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Porton, our nearest big town; they do the most delicious pizzas and the lovely Italian waiters who make a tremendous fuss of us whenever we eat there gave it a holiday atmosphere – if it weren’t for the damp and cold outside you could almost believe you were living it up in some balmy foreign resort.
    â€˜I’ll pick you up then – about seven?’ I could hear children’s voices clamouring in the background. ‘Oh, Alistair – no! I’m on the telephone!’ Rachel exclaimed, exasperated. And to me: ‘I’ll have to go, Sally. Alistair’s knocked over Abigail’s poster paints . . .’
    â€˜OK – go!’ I said good-humouredly. ‘I’ll see you later.’
    â€˜Yes, with bright blue hands, I expect. Children!’
    But she loved being a mum, I knew, and I envied her that, though I wasn’t at all sure how I’d cope given the same situation.
    I put down the phone, reached for my crutches, propped up within easy reach, and went through to the kitchen.
    â€˜Don’t cook for me tonight, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m going out on the razzle with Rachel.’
    â€˜That’s nice.’ Mum looked pleased for me, and I was feeling pleased for myself.
    Taken all round, this was turning out to be rather a good day.

Four
    Rachel arrived, a little harassed, at about twenty past seven.
    â€˜Sorry I’m late, Sally. You know how it is . . .’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it.’ As she ran a distracted hand through her hair I could see she did indeed have traces of bright blue paint ingrained around her cuticles, and I smiled to myself. ‘I’m just glad you could get away at all.’
    â€˜Me too. It will be heaven to eat a meal I haven’t had to cook myself. There’s only so much cottage pie and macaroni cheese I can take.’
    â€˜I must admit I’m looking forward to a pizza myself,’ I said. ‘Mum’s a wonderful cook but it’s all good old-fashioned casseroles and roasts. What with the way she’s been feeding me and no exercise to speak of I must have put on a good half stone!’
    â€˜You still look fine to me.’
    â€˜Hmm – a matter of opinion. I’m dreading getting back on the scales.’
    It’s about half an hour’s drive from the farm into Porton, but we didn’t talk much on the way. Rachel is something of a nervous driver, especially in the dark, which makes me nervous too. She’s prone to waiting at roundabouts and junctions when there’s no need and then going when she shouldn’t, so she was busy concentrating hard and I was reluctant to say anything to distract her.
    She did begin to tell me she was rather worried about her sister, Becky, who had, it seemed, recently split up with her husband, but I gently suggested she wait until we were in the wine bar when we could talk more easily.
    We never did get around to it, though, because by the time she’d let me out outside Ricardo’s – I couldn’t open the door myself because of the childproof locks on the inside – and she’d gone off to find somewhere to park and then rejoined me, she was far more concerned about the fact that she’d managed to scrape her wing mirror while trying to manoeuvre into a bay in the multi-storey car park.
    â€˜I was so worried I might clip somebody else’s car I didn’t notice I was too close to the pillar!’ she groaned. ‘Steve’s going to kill me.’
    â€˜Is it just the mirror?’ I was feeling horribly responsible – if it weren’t for me it wouldn’t have happened.
    â€˜Yes, but you know what Steve’s like about the car . . . Oh shoot! How could I be so stupid?’
    â€˜I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you think,’ I said. ‘Come on, choose your pizza and try to forget about it.’
    Ricardo, attentive as ever, had already put little dishes of