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dishes that had erupted like shelf fungus on the other houses in their estate.
    Becky needed someone she could confide in – someone who was the antithesis of her mother – and she had just remembered a half-forgotten invitation from someone exactly like that. A quick phone call confirmed her friend would be delighted to see her tonight.
    Becky walked out of the house, down the scrubbed front path which crouched in fear between her mother’s sparse and regimented flower beds, and to the nearest bus stop where she caught a bus to the much more upmarket area of Hutton. From there it was only another short walk to a property whose front garden was so lush and exotic she could imagine animals breaking out of a zoo just to lose themselves in its thickets of pampas grass and bamboo. She rang the bell and the lady who had created this carefully crafted wilderness opened the door with a delighted smile.
    â€˜Becky,’ the lady cried. ‘Long time no see. Come in.’
    Clara Babonneau was one of several people Becky had interviewed while covering an ‘Open Gardens’ event and by far the most interesting. A very lively lady in her mid-sixties, she was like an exotic migrant who had apparently ‘flown in to England to see what English gardens were about’, having been informed – or misinformed – that the English were obsessive gardeners.
    Exasperated by the sanitised English front garden, Clara had self-published a book on designing ‘wild gardens for suburbia’ and had been so endearingly appreciative when Becky plugged her book in the Open Gardens piece, that she insisted Becky came round for dinner one night. Despite the age difference and the fact the two could not have been more different – Becky had seldom left the UK whereas Clara was well travelled – it had been a fun evening and a friendship had been formed. Neither had talked much about their own families: Clara revealed she had been widowed when she was relatively young and, perhaps sensing Becky’s ambivalence about her own home, had insisted Becky drop round whenever she needed a break. But aware from their conversation that Clara seemed to have a vibrant social life, with bridge nights and visits from old friends who were passing through England, Becky had been reluctant to take her up on her offer – until today.
    Becky followed Clara into the living room and sank into a sofa.
    â€˜I was going to offer you tea,’ said Clara, ‘but you look like you need something stronger.’
    â€˜To be honest, I think I do.’
    â€˜Then let me have a look in the medicine cabinet.’
    Clara rootled through the drinks cupboard, eventually holding up an unopened bottle wrapped in yellow cellophane. ‘I picked this up in Paris last month. I’ve been dying to try it out with someone.’
    A few minutes later they were sitting side by side on the sofa and wincing over something that tasted like peppered sherry.
    â€˜It’s, um, warming,’ said Becky.
    â€˜It’s revolting,’ said Clara, cheerfully, ‘but I think the English believe that medicine has to taste horrible to be effective.’
    Becky laughed as Clara topped up both glasses. She was elegantly dressed but with a hint of ‘something other’. Her eyes were very dark, her skin dusky and, though her hair had turned silver, Becky thought that today it was tinged with a rebellious lilac rinse.
    â€˜So,’ said Clara. ‘What’s wrong?’
    â€˜I’ve been sacked,’ said Becky.
    Clara had the foresight to put down her glass before reacting with a dramatic hands-to-face action accompanied by some French words which Becky assumed were expletives; she sensed that Clara thought it unladylike to swear in English.
    Becky started to explain about Ian but then stopped. ‘Actually, it’s a really tiresome story. I won’t bore you with the details.’
    â€˜Idiots; their loss.