15

Weekend Without Make-Up

(The Long Blondes)

IT WAS JUST Nell and Mimi now, circling each other like angry cats. Nell had done the thank-God-you’re-alive bit; Mimi had done I’m reeaaaallly sorry. The kind but seen-it-all-before police officer had gone. Evie Mitchell (who had heard by way of Polly and the ever-busy text grapevine) and Tess’s mother Louise, who had turned up early to sympathize on the traumas that teen daughters put parents through, had hastily finished their coffee and left Nell’s kitchen clear for the inevitable fallout, of which there was an immediate explosion.

‘Grounded? But that’s not fair!’ Mimi wailed her reaction to Nell’s verdict. From the look of utter devastation on Mimi’s face, anyone would think the girl had been sentenced to several years in a hard-labour camp, no remission, not to a week confined to her own perfectly comfortable home. The no-going-out regime was hardly a massive deprivation, either – one weekend out of circulation wouldn’t mean eternal banishment from teen society, and it wasn’t as if Mimi was in the habit of midweek partying. She was to come straight home from school each day during the next week; no going to Tess’s, no hanging around outside Tesco Metro with the St Edmund’s boys, no staying on for play rehearsals, genuine or otherwise: the absence of a three-scene fairy wasn’t going to disrupt the drama department’s schedule significantly.

‘Oh it’s fair; it’s more than fair!’ Nell shouted back. ‘And it’s not as if you’ll be feeling like going out this weekend anyway, is it? You must be exhausted. I know I bloody am!’ And she was, she was. She was too old for staying up the whole night with only a few drifted moments of half-sleep on the sofa; you could hardly go to bed when your daughter had gone missing and could, for all anyone knew, be lying in a hedge, naked, raped and strangled. She didn’t need to thank Steve for these worst-case visions, either – any mother would have had them. Thank God she wasn’t one of the tragic few who were proved right.

‘But I told you; we didn’t mean to get locked in there! It was an accident! Why don’t you ever listen!’ Mimi stormed out of the kitchen, slammed the door and thumped up the stairs. Nell counted to ten: here it came – the music at full blast, The Killers, if she wasn’t mistaken – not the most subtle choice. If Ed and Charles were the complaining types they’d be banging on the door insisting that some people liked a bit of peace and quiet on a Saturday morning, if it was all the same to her. If only Ed were there, it crossed her mind. He’d have been just the person she’d have wanted to be with during that last terrible night. If he hadn’t been at his Dorset cottage for the weekend she would, without question, have knocked on the door and wept out the worst of her fears all over him.

Nell hadn’t the slightest doubt that spending the night in Kensal Green cemetery was accidental. Even in the worst spirit of sheer devilment it wouldn’t have been Mimi’s idea of a good time, for she was a girl who cherished her home comforts and each morning had almost to be surgically separated from her 13-tog goose-down duvet. She’d never spent so much as a night under canvas, and had refused to join the school’s Duke of Edinburgh scheme for fear of having to trek agonizing miles across freezing moorland in unsightly shoes. A year before, she had come home from three nights in a hostel dormitory on the school’s geography field trip so appalled at being deprived of her usual facilities (rainstorm shower, Aveda products, underfloor bathroom heating, bedroom TV) that anyone would have thought she’d been condemned to the most primitive Third World prison cell. Gillian had been in the house at the moment she’d returned, and hadn’t helped matters by sympathizing profusely as Mimi shuddered and trembled and lay on the sofa weakly pleading for tea and croissants.

‘Oh you poor darling!’ she’d crooned to her granddaughter, ‘surely not a communal bathroom?’ leaving Nell incredulous that this was the same woman who had guiltlessly packed off her own three daughters to five years of boarding school.

If a sense of humour ever returned, Nell knew the thought of the woefully spoiled Mimi shivering all night among the graves with nothing more comfortable to lie on than damp ground or icy marble might one day make her smile. Perhaps (oh please) a bit of domestic appreciation would result. And it wasn’t the staying out that Mimi was being punished for. Of course Nell knew she hadn’t intended to do it; no – it was the lying. What on earth had made her say she would be at Tess’s? What secret, underhand deeds had she planned that would need an elaborate cover story (and as it involved a boy, as if she couldn’t guess)?

