‘I do love afternoon tea,’ Betty says. ‘It revives you at that time of the day when you’re flagging, I always think.’

‘The meal I’ve never understood is brunch,’ Mercia says thoughtfully. ‘I can’t fit brunch into my day at all. It’s like an overblown elevenses, with pancakes instead of biscuits.’

‘It’s not elevenses,’ Betty says, shaking out her napkin. ‘Elevenses comes between breakfast and lunch, whereas brunch replaces breakfast and lunch. Isn’t that right, Kim?’

‘I think so.’ I’m flattered that she’s asking my opinion. ‘It’s American, I believe. Heavier than breakfast but lighter than lunch.’

‘Americans don’t have tea though, do they? So after brunch, what time would their evening meal be?’

‘Oh, gosh …’

This conversation is quite exciting, because it makes us feel cosmopolitan, being in a French restaurant discussing American mealtimes.

The cakes, when they come, are wonderful. I feel as if I’ve never eaten cakes quite this good before. Presently, I notice that our glasses are empty, so we look around for our waitress and I alert her, with more drama than is usual for me, to the unfolding emergency of the empty glasses. She says that for economic reasons, it would be better to buy a bottle rather than three more glasses, especially if we want three more glasses after that.

I must say, I sober up at the idea of buying nine glasses of prosecco in the middle of the afternoon. But, of course, it only amounts to three each, which feels perfectly manageable, or doable as my son, George, would call it, so I agree on the bottle.

Betty and Mercia are looking pink and flushed. I expect I am, too. I feel carefree and young, and even though I wasn’t going to talk about Enid today, she pops into my head in case I’ve forgotten her. Hello, here I am!

‘Enid would have loved this,’ I say, reaching for a scone. But as I look at the condensation beading on the glass, I think it’s more likely that she’d be appalled by my extravagance.

However, the women are nodding.

‘Absolutely,’ Mercia says. ‘To Enid!’

‘Enid.’

It’s funny how you can be married to someone all that time and not be sure you ever knew your wife all that well.

I’m not sure that I know myself anymore. I feel carefree, more carefree than I ought to feel being newly bereaved, and I split the warm scone and put the cream on, and the strawberry jam. I wonder if all couples feel like this. I wonder how well Betty knew Stan, bearing in mind the mix-up about his last resting place. ‘Why did Stan wear safari suits?’ I ask her.