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said. “Where’s Lewis?”
    â€œHe was too busy to come.”

    â€œHe’s always too busy. Given how much he works, he ought to be president of the World Bank by now.”
    Lynne approached. She was wearing a white dress made of broderie anglaise ; the pattern of little holes in the fabric made it impossible not to wonder what lay beneath. “I’ve had this since we were at York,” she said, “and I thought if I couldn’t wear it today, then I never could.” The three of us chatted for a few minutes before moving on to talk to people we saw less often. There was something enchanted about the afternoon: we were all, briefly, young and brilliant again, transported to those days at university when anything seemed possible.
    After talking to one of Charlie’s colleagues and several old friends, I found myself a bystander to a conversation about one of our more controversial lecturers. I had never actually met him, and after two or three anecdotes I wandered over to the table.
    A short-haired woman wearing a checked shirt and jeans said hello. I suddenly recognised Mary.
    â€œHave you tried the trifle?” she asked. “Charlie and Nick are the only people I know besides my mother who still make puddings.” She ladled a final dollop of cream into her bowl.
    At York, Mary, with her long blond hair and costly clothes, had seemed the acme of sophistication; ten years later she was no less formidable, although in a very different way. I asked if she was still working as a translator.
    â€œNo, I have a bread-and-butter job in a bookshop, but I spend most of my time teaching classes in self-defence for women.”
    â€œYou mean like karate or judo?”
    â€œIt’s a sort of grab bag of martial arts. I aim to teach skills that can be used by women of all ages and levels of physical fitness.”
    I described my company’s new policy on sexism in textbooks, a major step forward which Mary at once condemned
as inadequate. We drifted into conversation about mutual acquaintances. “Last time I spoke to Frances she told me that you and she had become neighbours in Peckham,” I said.
    â€œTwenty minutes on brisk foot. Frances is a dear. I think she worries that I’ll turn into a bag lady. She’s always inviting me over for a square meal. What about Lewis Jenkins?” she asked. “I thought he might be here.”
    What angel or demon prompted me to indicate merely vague recognition? Mary had just taken a mouthful of trifle, and there was a pause before she continued. “I work near his office so I run into him once in a while, and every time I see him, I swear he’s with a different woman. A couple of weeks ago he came into the shop with someone I know slightly; she’s a friend of a friend. Since then I’ve been wondering what to do. On the one hand I think I ought to tell her, so she’ll know where she stands, and on the other, that seems like meddling.”
    â€œPerhaps they’re just friends,” I said. We were standing beside the table, and I laid down my plate, for fear that Mary would notice the shaking of my hands.
    â€œNo, there were too many little pats and gestures for that. They were all over each other.” Mary licked her spoon in a satisfied way and laid aside her plate. She stood straighter, with her arms folded, to pronounce judgement. “I’m afraid he’s a textbook case, an intelligent, charming man whom you can’t trust to go to the shops for a pint of milk.”
    What did I say? I have no idea. Maybe Charlie came round with the teapot, or maybe Nick urged me to try the cake he had made. I left as soon as I could, pleading an evening engagement. On the train home I experienced despair, shame, fury, but also relief. I had felt at times almost mad in the face of his injured innocence. Even when I could smell the other women on him, he would be telling me that my suspicions were