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her. Sad, isn’t it? Ah, well, we can’t all be blessed with good looks, Mrs. H.!”
    Having taken her sweet time batting her magenta lids, Mrs. Malloy proceeded up the broad drive with its neat borders of shrubs and flowers to the front door, where she rang the bell. Her cases did not trot dutifully after her on padded paws. By the time I had made two trips to lug them onto the step, she was already inside the hall. It was rather a grand space with a lot of carved wood and pictures in heavy gold frames. The wallpaper was florid in texture and pattern and it was all a little too rococo for my taste. But as an interior designer I acknowledged the importance of a home being representative of its owners’ personalities.
    Looking in on the woman standing with Mrs. Malloy’s hands clasped in hers, I couldn’t deny that the house suited her, from her bleached-blond hair to her high-heeled shocking-pink shoes. “Vulgar” was the word that nipped into my mind. Could this be one of Gwen’s stepdaughters? She had now spotted me over Mrs. M.’s shoulder and with a well-executed expression of delight hurried to welcome me over the threshold.
    “Come in, come in! Mrs. Haskell, isn’t it? Don’t worry about the carpet, dear,” seeing me glance down at my shoes that had staggered into one or two puddles on route. “What’s a little rainwater? And it’s a very old carpet. Been in the family for years. Handmade in Algiers. Practically an antique. Oh, you’re taking them off! No need on my account, but I expect you’ll be more comfortable. Nothing nastier than damp soggy shoes, is what I often say to Fiddler.”
    “Fiddler?”
    “My husband.”
    This was Gwen? Poor spotty-faced Gwen, who hadn’t left the shelter of Mum and Dad’s roof until she was thirty-five?
    “Such a dear, lovely man. His Christian name is Barney, but I always call him Fiddler. It’s one of our little love jokes, you might say, going back to when I was the nanny to his children and his first wife was still alive. Only of course then I called him Mr. Fiddler.” She batted her eyelashes, which were at least two inches longer than Mrs. Malloy’s, and gave an insouciant giggle. “Now I only call him Mr. Fiddler when in bed of an evening ... or every once in a while of an afternoon.”
    I could only smile raptly as she took my raincoat and hung it next to Mrs. M.’s on the oak stand that looked as if it might also have come from Algiers. This Gwen was thin as a rail, in skintight black pants, a cowl-neck sweater, and didn’t look a day over forty—if that. She had a topknot of platinum curls tied with a shocking-pink velvet ribbon to match her shoes, and jangled with jewelry every step of the way. Understandably, Mrs. Malloy looked none too pleased by this turn of events.
    “Well, it’s plain to see Gwen’s landed on her feet.” Her voice had more than a bit of a snort to it. “I was just telling her when you come up to the door, Mrs. H., that I wouldn’t have known her if we’d met in the street. And of course I couldn’t be happier for her.”
    “I knew you’d feel that way, dear.” Gwen studied the writing on Mrs. M.’s blue sweatshirt with only a slight lift of her winged brows. “Always such a love was Roxie, so kind at helping me with my sums when we were at school. Now it’s payback time. That’s how I put it to Fiddler and as usual he quite saw it my way.” She was now speaking to me in the lowered voice a grown-up might use while a little one was underfoot. “ ‘You help out your old friend,’ is what Fiddler said. ‘Have her here as long as you like.’ And of course I explained to him about that dreadful Leonard trying to worm his way back into her life after all these years. The cheek of it!”
    “Mrs. Malloy’s talked a lot about you,” was all I could say with a certain person breathing down my neck.
    “There’s no need to go feeling sorry for me, Gwen.”
    “Now that’s where I disagree with you,” came the