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call this evening. I don’t think my mum would understand. Anyway we’ll be out – I booked a table at Chez Bruce as you suggested.’ That, she suddenly saw, was both redundant and compounded the rudeness. She tore up the note and started again, using only the first three sentences. Then she bit the end of the biro and thought hard. At last she gave a little whoop of delight and wrote underneath, ‘When your play is on, I’d love to come and see it. Would that be possible? Could you let me have more details?’ And added, ‘Love, Hetty.’
    A strange kind of love. If Christian and his partner ignored the note, she would have been rebuffed, and have deserved it. And would know better next time. But they were ‘luvvies’, weren’t they? Lots of people in London were. If she were to avoid the loneliness that Sally obviously regarded as her lot, then it was up to her to make an effort. That included learning to speak other languages, however foreign they seemed.
    Anyway, she meant it. It’d be fun to go to the theatre, to a preview or maybe at the start of the run when everyone was still keen, and to be able to say to the person in the next seat, ‘I know that young man. Isn’t he great?’ It would be participating instead of standing on the sidelines. And there would be no dashing away to catch the last train. If she were invited for drinks afterwards she could go …
    That was gazing too far ahead. For the moment, she had been taught a sharp lesson.
     
    Hetty’s mother, despite her seventy-three years, could still cut quite a dash. In the restaurant, in her navy suit, Peggy Morris looked ten years younger than her age. Hetty felt dowdy beside her: under the influence of comfort eating (the easy sin – those darned biscuits), her own waist was spreading and her size had crept up to a fourteen.
    ‘Wonderful. How did you find this place?’ Peggy was tucking into Bruce’s calamari in Chardonnay with gusto. Without waiting for the answer, she continued, ‘I must say, it’s an improvement on that ghastly steak house in that village of yours. At my age one gets picky. I’m not sure I can cope with Saga coach cuisine much longer. Too many chips.’
    Hetty paused, a french-fried potato and a slice of peppered steak speared on her fork. Her mother had always been a strong personality. Had she spent more time in Hetty’s vicinity, with Stephen nearby, there would have been little left of Hetty Clarkson. Now was not the moment to kowtow to her. Hetty raised the fork defiantly and ate. ‘Thank you for your ideas on the night of the council of war,’ she ventured. ‘I was grateful. You hadn’t said much about my divorce.’
    The old lady chuckled and poured another glass of Moselle. ‘Frankly, what did yousee in him?’
    ‘Stephen? That’s easy. I loved him.’
    ‘Honestly – and you never suspected?’
    ‘I adored him – blindly, yes. He was a fine-looking man, he could be totally kind, was charming, generous. He was intelligent, successful and well thought-of. I still think I chose well. And, remember, I was a free agent – I could do what I wanted with my day. That’s not so common.’
    ‘But he was unfaithful.’
    Hetty sighed. ‘I see it now, though I was completely naive then. Her husband guessed, but I didn’t. Perhaps my ignorance was no bad thing – it kept my home intact as long as was necessary for the children.’
    ‘Huh!’ Peggy sniffed. ‘Your marriage trivialised you. Turned you into a doll.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Something else you weren’t aware of. Made you brainless, darling. You’re better off without him. You have a brain, now you’re going to have to use it.’ The empty plate was pushed away with an air of regret. ‘Do you no harm to have to stand on your own two feet. You might even enjoy it.’
    ‘But what do you mean “trivialised” me? I couldn’t have competed with Stephen. He was so able. And I wouldn’t have wanted to try. I played it low-key in company – you