‘Deal,’ I said. At that moment, my phone pinged that I had a text. I was going to ignore it when Jon stood up.

‘Take it,’ he said as he headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll get us another glass of wine.’

I took my phone from my bag and looked at the text. Am back in London week after next week. Will call soon to arrange to meet up. OK? Love Michael X

Men are like buses, I thought. No dates for ages then three come at once. Jon, Stuart and now Michael.

‘Anything interesting?’ asked Jon as he came back into the room.

‘Old flame is back in town,’ I said. It wouldn’t do any harm to let Jon know that he had competition, and I wasn’t going to roll over just because he’d asked me on a date.

‘Old flame, huh?’ he asked as he sat down beside me. ‘And is the spark still there?’

‘I guess I’ll have to find out.’

For a brief second, Jon looked vulnerable. ‘You don’t think he is your soldier returned, do you?’

‘Guess I’ll have to find out.’

‘Never go back, that’s my advice,’ said Jon. ‘The past is done with, we have to move on.’

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Of course.’

42

By the end of March, my house was empty and had been cleaned ready for the new owners who were keen to get in before Easter. The sale had gone through in record time with no hold-ups or complications on either side. I went from room to room reliving memories of my time there. Boris and I when I first moved there. I’d been happier then, full of hope for the shop, for a new chapter in my life. Then there were the Richard years, not my best era, with the endless boring dinner parties and lunches entertaining his dull friends. After him came freedom again, a joy at first; I could eat what I wanted again, wear what I pleased, have my own friends round, but that had soon faded and become familiar, and the nagging sense of something or someone missing had taken over.

‘Time to lock up,’ I told myself as I gathered my bag and coat. I thought about letting Jon know that I was going. I hadn’t got back to him about his proposal and he hadn’t pushed, unlike Kevin, who was beginning to be a nuisance, sending texts and phoning late at night.

As I went into the hall, the doorbell rang and, speak of the devil, there he was, standing on the step.

‘Bea,’ he said. He was carrying a battered bunch of flowers, the type you get from the forecourt of a garage. ‘You haven’t been answering my calls so I thought if Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, the mountain better come to Muhammad. So here I am. Are you going somewhere?’