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nursing home has given her too many pills.
    The point is, Charlotte’s background isn’t very exciting. But that hardly explains why she’s as desperately shy as she is and why she has a love-life which isn’t so much bad as nonexistent.
    ‘So, how come you went off chatting to Grace’s mum?’ I ask her casually, after I’ve finally prised her away from an in-depth conversation about why gypsy grass has gone out of fashion in the floristry world.
    ‘Why not?’ she asks.
    ‘Well,’ I say, wondering how to put this, ‘I just thoughtyou and Jim looked like you were having a nice chat, that’s all.’
    She looks slightly confused. ‘Well, we were. But then I had a nice chat with Mrs Edwards too.’
    ‘Okay, what about?’ I ask, feeling that this has got to be challenged.
    She frowns. ‘Sudoku, mainly.’
    I pause. ‘Sudoku?’
    She shrugs. ‘Yes. Well, why not?’
    ‘Do you like Sudoku?’ I ask.
    ‘Well, no.’
    ‘Have you ever even played it?’
    ‘Um, no.’
    ‘Do you have any interest in it whatsoever?’
    ‘No, but I don’t mind talking about it.’
    ‘Charlotte,’ I say, ‘unless you’re going to tell me that Mrs Edwards has a black belt in Sudoku, I can’t see how that can possibly be more interesting than talking to Jim.’
    She blushes as she realises what I’m getting at. I immediately feel guilty.
    ‘Listen,’ I tell her softly, rubbing her arm, ‘all I want to say is: Jim thinks you’re lovely.’
    I can tell I’ve sparked her interest.
    ‘It’s true, I promise.’
    ‘We just sat next to each other, that’s all,’ she says.
    ‘And so–what was he saying?’
    ‘Okay, okay,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘Well, we were talking a lot about music.’
    ‘And?’ I prompt.
    ‘Well, he loves Macy Gray and plays the guitar in his spare time.’
    ‘Just like you!’ I exclaim.
    ‘I can’t play the guitar.’
    ‘No, but you love Macy Gray.’
    ‘ David Gray,’ she corrects me.
    ‘Don’t split hairs,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly, you were made for each other. Come on, come back over and have a chat with him.’
    We are suddenly distracted by some male voices coming from beyond the pillar next to us. It’s not that they are being particularly loud–it’s hardly quiet in here anyway–but the content of their discussion is something we can’t help overhearing.
    ‘It’s a shame I’m not a single man any more,’ one of them is saying. ‘Some of the women here you wouldn’t kick out of bed. The one who did the reading was bloody spectacular .’
    I roll my eyes. The only thing more annoying than Valentina trying to attract so much attention is the fact that she usually succeeds.
    ‘That bridesmaid was a bit of all right, too–the one with the dirty-blonde hair,’ says the other–and I realise they’re talking about me. ‘A bit flat-chested but definitely fit.’
    Talk about a backhanded compliment. I tut and am about to go back to my favourite topic of conversation when another voice chips in.
    ‘What about the other one though–the fat bird?’ says a voice.
    My eyes widen. I know immediately who they’re talking about.
    ‘Who, Shrek’s ugly sister?’
    They fall about laughing and I listen, dumbstruck, asCharlotte’s face crumples. I try to think of something to do to stop her hearing what I fear may be coming next.
    ‘I wonder how many pies you have to eat, to fill a dress that size?’ someone else sniggers.
    ‘Enough to bankrupt the whole of Wigan if she ever gave up!’
    Cue another round of drunken laughter.
    Charlotte’s cheeks are blazing. She’s trying to look brave but her lip is quivering and I can tell she is dying inside. Oh God, I’m going to have to stop this.
    ‘How much would you have to be paid to shag her?’ someone says, and it’s at this point I realise that I really can’t let this go on.
    ‘Right, that’s it,’ I declare, not knowing exactly what I’m going to say to them, but certain that I’ve got to do