for preppy Oxbridge boy,’ she tells me in a regretful whisper. ‘I predict a six-figure salary and a toxic inferiority complex instilled by helicopter parents.’

‘Be open-minded,’ I remind her. ‘Do you trust me, Bee?’

‘Oh, I … Yeah, I do, actually.’

I straighten my sleeves. ‘In that case,’ I say, ‘I’m going in.’

*

‘Do you believe a woman should take a man’s name when she marries?’

‘Oh, err, well actually I think that’s a very personal choice, so—’

‘What about helping out around the house? Good at Hoovering, are you?’

‘I’m … proficient, I’d say? Sorry, can I ask what it is you’re—’

‘Would you say you’re a romantic?’

‘Yeah, I reckon so, if you—’

‘And your last relationship, dear. How did it end?’

The young man stares at me with his mouth slightly open. I look back at him expectantly.

You can get away with an awful lot when you’re an old lady.

‘She just … fell out of love with me, really.’

‘Oh, gosh, how sad,’ I say, patting him on the arm.

‘Sorry, how did we …’ He looks baffled. ‘We were talking about John Grisham novels, and then you were … asking questions … and now … those questions have become … extremely personal …’

I hesitate as I try to remember the word. Fitz mentioned it at tea the other night. ‘I’m wingmanning,’ I say.

‘You’re …’

‘For my friend, Bee. Bee!’

She appears around the shelves, shushing me. ‘Eileen! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing,’ she tells the gentleman. ‘Come on, Eileen, let’s just go, we’ve taken enough of this man’s time …’

She flashes him a muted version of her disarming smile. The blond man’s eyes widen and the book he’s holding drops a few inches, as though he’s forgotten he’s meant to be holding it up.

‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Umm.’

‘Bee, this young man would like to take you for coffee in that lovely café over the road,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t you, dear?’

‘Actually,’ the blond man says, beginning to blush rather fetchingly, ‘I would, quite.’

*

When I return home, Fitz gets up from the sofa, sombre-faced. ‘Eileen, I have some rubbish news.’

I clutch my chest. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘No, no, not that bad! Just about our Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club.’

Martha, Fitz and I chose this name for our club last night after a large glass of wine. I think it’s fabulous. We also all decided we were going to try going for a jog the next day, which was not a fabulous idea, and which was swiftly abandoned because of my knees, Martha’s late-stage pregnancy, and Fitz’s ‘general morning malaise’, whatever that is.

‘Almost everyone loves the idea, and we’ve got sign-off from the landlord too, as long as numbers don’t exceed twenty-five and nothing gets broken. But there’s a lady in Flat 6 who isn’t happy about it,’ Fitz says, helping me out of my jacket. ‘She says she doesn’t agree with giving so many strangers access to the building.’

I scowl. ‘And I suppose she moderates everybody’s birthday parties on the same grounds, does she?’

Fitz snorts. ‘Good point. I’m going to send her an email and explain why …’

I wave him away. ‘None of this emailing nonsense. I’ll go and speak to her.’

Fitz blinks, holding my jacket limp in both hands. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘OK.’

But she’s not home. I think about pushing a note under the door, but no, that’s hardly better than an email. I want this lady to look me in the eye and explain exactly why she doesn’t want a few old ladies and gents to have a nice art class and lunch in a space that’s ever so slightly near her flat.

I’m cross. I huff my way back along the corridor to Leena’s flat again. Fitz pushes Leena’s laptop towards me across the breakfast counter as I settle down in my seat.

‘This’ll cheer you up,’ he says. ‘It’s been beeping away with new messages.’

The dating website is already on the screen. I’ve been visiting it quite often, lately, mainly writing to Old Country Boy, who’s really called Howard, and who seems very sweet. The other day I was going back through our conversation and I was surprised to see that we’ve already exchanged reams of messages.

OldCountryBoy says: How are you today, Eileen? It’s been a quiet day here. Not a lot going on, you know.

OldCountryBoy says: I keep reading back through our messages and thinking about you. We’ve known each other such a short time, but it feels like we’re old friends!

OldCountryBoy says: I hope that’s not too forward for me to say! I just feel very lucky to have met you on here. On a quiet day like today, it’s wonderful to be able to go back to our chat.

 

I sigh. Howard is a bit over the top, bless him. I’m not used to men talking about their feelings quite so much. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Then I think of Letitia, hunched at her table amongst her windchimes, waiting for her Iceland delivery, and I wonder if he’s perhaps just very lonely. And it is lovely, the way he values the time we spend talking.

EileenCotton79 says: Hello, Howard. I’m sorry you’re not having a good day. Do you have neighbours you can talk to?

OldCountryBoy says: They’re all young and trendy! They wouldn’t be interested in talking to me.

 

I hesitate. Would it be too forward to mention the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club?

*

Oh, bother it. Why not?

EileenCotton79 says: I’m trying to set up a social club that you might like. It’s for over-seventies in my area. We’re having some trouble getting it off the ground at the moment, but once it’s up and running, would you be interested in coming along? I know you’re in West London, aren’t you, but you’d be more than welcome all the same!

 

There’s an unusually long delay before Howard replies, and I start to feel a little silly. Perhaps more than welcome was a bit much. But then, at last …