This instant recognition was a bit of a shock, but when she thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Adrian had said he’d told his wife about her, and Gwyneth would have had plenty of opportunities to see her walking back and forth along the High Street. The shops on the parade were only yards away from Wharfedale. Instinctively, Carole looked towards the windows. Net curtains, so to see anything outside in detail Gwyneth would have had to peer around the edges. But she wouldn’t have been the first person in Fethering to have done that.

‘Hello. A pleasure to meet you,’ said Carole, in a manner that would have made her parents proud.

‘I’d offer to make you coffee, but …’ Gwyneth spread her hands wide to sum up her helplessness.

‘I’ve just had coffee, thank you. At Starbucks. That’s where I met Adrian.’

‘Oh.’ Gwyneth looked at her husband.

Rather awkwardly, he said, ‘Happy coincidence.’ Then, swiftly, ‘But can I get you anything, my love? A drink or …?’

‘No, thank you. Ooh, there is something you could do for me, Adrian …’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a parcel in the kitchen that I want to catch the post.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no rush for that, my love.’

Carole checked her watch. Not yet noon. ‘No. You’ve missed the morning collection at the Post Office. And the afternoon one doesn’t go till five thirty.’

‘I would like it to catch the post,’ said Gwyneth definitively. ‘If you don’t do it now, Adrian, we’ll forget.’

Some invisible marital semaphore must have been exchanged, because he instantly said, ‘Very well, my love.’

When he got to the sitting-room door, his wife said, ‘Close that. Then Carole and I can get to know everything about each other.’

Carole bridled at the thought. The idea of anyone getting to know everything about her was an appalling one. And, when she came to think of it, a Northern one too. Still, over the years she had managed to frustrate many people’s attempts to get near her real self. She didn’t think the wheelchair-bound Gwyneth Greenford would prove too much of a challenge.

‘So, Carole,’ came the opening salvo, ‘Adrian tells me you’re retired. What did you do during your working life?’

This was easy stuff. A quick résumé of her career at the Home Office (omitting the fact that she was edged out of employment a little earlier than she would have wished). All facts, nothing that came near to being personal.

‘And are you married?’

Potentially trickier, but straight, unembroidered answers had worked in the past. ‘Divorced,’ she said and, to avoid being asked for details, went straight on, ‘I have one son, who’s married with two daughters.’

It seemed to have worked. No enquiries about the divorce. All Gwyneth said was, ‘Adrian and I don’t have children.’