‘I see.’ Mrs Meadows quietly digested this information.

(Gracious! How riveting! How revealing! She likes tall men! Just fancy that!)

‘And I suppose I quite like … well, practical men. And kind men. Gentle. Brave. Loyal, with a … a bit of a social conscience …’

‘You prefer boring men.’ Mrs Meadows nodded. ‘I don’t mean that in a critical way,’ she added, ‘it’s very sensible. You’re not attracted to unpredictable, creative men. Or dangerous men.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not dangerous men. The very opposite of that.’

‘A safe man. Someone reliable.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded.

‘Not a charmer, like Mr Huff.’

‘No.’ I shook my head again. ‘Although I’ve never actually witnessed Mr Huff’s charming side.’

‘Haven’t you?’ Mrs Meadows looked shocked.

‘No.’

‘How odd.’

Mrs Meadows appraised me, intently, as if expecting to detect some kind of glaring piece of physical evidence about my person as to how I might have developed an immunity to the abundant charms of Mr Huff.

I had found a pencil (in the cutlery drawer, from which I also removed an old toothpaste tube and an ancient stick of celery. Mr Huff really was a pig). Now I just needed to find a small scrap of …

‘He’s so very charming, though, and my worry is’ – Mrs Meadows grimaced – ‘… my worry is that I might’ve been a little bit too … too attentive … too … demonstrative … too eager to please, too …’ She struggled to find the right word, then finally settled on, ‘too easy.’

Easy?

‘Easy?’ I repeated, concerned (for whom, I’m not entirely certain).

‘Yes. After breakfast yesterday. When he confided in me about his … his wife …’

‘Kimberly.’ I nodded. ‘It was terribly sad. But I believe they were separated. They lived on different continents, you know.’

‘Are the North and the South Americas different continents?’ Mrs Meadows wondered. ‘Aren’t the Americas one continent?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ I admitted.

Easy?

‘I just felt this enormous rush of compassion towards him,’ Mrs Meadows continued, ‘and then afterwards, after I …’ – she waved her hand, expressively – ‘I mean after we …’ – she waved her hand again – ‘he started going on about the incredible intensity of his grief. He said he was almost … almost insensible with grief, how his grief was actually almost … had an almost “psychedelic” quality about it … which – I must confess – is definitely a new one on me.’

Psychedelic?

She looked over for any input. I just stared back at her, wide-eyed.

Did this …? Was she …? Had they …? Was Sage Meadows actually saying that there had been – between them – the two of them – that they’d actually had … had relations? Mrs Sage Meadows and Mr Franklin D. Huff?

Relations?

Intimacies?

How else to interpret that non-specific yet very specific waving of the hand, twice?

I felt quite horrified.

I couldn’t pretend otherwise.

I don’t really know why.