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Mrs Curtis’s evident satisfaction. She pats the packet approvingly, as if it is a pet. I don’t actually feel like I will cry,
it’s just something to do with my hands.
    ‘It wasn’t just him,’ I say, picking at the tissue.
    ‘Of course, I know it is very
modern
, dear, to say that both partners are to blame. Not like in the old days when there had to be a guilty party or you couldn’t get a
divorce. But I
do
think,’ she leans forward with her elbows on the table, ‘that when someone has been
unfaithful
, then it very much
is
their fault and there
is simply no point in pretending otherwise.’
    The tea arrives and Mrs Curtis busies herself with sending back a cup, claiming to see traces of lipstick on it, and then trying to force me to eat half of her Victoria sponge. It gives me an
excuse to change the subject and I manage to sustain a fairly lengthy conversation about how tea should be made, whether tea leaves are better than bags, and whether milk should be poured in before
the tea or after. Mrs Curtis, I am unsurprised to learn, has strong opinions on all of these matters, and does not hesitate to share them.
    But it doesn’t take long before she turns her shrewd eyes on me again. ‘I expect you think I’m dreadfully nosy, don’t you? Asking about your husband. Believe me, I
don’t want to
upset
you. But it is one of the few benefits of being old – ageing is so full of
indignities
otherwise, dear – that you are suddenly allowed to say
whatever you like. Everyone already expects you to be batty, you see.’
    She waves a forkful of cake in my direction and I shake my head to decline it. Behind her Emily folds napkins, one at a time, placing them into a wicker basket with deeply felt resentment.
    ‘I used to be much more polite, I can assure you. But where’s the fun in that, dear? Anyway, I can see that you don’t want to talk about it, and that is quite all right with
me. God forbid I should be one of those
encroaching
women who can’t take a hint.’
    ‘Not at all,’ I demur. I pick up my teacup, and put it down again when I see it’s empty. It clatters loudly in the empty tea room. ‘It’s all just . . . it’s
very raw. I’m not—’
    ‘Quite understood!’ She leans forward again, waving a red-painted finger commandingly. ‘There will come a time when you do want to talk about it, dear. All the time, to anyone
who will listen. Believe you me, I
know
.’
    Before I can follow this intriguing line of enquiry, she looks up at the clock on the wall behind me and gasps. ‘Goodness, will you look at the
time
, dear! I have bridge at
four!’
    She summons poor Emily over to the table to instruct her on how to package up the leftover tea leaves into a parcel that Mrs Curtis can take home to put on her roses. The plastic bags are
mustered, the coat buttoned and offers of help with either are brusquely rebuffed. She is gone before I realize that she has left without paying.
    Emily looks happy for the first time, a tight-lipped little smile spreading across her face as she watches the door swing shut.
    ‘Thought you must be new in town,’ she says. ‘Her always does that. Famous for it. Never seen her pay for her tea once. She’ll have followed you down the
street.’
    She presents me with a round silver dish containing the bill, the only time so far that I have seen her move with anything approaching speed.
    ‘Service ain’t included.’
    I leave Emily a large tip for no other reason than she is the first person I’ve spoken to in Lyme who seems to have no interest in, or knowledge of, my private life. If only I could pay
off everyone else so easily.

9
    London
    The Hitz Christmas party had been cut back that year, for reasons unspecified. It was as if they thought we wouldn’t notice that we’d been relegated to a
wind-battered marquee in London Fields instead of the ballroom of the Dorchester, as usual. Or that, rather than a sit-down meal, we’d be happy with a