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celebrate the end of the working week, relaxing over plates of spaghetti puttanesca and a bottle of house plonk. Ed was already there when I arrived—notable in itself as he is usually late as a matter of course—and stood up solicitously to embrace me as I reached the table. He ordered a bottle of wine, a Barolo from the top end of the wine list I’d noticed, rather than our usual Valpolicella, and I was pleased and cautiously flattered that he was making such an effort. Where is this going, I wondered, trying to ignore the glow of hope that had rekindled itself in my heart. Had he and Camilla split up? I’d forgotten how very good-looking he was, and how utterly charming he could be when not otherwise distracted. I asked Ed, with a smile of irony at the normality of the question after the turmoil I’d been through in the last seven days, how his week had been.
    Ed is Director of Sponsorship for an events company. When you come down to it, this means he sells advertising. But of course it would never do to voice such a vulgar thought. The job mainly involves wining and dining contacts made through the Old Boy networks of the public schools of southern England and persuading them, in the most gentlemanly manner of course, to part with large dollops of money to have their companies’ names displayed at polo matches, rugby fixtures and regattas. Apparently at the moment things weren’t going too well, due to the recent economic nosedive, and it was proving, Ed admitted over his bresaiola and rocket salad, to be a bit of a bore.
    ‘But that’s enough about me. More importantly, how are you?’ he asked, reaching a sympathetic hand across the table to hold mine.
    The glow of hope flickered into a small flame.
    ‘I was so sorry to hear about your job. Still, in the big scheme of things, it’s funny how it’s worked out really, isn’t it? You’ve obviously reached an important crossroads in your life. What are you planning on doing next, now you have carte blanche?’
    I was surprised that he saw my current situation in quite such exciting and positive terms, but Ed’s always been an optimist and I thought perhaps he was right—I should see this as an opportunity for a fresh start rather than having the distinct feeling that I was being swept rapidly up a certain well-known creek without a paddle.
    He gazed across at me over the flickering tea light and the bottles of oil and vinegar as I described the calls I’d been making and the copies of my CV I’d sent out, completely fruitlessly. ‘The wine industry seems to be taking a similar battering,’ I explained. ‘Like your sponsorship, I suppose wine is seen as a luxury item, so when times get tight it’s one of the first things people cut back on. The supermarkets will carry on undercutting everyone else, so they’ll be okay. But I don’t expect Wainright’s will be the only independent wine merchant to disappear. And at least they were bought out. Some of the independents are sure to go under. Every wine buyer in the country will be sitting tight and trying to hang on to their job. So it looks like I’m going to be a lady of leisure for the foreseeable future.’ I‘d tried to make light of my situation, which actually sounded even more dire to me when I had to explain it like this.
    The waiter appeared with our plates of pasta and then suggestively brandished an oversized pepper grinder in my direction. ‘Pepper for the bella signorina ?’ Ed waved him away and poured me some more of the dark red wine.
    ‘Well I’d like to propose a toast,’ he said with a flourish of his own glass. ‘Here’s to ladies of leisure. I was sorry to hear about your Aunt Liz, of course, but talk about good timing. Presumably she’s left everything to you? Bit of a silver lining as it turns out, eh?’
    For a few seconds I continued to smile as I tried to work out what he could possibly mean. And then, as realisation dawned, a wave of icy cold water washed over the