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about him.’
    ‘What, exactly?’
    ‘That he can still get it up, aim it at the right place and fire live ammunition at will.’
    ‘Mother, you’re disgusting. There must have been extra alcohol in that sorbet.’ Hetty laughed, despite herself.
    Her mother smiled wickedly. ‘You should start listing your advantages,’ she continued. ‘You’re not about to get pregnant. You don’t want to tie a man down. You can be mature and fascinating at the same time – remember Cleopatra or Katherine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich. They had no trouble attracting men well into old age. And neither have I.’
    ‘This is my mother?’ Hetty asked the air in wonder. ‘This is solidarity? Suppose, however, that I might like to fill my life in other ways. Forget men, and find other things to fill that brain you so admire.’
    ‘Fine. But don’t forget the men,’ her mother admonished. ‘I can only tell you my recipe,’ she offered. When your father was alive, we went all over the world with his postings, and I had a marvellous time. If he’d strayed one tiny inch I’d have cut his balls off, and he knew it. When he died, I grieved – not just for him but for myself. Then I did three things.’
    Hetty raised her eyes. ‘And those were?’
    ‘Counted my money: sufficient. Renewed my passport. And had a face-lift.’
    ‘You didn’t!’
    ‘I did.’
    ‘You never told me!’
    ‘Don’t have to tell you everything, dear, and I don’t expect you to confide in me either, unless you want to. But one more point. Some of this you should keep to yourself. I’m not sure Sally is quite ready for this kind of conversation, and of course Peter, darling grandson though he is, never will be. This is a woman’s world, quite different from a man’s. A singles world – a universe apart from couples and your old life. And believe me, darling, it can be fabulous. Wait and see.’
    The stylish old lady picked up the empty bottle. ‘Another?’
     
    They went back to the flat for coffee. On the mat was a small white envelope. Inside, a photocard of Christian, professionally done, looking his moody best, the shadows across his face bringing out the jutting jaw and cleft chin. ‘Love to see you at the theatre. Come to the first night. Two tickets await you at the box office. Knock one evening before then. Take us as you find us. Love, C.’
    Later, her dinner companion sent home in a taxi, her head pounding from too much wine, Hetty lay in bed and let her mind rove. Her mother might have judged Stephen accurately, but Hetty remained sure that he had been splendid to begin with. She had not made a mistake in marrying him or in wanting to be married. She was not about to write off her entire previous existence, or abandon all her old values.
    Now it was her turn. No compromises. No going back. New languages. Getting to know strangers. Odd couples. Getting to know people who had been strangers, like her mother. Telling white lies – about her age. Keeping secrets. Her mother had had a face-lift ? Ye gods! Was that the future?
     
    Two days later, a Sunday morning.
    Hetty had slept fitfully, though the hot-water bottle had been relegated to the cupboard under the sink and a glass of wine had replaced cocoa before going to bed. She had jollied up the flat with a bunch of lilies, then realised they looked like funeral flowers and bought a scarlet cyclamen instead. She had explored the common, trudged across its windy wastes, discovered a whole shopping centre on the far side complete with a bus stop. A pot of apricot emulsion had brightened the kitchen. W.H. Smith’s had a bewildering plethora of cookbooks. The ubiquitous Delia Smith must be psychic: One Is Fun was relentlessly spot on. Or maybe, Hetty reflected, her situation was all too commonplace in the modern world, and Delia knew it.
    And she had started to live sloppily, in a sweater and jeans, with no makeup, no nail varnish, her hair a mess. That would not do. As she yawned into the