‘I do hope you’re not offended.’ Mrs Meadows quickly placed down the tin. ‘I mean he’s never said anything especially vindictive … he just seems to find you very …’ – she frowned – ‘entertaining, I suppose.’

‘Well I’m sure I find Mr Huff quite “entertaining” too.’ I smiled, grimly.

‘Oh you are offended!’ Mrs Meadows looked crestfallen. ‘Please don’t be! I was only …’ She frowned again. ‘This might sound rather pathetic, but I was only a little bit put out because … I mean only wondering whether perhaps he might … whether he might sometimes talk about … well, about me in an equally entertaining way to … well, to you.’

How to respond to this? I drew a deep breath and tucked my hair behind my ear.

‘If I can be honest with you,’ I said, ‘Mr Huff and I haven’t spoken very much, not about general subjects. Only about – you know – practical things, really.’

Mrs Meadows looked slightly dejected.

‘But he did … uh …’ I frowned, racking my brains. ‘He did mention that you had very lovely borders this year. Over at Lamb House.’

‘The garden’s opened to the public for several weeks during the summer’ – Mrs Meadows nodded – ‘as a part of the leasing arrangement. In fact you probably know that already as a long-term local resident …’ She sighed. ‘Not terribly entertaining, though, is it,’ she added, ‘the borders at Lamb House?’

I gazed at her, blankly, and then:

Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Mrs Meadows is actually … is actually in love with Mr Huff!

(Or – at the very least – she thinks that she is.)

Why didn’t I …?

Oh my … Oh my goodness!

She’s in love with him – with Mr Huff – the foolish thing!

I tucked my hair behind my ear, somewhat at a loss for anything to say, then I tucked it again, a second time, behind the same ear.

‘You know, now I actually … in fact now I actually come to think of it …’ I stuttered, cheeks reddening (why am I blushing? Why?), ‘he did mention something about … about your being very beautiful – beautifully groomed. And a poet. And that you got a … a first-class honours degree in English and Philosophy from Durham University.’

‘My degree was actually in Pure Maths and Engineering.’ She grimaced. ‘I lied.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I had a kind of a … a crisis of confidence during my Ph.D. and then reinvented myself as a lady poet.’

‘Oh.’

‘Did he say anything else?’ Mrs Meadows persisted, her appetite for compliments plainly not yet quite satisfied.

‘Um …’ I frowned, momentarily stumped. ‘Uh … Oh yes! He was very … very droll, as I remember, about a lunch you shared at the Mermaid when he first arrived in the area. He said the food was absolutely terrible – unforgivably bad—’

‘Really?’ Mrs Meadows interrupted, looking slightly put out.

‘But that the company was truly excellent. Wonderful. In fact he said how disappointed he was when you were called away to Coventry to help your sister stage-manage the grand opening of her butterfly farm. He said that it was something you both shared … you know, had in common … this … this strong entrepreneurial … uh …’