It had led to all sorts of muddle and confusion and ultimately to sheer bloody panic, the involvement of police and some frantic calls to Alex who – though he couldn’t do much from three thousand miles away – was at least the one person who could be relied on to worry about Mimi as much as she was doing. It must have been around four in the morning, his time, when she was finally able to call and tell him, in a rare intimate moment of absolute empathy, that all was well. She wondered what Cherisse had made of it all. Had she stayed awake, pacing and imagining the worst alongside him, or had she calmly gone through her usual night-time maintenance routine and meticulously cleansed, toned and moisturized (and anxiously inspected for new lines and wrinkles) before getting into bed, mildly resentful that men of a certain age came fully loaded with complications?

Nell switched on the kettle again for about the fifth time that morning, and sat down at the table. Exhausted, she laid her face against the wood, feeling its rough but comforting grain against her skin. The tears that threatened could be from relief or sheer bloody misery, either would do. When the doorbell rang she could barely make herself move from the chair through weariness.

‘My God, you look terrible!’ was Kate’s greeting. ‘So … the naughty minx is back, then. I saw Evie outside Waitrose just now. She told me what happened. Evie says Tess is in big trouble for covering up, too. Why didn’t you call me last night, Nell? I’d have come straight over and stayed. You shouldn’t have had to go through all that by yourself!’

‘Thanks, Kate; I thought of it, but Louise came over for a while as soon as she’d dragged the truth out of Tess, and the police were great. I also thought, well, you’ve got Alvin to deal with, and besides, if it hadn’t been a good outcome …’ Nell’s voice faltered. ‘I’d have … well, it would have been today I’d have needed you.’

‘Another time, though, promise me,’ Kate said, hugging her. ‘Though God knows, let’s hope there isn’t one! Now sit down,’ she ordered, marching Nell into the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a pack of bacon, ‘you need food. How do you switch this grill on? I bet you haven’t eaten a thing, have you?’

‘No, not since lunch yesterday,’ Nell admitted, flicking one of the oven’s switches. She was suddenly ravenous for a bacon sandwich, smothered in ketchup – oh, that deep, eternal comfort of well-loved food. ‘Mimi has, though. Can you believe, she and Joel had a full-scale breakfast somewhere on Ladbroke Grove before they slunk back here? The kind man in the cemetery office let them use his phone – I bet they aren’t the first idiots he’s found shivering by the gates when he unlocked it – so I thought, hey, they’ll head straight back, but no!’

‘Oh I can believe it, no problem. I’ve had two teenage boys, don’t forget. The food thing won’t be Mimi’s fault – once they’d let the parents know they were all right, Joel’s mind would have turned straight to food.’

‘I hope Louise isn’t too hard on Tess,’ Nell said as she made yet more tea. ‘I mean, when you think of it, covering for each other is what fifteen-year-olds do. We’d have done the same. I just wish … well, she held out till past ten last night, not saying who Mimi was with, only that she was sure she was OK. And then when she and Joel weren’t at his place either, that was when even Tess realized it was serious.’

‘I know,’ Kate sympathized. ‘You imagine the worst – it’s only natural.’

‘I thought at first – and I know this is mad – I had this idea they’d gone on some silly mad trip to New York to see Alex, a big crazy adventure, but Mimi’s passport was still in her room. I almost wished it wasn’t – then I didn’t have to think something horrible had happened to them. Mimi doesn’t have such a terrible life, either – she’s got no reason to start lying or running off.’

‘They do get into all sorts of muddles, though, honestly. One of the boys in Matt’s year got arrested once for doing something stupid like peeing in a shop doorway,’ Kate said as she assembled the bacon sandwiches. ‘Hmm … maybe I’ll just have a little one, to keep you company.’ She then continued, ‘He was as drunk as a skunk, so they put him in the cells and rang his folks, who were out. And when they got back they didn’t bother picking up their messages so the poor boy was in there for twelve hours. By then, of course, his parents thought he’d been knifed and left for dead in some alley and were going mad. It was only when they got in a panic and called the police that a cop who was using the communal brain cell put two and two together.’

