I'd driven there once, to Milverton Gardens; out of some sort of strange curiosity. It was in the days just after my divorce, when I often drove all the way to Cornwall in a sea of tears with Peter in the back; pretty deranged, not knowing what to do with myself, and occasionally doing the wrong thing, like turning up on the Bellingdons’ doorstep. Oh yes, there's much I'd prefer to forget. Roger had been sweet. He'd sat on the beach and chatted kindly to me, but Belinda pretended not to be in, even though her car was there and she never walked anywhere. That was when I'd driven on to her childhood home, in Truro. It was one of five houses, neat and pristine with an immaculate front garden. A girl left the house next door in perfect tennis whites, swinging a racquet. I remember staring up at the windows, hoping for goodness knows what: some sort of epiphany about what had happened to me, what had become of my life. For some reason I always had Belinda at the center of it all, the root cause, but I knew not why, had no idea why I felt compelled to get to the bottom of her like this. Later I'd drive back, exhausted, to London.

I shook myself now as I rounded the corner into the stable yard, a regrouping gesture. A shedding mechanism, wanting to rid myself of all that long-ago shame and detritus. Somehow I knew it was a skin I'd never quite slough off, but as I walked into the yard, the familiar smell of hay, feed, tack, hoof oil and all things horsey had its required, soothing effect. Below the clock tower where the loose boxes were, five immaculate mounts were tied to rings outside their stables, shiny bottoms towards me, tacked up and ready to go, head collars over bridles. Iris had her bottom to me too, bending and picking out the rear hind of the nearest horse. She turned. Raised her eyebrows.

“Dressed for the Bahamas?" she enquired, eyeing my strappy top and skinny jeans.

I grinned. "Babs told me the dress code. And I've been inside all day, Iris, in this beautiful weather. Thought I'd get a tan."

She lowered the hoof gently and stood up. "Yes, well, Babs still rides in a bikini top so you shouldn't take any notice of her. I was just getting her ladyship's horse ready, heaven forbid she should do it herself."

"You've tacked up five," I said, looking along the line.

"Oh no, the other two did their own. We're a bit of a gang this evening. Ah, here she is. In time to finish the pedicure." She waved the hoof pick at her friend as the red convertible swept into the yard.

“Sorry, darling!" Babs called to her as she jumped out. "Got delayed watching Shona — I'm addicted! It's worse than The Archers!"