‘I will,’ I said, and saw them back out. I was sorry to see them go. I’d been looking forward to an hour catching up with them with a bottle of rosÈ on the decking outside in the warm May sunshine, plus Lorna had promised to help me make a start on the long overdue task of designing the garden borders. ‘And thanks for the plant, Lorna. It’s lovely.’

Lorna stepped forward and hugged me. ‘Keep calm and carry on, as they say.’

‘Ditto,’ said Debs, and hugged me as well.

After they’d gone, I went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. My mind had gone into overdrive. What’d happened? Need 2 talk? That wasn’t like Matt. Over the years, he’d become Mr Incommunicado. He never needed to talk, unless it was to discuss what to get from the farmers’ market for Sunday lunch, or to ensure I recorded some history or sci-fi programme for him while he was out.

I glanced at our wedding photo on the dresser. Thirty years ago. Matt, handsome in his wedding suit, was smiling at the camera, his brown hair worn longer back then. Although padded out around the middle now, with grey flecks through his hair, he looked younger than his sixty-three years. Beside him in the photo frame, I was two sizes smaller, my hair long and chestnut brown, worn straight and loose, and topped with a wreath of white gypsophila to complement a medieval-style ivory velvet dress. I’d wanted to look like one of the Pre-Raphaelite heroines; I was such a romantic back then. My bridesmaids, Angie and Eve, stood to my right. Both were in pale mint velvet: Eve, a waif with long Titian hair; Angie not much taller. She had short dark hair and looked uncomfortable in her dress, much preferring jeans and a T-shirt to anything remotely girlie. So much had changed, of course it had. My hair was now three shades of blonde and shoulder-≠length, and I was no longer a size ten. Angie had moved to New Zealand over twenty years ago and Eve was dead. I missed both of them sorely. And Matt and I … We looked so happy in the photograph: in love, full of hope for the future. It had been a great wedding, a sunny day in a picturesque church in Dorset, then sausage and mash at the local pub with close friends and family, followed by a honeymoon exploring the Cornish coast. We hadn’t had the money for exotic locations – not that we minded. We’d set off in Matt’s Golf convertible, top down all the way, stayed at B & B’s along the route, eaten chips on windy beaches, stuffed ourselves with cream teas in roadside cafÈs and relished every minute of it.