When Kate had gone, Nell fell into bed and drifted in and out of sleep for a couple of restless hours. Eventually, realizing that proper sleep wasn’t likely, she went and had a long, reviving bath and washed her hair. On the radio as she lay drowsily soaking, Weekend Woman’s Hour had a feature about orgasms in which Jenni Murray led a brave man and a giggly woman in intense discussion on clitoral stimulation. Although the woman enthused about Practising Alone, no one suggested the pink plastic Rabbit as recommended by Kate. Nell snarled, ‘Oh shut up,’ to the earnest lot of them and thumped the radio’s off switch, feeling grouchy. Then, remembering the advice in After He’s Gone about going for as near-happy as possible, she made a special effort to blow-dry her hair the way she most liked. If the rest of the weekend with Mimi was going to be like treading on eggshells, she might as well have at least one minimal aspect to feel good about while having to pace this domestic cage with a moody daughter. Following the same train of thought, she chose a newish dress (a silky blue one from Whistles) and put on her last-year Prada-sale boots, reflecting (though without much regret – for there was many a classy bargain in the Tesco Florence and Fred range) that there probably wouldn’t be any more footwear of that elevated calibre in her life. Well, that was OK – it would neatly match the lack of orgasms. Terrific.

There was no sound from Mimi’s room as she passed the door on her way back down the stairs, and she envied teenagers their ability simply to fall into a deep sleep at any time of the day. Her fury had now abated and she wished better dreams for Mimi than the potential graveyard horrors that the previous night’s sleeping companions might well trigger.

Back in the kitchen, Nell opened her computer and read a brief email from Seb describing yet another surf session. She hoped he was finding time to fit in some work and sent a reply aiming to put this across without being too bossy-mum. Just before she switched off, she checked the Junk Mail folder as she always did, in case something work-connected had mistakenly been routed there. There was the usual pharmaceutical selection promising to gee up her non-sex life, and some requests to update account details at banks she never used. At first she almost overlooked an unfamiliar sender’s name: ‘Tricksand’ looked like any made-up trash name, maybe inviting her to lose her entire income playing online poker, but the subject heading, ‘Hallo Eleanor’, caught her eye just before she pressed ‘delete’.

Nobody on the Internet knew her as Eleanor. With a rising sensation of prickly nerves, she clicked the message open. And there he was – ‘Tricksand’ – Patrick Sanders. OK, she thought, despondently clicking the ‘not junk’ icon and putting off the moment where she read the next instalment of dry-frozen fury, what was he going to throw at her this time? What delightfully over-the-top reaction to her last letter? A writ? Threats of sending The Boys round? Just when she’d thought the weekend couldn’t get any worse … Expecting yet another complete heart-sink moment but deciding she might as well get it over with, Nell read the message.

Eleanor – I got your bizarre note and I’d say it was great to hear from you but I’m completely mystified. What letter? I haven’t written to you since about 1984! And if I had, I wouldn’t have been ‘vile and hurtful’ as you put it. Why would I? What’s going on here? Let’s sort this out and then do the how are you/what’s happening bit. If you want to, that is. Patrick xxx

Eleanor read it at least five times. What on earth was he talking about?

‘So – what happened? I got into big trouble because of you so you owe me the goss. Every detail. Starting with why a cemetery?’ Tess sounded scary, like a threat. Mimi wasn’t properly awake and was snuggled down with her now-charged phone under the duvet. She had an unreal feeling, as if whatever had happened the night before had been something she’d dreamed. A dampish, woodsy smell in her hair told her it was all too real, as did the bruise on her shin where she’d banged it on a piece of broken-off gravestone when she and Joel had raced away towards the chapel in a panic, thinking there was someone (or something) creeping in the dark towards them. Joel had told her it was probably a fox and maybe it was. Or maybe it was the ghost of Thackeray, whose grave she had sat on earlier. Either way, Joel had sounded just as petrified as she’d felt. Not reassuring – which he should have at least tried to be, seeing as it was all his fault.

‘The cemetery is because Joel is mad. His hero, the great Brunel, is buried there and having a birthday picnic on his grave is Joel’s idea of a fun day out. Me, I’d have settled for a kebab and a movie. And …’ She could hear Tess breathing down the phone. She knew what she wanted to hear and was going to disappoint her. ‘And nothing happened.’ Mimi rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed.

‘Nothing?’ Tess’s voice was screechy. ‘I don’t believe you! You were out all night with him! All alone among the scary spooks! Something must have happened!’

