Hugo and I first met when we were about seventeen, at Pat Hendrick's farm. Oh, I knew about him and had seen him around before that, everyone had, but it was the first time we actually made contact. Previously it had been rare sightings in church, on Christmas or Easter mornings, or at the Cheshires’ annual drinks party where children came, too. As far as Belinda was concerned, of course, we were obviously in the wrong camp since Mum was Babs’ best friend, so we were never invited to the Boxing Day shindig at their house, or to summer parties in the grounds. My dad shot with Roger occasionally, though, and they had mutual friends in the army and liked each other, so there wasn't much Belinda could do about that. Belinda was actually always terribly friendly towards us on those few churchy mornings: she'd make a point of coming across and chatting to my parents, greeting me warmly, asking me what I was up to. She had her own style, whatever Babs said. And who knew if her heart was breaking inside? The older I've got the more I've sympathized with Belinda — for obvious reasons — and admired her courage. It can't have been easy to have the whole neighborhood know about your husband's philandering, whispering about you in public, although Babs would say Belinda was not the victim.

My mother wouldn't discuss it, and whenever I brought it up in a cosy moment and asked her what Babs meant by that, she'd sigh and say it was all terribly difficult, but really there were only three people who knew the true story and she did wish Babs wouldn't feed me snippets of gossip. To be fair this had only happened once, when I'd pumped her for information at the Cheshires’ party, one of the few occasions Babs and Belinda were in the same room.

Hugo had been at the party as well, with his elder sister Etta, looking bored, as we all were. Awkward, too, in that in-between-age sort of way: we knew each other well enough to recognize, but not to go and talk to, being at different schools. Anyway, I'd see him there every year, tall, blond and a bit gangly, looking up from under his long fringe which he'd sweep impatiently to one side, with his father's blue eyes, muttering to Etta occasionally, but we never actually met. Also, to be fair, we both knew a few people there of our own age, girls from the Pony Club for me, and local boys who sailed for him. So we chatted to our own set and circled each other warily at these events, only our heights and our hairstyles and our terrible complexions varying. Two young people, without dislike or suspicion, just an awful lot of issues and hang-ups and insecurities of their own.