Edward was no longer sitting, but standing, hands in slacks’ pockets, facing the house. Facing me, in fact, and — oh for goodness sake – there it was. Head down and eyes averted, I scuttled to the table, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other.

"Edward, how lovely to see you," I said, keeping my eyes firmly on the refreshments. My hand shook a little as I poured a glass and it seemed to me my voice was different, too. More high-pitched. Squeaky.

“So glad I came," he said, rather assertively for him, and with, when I dared to glance, an alarmingly wide smile. "I thought it was a good decision. But you never quite know till you get there, do you?"

If only he'd take his hands out of his pockets and stop rocking back on his heels like that.

"No — no, you don't. Um, Edward, shall we sit down?" I already was. Firmly. I meant him.

"Yes, OK." He came across, still beaming, but disconcertingly, didn't sit. I handed him a glass without looking. Luckily it made contact with his hand.

"You're looking so well, Flora!" he told me admiringly, with — yes, I had to glance, rude not to — a disconcerting gleam in his eye.

"Oh — well, yes, gosh. I have been . . . well," I said, keeping my eyes low and licking dry lips. “Threw off that dreadful cough I had for ages." I was keen to get away from the aesthetic connotations of Looking Well and on to the more mundane ones of Being Well. He looked a trifle miffed at this and I remembered to flirt a tiny bit.

"But I was just thinking the same about you, Edward. You're positively glowing!"

The beam returned instantly and I prayed he'd sit.

Just . . . effing well . . . sit. Just as he did — finally, thank the Lord — a loud "Coo-ee!" trilled from inside the house. The front door slammed and I swung around in relief. I was fairly sure Edward and I would dry up in seconds on the London social scene, which neither of us participated in, and Babs could surely be relied upon to jabber away flirtatiously until Celia appeared. It was what she did best, after all.

"How are you girls this morning?" she was calling gaily as she came sailing through the sitting room. Out through the French windows she breezed. She was wearing a gingham sundress and white gym shoes. "Have you recovered from your night on the tiles?"

“Yes thanks, Babs. And you, too, I hope?” I asked pointedly, but her eyes were already on our guest, who was politely, and rather disappointingly, getting to his feet.

“Um, Babs, this is Edward. He's a — a great friend of Celia’s,” I finally plumped for, by way of introduction. Babs’ eyes had already traveled low.