‘I’ll make stuff up, if you like.’ Mimi yawned. She wanted to have a long, steamy shower, put her pink velour trackie on and her big furry Garfield slippers (Christmas present from Seb – for the sake of mutual credibility they’d agreed to pretend they were ironic but she loved how soft and snuggly they were) and just lie on the sofa all evening watching trash TV. She wanted to make it up with her mum. They could watch Casualty together and some easy comfort telly like six back-to-back reruns of My Family. They should eat something lovely like her mum’s lasagne. Or just chips. And oooh she felt a sudden deep longing for fish fingers, like an overtired six-year-old. Fish fingers with ketchup.

‘No, don’t make stuff up. That’s no good. You know what I want to know … did you … you know. Did you do it?’

Mimi felt slightly sick. ‘Tess, do you know how much like some old perv you’re sounding?’

‘Oh really?’ Tess snapped. ‘You’d know, would you? OK then, don’t tell me anything, and don’t bother to ask me how much trouble you got me into. It’s not all about you, you know. Just don’t ask me – not ev-ah – to cover for you again. Alibis are not us, got that?’

‘Got it,’ Mimi told her. ‘But, Tess …’

‘What!’

‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. And, OK, I’ll tell you. We had a bottle of champagne and we got giggly and felt really pissed. We did a bit of snogging under this tree and it got really uncomfortable and we were getting a bit further on … like …’

‘Like what? Did he …?’

‘No … he got under my clothes a bit, that kinda stuff, but by then I was feeling slightly ill from the drink and it was getting dark. It was freezing too and I kept thinking hey, everyone else here’s dead. It doesn’t exactly make you feel sexy, that.’

Tess giggled. ‘You are so mad. So you haven’t done it. Not even close to.’

‘That’s all you wanted to know, isn’t it?’ Mimi laughed. ‘No, I haven’t. I’ll probably end up ancient, like nineteen or something, and still a virgin. Even Joel went off the idea once we realized we might be locked in. In the end we spent the whole night shivering under this picnic rug under some chapel arches. I thought I’d die. And we kept hearing weird noises. It was, like, for ever? Never, ever again!’

‘You’re still going out with him, though?’

‘Suppose. He’s still talking about going to the coast but I’m grounded for a week. Maybe when it’s warmer, but I don’t know.’

‘So it wasn’t worth it?’

Mimi laughed again. ‘Er … no? Good snogger, though.’ She just about managed to stop herself adding, ‘Almost as good as you.’

‘Better than me?’ Tess whispered down the phone.

Mimi bit her lip and wondered if being friends from seven years old really made you psychic.

‘Nowhere near, babe.’ She giggled. ‘But if you lend him that lipgloss you wear – that’ll help.’

There was one conclusion that frightened Nell, out of the only two logical ones to choose from. If Patrick hadn’t had her original letter he couldn’t have sent a reply, which meant that someone else had. So Patrick hadn’t had the letter because either someone who lived with him had intercepted it, or it hadn’t been posted, and the person who hadn’t posted it could only have been … Steve. Nell’s brain kept going round in confused circles and had been doing so since she’d received Patrick’s email. She hadn’t yet replied to it and was still working out what on earth to say to him. And of course she might, depending on what he said back to her, have to tackle Steve. But today was Sunday and she and Mimi were now on their way to Guildford to have lunch with Gillian. She hoped that getting some distance from home would mean she could put both Steve and Patrick out of her head and simply relax a bit.

‘Did I really have to come …?’ Mimi was still grumbling, even though they were now on the A3 and well past Wisley. She was slumped down in her seat twiddling with her iPod, feet on the dashboard.

‘Yes of course,’ Nell told her, ‘and it’s not part of your punishment; it’s just a nice family lunch with your gran.’

‘She’d rather it was Seb,’ Mimi said, with some justification.

‘She loves you both,’ Nell said. ‘And she’ll be thrilled to see you. She doesn’t often, these days. You’re always busy or out.’

‘I’m supposed to be out; I’m a teenager. Wouldn’t you worry if I had like no friends?’

‘No danger of that being a cause for worry – you never seem to be short of friends.’ Nell sighed. How many minutes had Mimi not been on the phone or computer since she’d woken up late on Saturday afternoon? She could probably count them on one hand. News of Mimi’s graveyard adventure must have reached every person she’d ever met in the whole world and her whole life, and it had been elevated to the kind of major drama that, in the retelling, had become highly enviable and hugely glamorous. Mimi was gleefully delighted to relive the entire event for anyone who asked. Even being confined to home made her some kind of star among her peers, and the words, ‘It’s like so not fair’ were the refrain of the day. Nell was half-inclined to give up on the going-out ban, in the interests of getting back to normal and depriving Mimi of glorying in victim status.

