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Libby. ‘Don’t forget, I didn’t really get to know Ben until The Hop Pickers was in rehearsal, and things weren’t really normal then, were they?’
    â€˜As I didn’t know you until then, either, how do I know?’
    Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, I’ve probably blown it, anyway. At one time I thought I had a chance. But, as we’ve both discovered, being over forty reduces your chances of romantic entanglement by about ninety-five per cent.’
    â€˜It’s being over fifty , dear, and an upholstered rugby ball or, like me, a bolster on legs.’ Fran smiled sadly. ‘The older men get the more they want to mate with young female perfection. It’s something to do with perpetuating the genes. It isn’t their fault.’
    â€˜Then we don’t stand a chance.’
    â€˜Not unless we find men whose intelligence over-rides their survival instinct.’
    â€˜It couldn’t possibly be that men are taken in by a pretty face and figure and find it flattering to be with a younger woman?’
    Fran shook her head. ‘It pains me to say it, but no. Look at how many men whom no one would believe would leave their wives or have affairs suddenly fall head over heels with a girl young enough to be their daughter? It happened to Mr Denver – whatever his name was. It happened to my husband.’
    Libby snorted. ‘Old Robert Denver didn’t fall in love with Barbara. He just wanted a quick bonk.’
    â€˜Shame she got caught, then. His first wife could have put up with a quick bonk. It’s the falling in love that you can’t forgive.’
    â€˜I know. And it still bloody hurts, doesn’t it?’
    Fran sighed. ‘Even if you know why it happened, it still hurts.’
    â€˜Hey, you’re not saying your break-up was your fault, surely?’ Libby looked indignant.
    â€˜I couldn’t cope with real life, Libby. I was a hopeless wife and mother. I don’t really blame him.’ Fran stood up. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. What time are we going to The Pink Geranium? Have I got time to have a bath?’
    â€˜Help yourself,’ said Libby. ‘They won’t be busy tonight, so we can tip up at any time.’
    Peter, who had been slightly suspicious of Fran when Ben had brought her down to help during what Harry referred to as “The Troubles”, was surprisingly pleased to see her.
    â€˜She was worried about coming,’ warned Libby, ‘so be nice.’
    â€˜I’m always nice.’ Peter looked down his patrician nose at her and tossed back the lock of fair hair that fell rather limply across his brow.
    â€˜Oh, yeah?’ Harry, in chef’s whites, appeared behind them. ‘I could tell them a thing or two.’ He grinned down at Libby. ‘Where is she, then?’
    â€˜Over there on the sofa looking scared,’ said Libby.
    Harry surged across the restaurant and took Fran in an enthusiastic bear hug. Peter followed, to give Fran an affectionate peck on the cheek as Harry released her.
    â€˜Lovely to see you,’ he said, settling her on the sofa in the window.
    â€˜Donna! Bottle of red wine over here,’ called Harry. ‘On the house,’ he added to Libby, who raised her eyebrows at him.
    â€˜So, just down for a visit?’ Peter sat on the arm next to Fran, while Libby wriggled backwards into the other end of the sofa.
    â€˜My aunt just died. She lived near Nethergate,’ explained Fran, accepting a glass of red wine from Donna, Harry’s uncomplaining assistant.
    â€˜Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Peter, patting her shoulder.
    â€˜No, I didn’t really know her. Hadn’t seen her for years.’ Fran looked uncomfortable, a familiar look to Libby, associated with their adventures during the production of Peter’s play The Hop Pickers . With a stab of guilt, she realised she hadn’t really told Fran anything during their