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curtains, occasionally condescending to welcome others into her immaculate sanctum for biscuits, tea and vitriol. She has a niece called Terri, who goes to my writing-as-therapy class. Mrs Vine thinks that Terri and I would make a charming couple. I think that Mrs Vine would make an even more charming corpse.
    Today she was all sweetness. ‘You look exhausted, B.B.,’ she said, greeting me in the hushed voice of one addressing an invalid. ‘I hope you’re taking care of yourself.’
    It is common knowledge in the Village that Eleanor Vine is something of a hypochondriac, taking twenty kinds of pills and disinfecting incessantly. Over twenty years ago, Ma used to clean her house, though now Eleanor reserves that privilege for herself, and can often be seen through her kitchen window, Marigolds on standby, polishing the fruit in the cut-glass dish that stands on the kitchen table, a mixture of joy and anxiety on her thin, discoloured face.
    My iPod was playing a song from one of my current playlists. Through the earpiece, Voltaire’s darkly satirical voice expounded the various virtues of vice to the melancholy counterpoint of a gypsy violin.
And it’s so easy when you’re evil.
This is the life, you see,
The Devil tips his hat to me –
    ‘I’m quite all right, Mrs Vine,’ I said.
    ‘Not sickening for anything?’
    I shook my head. ‘Not even a cold.’
    ‘Because bereavement can do that, you know,’ she said. ‘Old Mr Marshall got pneumonia four weeks after his poor wife passed on. Dead before the headstone went up. The Examiner called it a double tragedy.’
    I had to smile at the thought of myself pining away for Nigel.
    ‘I hear they’re missing you at your class.’
    That killed the smile. ‘Oh yes? Who says?’
    ‘People talk,’ said Eleanor.
    I’ll bet they do . Toxic old cow. Spying on me for Ma, I don’t doubt. And now, thanks to Terri, a spy for my writing-as-therapy class, that little circle of parasites and headcases with whom I share – in supposed confidence – the details of my troubled life.
    ‘I’ve been preoccupied,’ I said.
    She gave me a look of sympathy. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It must be hard. And what about Gloria? Is she all right?’ She glanced around the parlour, alert for any telltale sign – a smear of dust on the mantelpiece, a speck on any one of Ma’s collection of china dogs – to suggest that Ma might be cracking up.
    ‘Oh, you know. She manages.’
    ‘I brought her a little something,’ she said, handing me a paper bag. ‘It’s a supplement I sometimes use when I’m feeling under the weather.’ She gave her vinegary smile. ‘Looks like you could do with some yourself. Have you been in a fight, or something?’
    ‘Who, me?’ I shook my head.
    ‘No. Of course,’ said Eleanor.
    No, of course . As if I would. As if Gloria Winter’s boy could ever be involved in a fight. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone’s an authority. And it always irks me a little to think that she, like Ma, would never believe the tenth of what I am capable –
    ‘Oh, Eleanor, love, you should have come through!’ That was Ma, emerging from the kitchen with a tea-towel in one hand and a vegetable peeler in the other. ‘I was just making him his vitamin drink. D’you want some tea while you’re here?’
    Eleanor shook her head. ‘I just popped in to see how you were.’
    ‘Holding up all right,’ said Ma. ‘B.B.’s looking after me.’
    Ouch. That was below the belt. But Ma is very proud of me. A taste like that of rotten fruit slowly crept into my mouth. Rotten fruit mixed with salt, like a cocktail of juice and sea water. From my iPod, Voltaire declaimed with murderous exuberance:
I do it all because I’m evil.
And I do it all for free –
    Eleanor gave me a sidelong glance. ‘He must be such a comfort, love.’ She turned once more to look at me. ‘I don’t know how you can hear a word we’re saying with that thing in your ear. Don’t you ever take it