The driveway to Gillian’s house was overhung with drooping laurels and leggy hydrangeas and was clearly becoming too much for the once-a-week gardener. Thanks to Steve’s classes, all Nell could think was that the overgrown shrubs offered too much cover from which a lurking burglar could case the place. At some point she’d have to bring up the subject of security – Larchfield would be such an easy-peasy target with its simple Yale locks and fragile single-glazed windows. As well as feeling some despair about the house’s exterior, Nell felt mildly uneasy inside this house where she’d grown up. It wasn’t connected with reverting to childhood and unwelcome parental authority, but more to do with noticing small signs of her mother’s advancing age and incipient frailty. Gillian would not take kindly to being incapacitated even in a minor way (well, who would?) and Nell wondered how on earth, when the time came, she would be able to persuade her that there were easier ways of living than in this rambling, out-of-date, draughty house that must be ruinously expensive to heat.

Each time she was here, worrying new evidence of domestic decay and shabbiness presented itself. Last visit, she’d noticed the window frames looked rotten. Where paint had chipped off at the corners, damp had got in and the wood felt soft and spongy. A burglar wouldn’t need to concern himself with locks – he could just punch the wood away. Gillian had dismissed that as being down to a spell of wet weather, certain it would dry out and somehow mend itself. This time, too, the stair carpet had newly loose threads that would soon become dangerous. Gillian had a stalwart ‘it’ll see me out’ attitude to her home, an attitude that she wouldn’t dream of applying to her wardrobe, and Nell knew that a suggestion she get a new carpet would be met with a derisive dose of ‘don’t be so silly’. It was contrary in a woman who, only a few weeks ago, was delightedly buying an expensive outfit for a spring funeral for which the potential corpse had yet to stop breathing.

Now, in the kitchen, the fridge had a strange smell that told Nell that either cream or yogurt had spilled and gone mouldy in some essential tubes at the back. Gillian simply said, ‘Oh, I’ll put half a lemon in – that’ll get rid of it.’ Nell resolved to mention all this to her sisters, make sure they kept up to speed about how things were in the old family homestead, see if they would back her up on the matter of security. They didn’t turn up in Guildford very often; Sarah (the clever one) was busy being a GP in Scotland. Claire (the pretty one) lived a Wirral-society whirl of charity events, forever in cocktail dresses and a laser-white smile for the Cheshire Life photographer. When they made it back to Surrey they overlooked the creeping tattiness in the interests of not having to do something about it, somehow certain they could leave all that to Nell (the arty one).

‘Darling, you look terribly tired,’ Gillian said to Nell later, as she handed her a massive slice of tarte Tatin. ‘Have you been working hard?’

‘She’s been going out,’ Mimi told her, giving Nell a triumphant look across the table. They’d gone through the story of Mimi’s cemetery stop-out over the roast lamb, with Nell underplaying the fear aspect of it in favour of amusing her mother. Mimi hadn’t seen the funny side and minded very much being laughed at. Revenge, Nell now realized, was on its way.

‘She’s been going out with men.’ Mimi poured cream all over her pudding, smirking at her grandmother. Nell gave her a warning glare.

‘Have you, darling? So soon?’ Gillian’s eyebrows were up to her hairline.

‘What do you mean, “soon”? Soon after what?’ As if she didn’t know.

‘Soon after Alex … went.’

‘What am I supposed to do? Give it a decent period of mourning? Anyway, I wouldn’t call it “going out with men”. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.’ Nell could feel her voice becoming higher, defensive. Why did her mother still make her feel like this? Did it ever stop, or would she have to wait till Gillian reached her second childhood and it was all the other way round? Lord, would this be her and Mimi one day?

‘Shall I go and make some coffee for you both?’ Mimi asked sweetly. She was smiling now; the grenade had been lobbed into the arena – job done. Nell could see her eyeing her bag, which contained her Gameboy. In ten minutes from now, the kettle would be boiling away (its automatic switch-off was long defunct – another cause for concern. She’d bring a new one next time, even if Gillian told her off for needless profligacy) and Mimi would be feet-up on the sofa, obliviously tap-tapping away at some daft game.

