Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. She had feared that something like this would happen. Ever since Mma Makutsi had become engaged, she had been concerned that something would go wrong. That had nothing to do with Phuti Radiphuti himself, who seemed a good candidate for marriage, but it had everything to do with the bad luck that seemed to dog Mma Makutsi. There were some people who were badly treated by life, no matter how hard they worked and no matter what efforts they made to better their circumstances. Mma Makutsi had done her very best, but perhaps she would never get any further than she had already got, and would remain an assistant detective, a woman from Bobonong, with large round glasses, and a house that, although comfortable, had no hot water supply. Phuti Radiphuti could have changed everything, but now would not. He would be just another missed opportunity, another reminder of what might have been had everything been different.

“I think that he must have been working late,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You should call him on the telephone and find out. Yes, just use the office phone. That is fine. Call Phuti.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, I cannot do that. I cannot chase him.”

“You’re not chasing him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not chasing a man just to speak to him on the telephone and ask him why he did not come to your house. Men cannot let women cook for them and not eat the food. Everybody understands that.”

This remark did not seem to help, and in the face of Mma Makutsi’s sudden and taciturn gloominess, Mma Ramotswe herself became silent.

“That is why I’m late this morning,” Mma Makutsi said suddenly. “I could not sleep at all last night.”

“There are many mosquitoes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They do not make it easy.”

“It had nothing to do with mosquitoes,” Mma Makutsi mumbled. “They were sleeping last night. It was because I was thinking. I think it is all over, Mma.”

“Nonsense,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not over. Men are very strange—that is all. Sometimes they forget to come to see ladies. Sometimes they forget to get married. Look at Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Look at how long it took him to get round to marrying me.”

“I cannot wait that long,” said Mma Makutsi. “I was thinking of being engaged for six months at the most.” She reached for a piece of paper on her desk and stared at it. “Now I shall be doing this filing for the rest of my life.”

Mma Ramotswe realised that she could not allow this self-pity to continue. That would only make it worse, in her view. So she explained to Mma Makutsi that she would have to seek out Phuti Radiphuti and reassure him. If she did not wish to do that, then she herself, Mma Ramotswe, could do it for her. Her offer was not taken up, but she repeated it, and it was reflected upon. Then the working day began. It was the day on which bills were due to be sent out, and that was always an enjoyable experience. If only there were a day on which bills were all returned, fully paid, that would be even more enjoyable. But the working world was not like that, and there were always more that went out than came in, or so it seemed. And in this sense, Mma Ramotswe mused, the working world reflected life; which was an adage worthy of Aunty Emang herself, even if she was not quite sure whether it was true or not.