"No, darling, that's an estuary. But you can just around the bay, in Portmarrow, where I am. We'll go one day if you like. I'll see you up at the stables, then, Flora. About half an hour?"

"Perfect. And they won't mind?"

"Certainly not, they're delighted to have them exercised, as you know. I'm going like this and Iris has got plenty of hats up there, so don't dress up. See you in a bit."

And off she sauntered to her red, convertible Triumph Stag, pert bottom swinging in white capri pants, and about to look even more fetching astride some huge, prancing steed.

“She is so cool," breathed Celia as we watched her roar off down the track, blonde hair streaming. "I want to be her when I grow up. In fact, I want to be her now. And still surfing."

“She always used to go before breakfast. As did Roger. And then back to her cottage to warm up."

"I can imagine. But not Belinda's thing?"

"Belinda never warms up."

As I walked up to the stables later, along the rutted track between the fields, my boots and hat swinging in a basket, I wondered if Celia was right: that I was getting Belinda slightly out of proportion. Overreacting and losing perspective — it wasn't unusual. It was just that she had such inconvenient ideas for other people's pleasure, I decided, narrowing my eyes into the distance at the lowering sun. And was totally flummoxed when they disagreed. When we were first married, Hugo and I had found a sweet little apartment in Clapham, which was near the Common for me to push a stroller, and convenient for his office. We were all set to exchange, when Belinda arrived to inspect it and declared it was too damp for poor Flora and a baby and that I'd have no local friends. I tried, without success, to tell her I had at least two local friends and that the surveyor had said the damp was easily resolved, but in the blink of an eye she'd moved us to Fulham, where I knew no one (principally because no one could afford it — most of my friends were still drifting around in a post-university haze, bug-eyed at my marriage and imminent baby), and from where it was harder for Hugo to get to work.

When we'd moved in and I was two months away from giving birth, she'd arrived again, beaming and bearing gifts — beautiful cashmere for the baby and expensive bath oils for me — and we'd sat chatting cosily in the kitchen whilst Hugo was at work. I was thrilled. I thought she'd finally warmed to me. Her absence at our wedding still chilled me and it had never been mentioned, never explained. And yet here Belinda was, in her very best navy woolen dress with matching jacket and pearl brooch on the lapel, reaching for my hand over tea and banana bread — I told you, unnervingly tactile. She smiled excitedly.