‘Oh please, darling, that would be lovely. And there are some minty chocolates in the fridge – bring those as well.’

‘Ooh great, I will.’ Mimi collected up the plates and sauntered out of the room.

‘Such a sweet girl,’ Gillian said as soon as Mimi was out of hearing range. ‘Now this boyfriend of hers, do keep an eye on him. I hope she doesn’t get too involved too young. It can only lead … well, you know what it can lead to.’

Nell laughed. ‘The boy I got involved with too young was that Marcus you set me up with!’

Gillian frowned at her. ‘I didn’t mean him and you know it. That chap who lived in the old house died, by the way, but only this last week. I was beginning to wonder if I’d get any wear out of the jacket and skirt I bought in Richmond with you that other Sunday; the weather’s turning so warm!’

‘Mum – you’re all heart!’ Nell laughed.

‘At my age, funerals are quite frequent social events,’ Gillian told her. ‘You pretend you owe it to the deceased to look smart, but really you’re along for the party after and you quite enjoy all the dressing up. Now – before we join Mimi with the coffee, tell me – who have you been going out with? Does he have … er … sterling qualities?’

‘Do you mean money?’ Patrick had been a rich boy. Gillian had approved of that aspect of him – but only that.

‘Yes. Of course I do!’ Gillian laughed. ‘If you have the choice of money or not-money, well, it can be a comfort in the difficult times.’

‘No it can’t,’ Nell said bluntly. ‘Difficult times are just that – whatever the circumstances. I should know. And no – I don’t think Steve is what you’d call loaded.’

He’s probably got a gun that is, though, she couldn’t help thinking. ‘He teaches self-defence, personal safety. He’s an ex-detective. I’ve been going to his classes – I told you about them.’

‘Ah, police. A solid citizen, then. He sounds a steady sort. That’s also important.’ Nell seemed to remember that A Steady Sort had been Gillian’s approving verdict on Alex, too.

‘Yes. You’d think he was.’ Nell didn’t much want to talk about Steve – she was saving dealing with him till she got home. Phone or email wasn’t going to be enough – she wanted to see him; find out, if the letter business was him, what he thought he was playing at.

‘Well, come on then.’ Gillian was impatient. ‘Do tell. Where does he live? Have you been there? What’s it like?’

Nell smiled. What to say? That Steve’s bed had a headboard with an extensive choice of convenient anchor points to which you could be chained or handcuffed; that he possessed a range of S&M gear that would be the envy of a brothel madam; and that if you got on the wrong side of him he had a cage you could be confined in while he debated the choice of weapon with which to beat your attitudes into shape?

‘He’s got a riverside flat in Putney. It’s really quite nice but … don’t rush out to buy the wedding hat just yet. I doubt if I’ll be seeing him again, not as a date. Not that it really was. It was only lunch.’

She wasn’t going to mention Ed. Gillian might consider dating one man to be a minor and forgivable event. Dating two would look close to desperation.

‘Oh!’ Gillian looked so disappointed, Nell almost felt sorry she wasn’t prepared to give Steve another chance. Maybe, in the interests of keeping her mother happy, she should try out a little light spanking. ‘Never mind,’ Gillian continued, ‘but do give any passing men a sporting chance. After all, at your age …’

This was new, Nell thought. Maybe she would – one day – mention Ed.

‘Oh thanks!’ Nell laughed. ‘At my age I’m supposed to be grateful for any attention going!’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to say that … and I wouldn’t ever suggest a lowering of standards … but …’

‘Good. Because I’m not looking for anyone, OK? I’m perfectly all right on my own.’

‘Quite. And you’ve got the children. Remember you wouldn’t have those if you’d stayed with …’

Oh, here it came. What would Gillian say if she knew that Patrick was on hold in her computer, right now? She would probably be sharpening some kitchen knives and buying a nice new funeral outfit, something suitable for wearing to a murder victim’s send-off. Though whether the victim would be Nell or Patrick was anyone’s guess.

‘Look, give it a rest, Mum. Patrick was over so many years ago, OK? Now – coffee? I can hear the kettle boiling away to itself in the kitchen. You really need a new one, you know.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Gillian said. ‘That one will see me out.’