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in tears at the kitchen table.
    Steve, the financial advisor we’d consulted before Mike died, broke it to me—not that I needed telling—that now that I was without Mike’s income, there was no chance of negotiating a debt payment plan with the mortgage company or any of our other creditors. If I wanted to avoid bankruptcy, my only option was to sell the house. The equity wasn’t huge, so there wouldn’t be much money left after the sale—certainly not enough for a deposit on a new place. I would have to rent.
    “Tell you what I’ll do, though,” he said. “I’ll try to buy you some time. I’ll write to all your creditors and let them know that the house is for sale. I’ll also explain that you’ve been recently widowedand that there are young children. If I appeal to their better nature, they might give you some breathing space and stop hounding you for payments. But you have to understand, I can’t promise anything.”
    When Steve called a couple of weeks later to tell me we had a deal, I burst into tears.
    “Steve, that’s amazing. I don’t know what to say. Thank you . . . thank you so much.”
    “You’re welcome.” He paused. “Oh, and . . . regarding my bill.”
    “Don’t worry. Just invoice me for what I owe. I need to find a job soon, so I’ll pay you in installments if that’s all right.”
    “No . . . sorry . . . you misunderstand. I wasn’t remotely hassling you for money. I was going to say that I don’t want paying.”
    “What? No . . . That’s ridiculous. I won’t have you treating me like a charity case.”
    “Well, I’m not taking any money from you and that’s final.”
    “Look, I know you mean well, but for my own self-respect, I have to pay you what I owe.”
    He let out a sigh. “OK . . . I’ve got another idea. Get yourself back on track financially and then pay me. It doesn’t matter if it’s five years from now.”
    “No. I need to pay you now.”
    “Sorry, but that’s my best offer. I refuse to take money from you when you don’t have it.”
    “OK . . . it would seem that I have no option.”
    “You don’t. So do we have a deal?”
    “I guess we do. And thank you. I really appreciate your generosity. But be in no doubt. I’ll be paying you back . . . with interest.”
    “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.”
    Steve wished me all the best, and a few days later I sent him a bottle of posh Scotch to thank him for his kindness.

    •   •   •
    I t wasn’t long before the dinner invitations started to arrive—mainly from people I knew at ABT. They were concerned that I was at home moping and getting depressed—which I was—and that I needed to get out of myself—which, according to my mother, I definitely did. I’d always enjoyed getting together with Mike’s workmates. They were a hard-drinking bunch, but they were funny and irreverent and great company. I was so touched that they’d thought of me that I said yes to all the invites. Mum and Dad came to babysit and I attempted to find my way to houses and flats on the other side of London. Lost in the wilds of Streatham or Deptford, cursing myself for having been one of those ditzy, oh-it’s-all-too-complicated-for-me women who always let their husband take charge of the GPS, I’d never felt so alone.
    I was surprised to discover that being surrounded by people, couples in particular, did little to make the feeling go away. I wasn’t ready for the “Oh,
we
love that show. . . . No,
we
hated the food there. . . .
We
always pop a Valium before we have a long flight.” I hated their smug mutualness. I hated
them
.
    When I wasn’t busy being bitter and jealous, I was doing my best to cope with the children’s emotions. Soon after the funeral, Ella started wetting the bed. Both children insisted on sleeping with me. On top of that, they required constant cuddles and assurance that I wasn’t about to die.
    “In
Annie
, the children are orphans,”