“Oh, no. I'm still touching wood about next week. Quick!”

We hurriedly found a table leg each, shut our eyes, took our feet off the floor and counted to ten, as we had done since childhood. Then we laughed and sank into our rosé.

"And you?"

I told her much of what she knew already: we'd emailed now and then even though we hadn't seen much of each other. I told her about my painting and I told her Mum's news and about Peter's success at Oxford. She listened. Then she frowned and leaned forward, arms folded on the table.

"OK, well, that much, apart from Peter, I pretty much already knew. And huge congrats to him, by the way, I'll send him a text. But what about you?"

"What d’you mean?"

"Well, have you moved on? Found someone else?"

I laughed and took a nervous sip of wine. "You sound like Peter."

"Well, good. I'm glad he's on it. Heck, you're not even Catholic, like me. What's the problem?"

“There isn't one," I said stubbornly. I was about to embark on my tedious Tim and Rupert lies but found I didn't have the energy. "I hear you saw Tommy," I said, changing the subject.

"Yes, he came to the fete." She sat back and smiled. "I mean, opening a fete, can you believe it? I nearly fell over when they asked me."

"You'll be launching ships next," I warned.

She made a face. “Talk about scraping the barrel. And Tommy was no help. He insisted on Whipping Up The Crowd, as he called it — such as it was, three men and a dog — clapping and wolf-whistling very loudly when I'd done the deed with the scissors and ribbon. He even brought along a stash of booklets I'd written years ago on Cornish tin mines — who knows where he found those – asked people if they'd like them autographed. They did, too, it was beyond embarrassing. So Tommy's dissolving with laughter, OK, as I have to inscribe one to Maureen, whose sheepdog howls with delight whenever I come on TV, apparently. I told Maureen her dog is probably allergic to me and should be allowed to leave the room."

I laughed. But I was surprised all over again. "I didn't know you and Tommy were such mates?"

"Oh, we've kept in touch. Years ago his mother got him to write to me, you knew that."

“Did I?"

"Yes, after that whole hunting debacle. When he went home she could tell something had really upset him and she suggested he wrote. I see him when he's over. He's a laugh."

"You never said."

"Oh, and when would I have said, you recluse? And anyway, on the odd occasion I do see you, we only seem to talk about Hugo."