‘I’m glad you liked it.’ Mrs Green smoothed Matilda’s duvet. ‘He would have the ratatouille with the mousse, said it had to be eaten up. Getting a trifle mean, our Mr Leach, doesn’t like anything wasted.’

‘It was a very good ratatouille.’

‘I just thought I’d mention it. I wouldn’t like you to think it was my idea.’

Matilda crunched her toast, poured coffee, topped her eggs. There was more to come.

‘It’s his age, Madam.’

Matilda raised an eyebrow, glanced at Mrs Green.

‘The male menopause, Madam.’

‘Go on –’

‘True, Madam, Mr Green has it too.’

‘Wow!’

‘Of course Mr Poliport wouldn’t have –’

‘Didn’t live to have it, Mrs Green.’

‘Oh, Madam.’

‘Don’t let’s think about it.’

‘No, Madam, of course not. But I just thought I’d mention it in case Mr Leach seemed a bit funny.’

‘No funnier than usual.’

‘Oh good. Of course I took Mr Green to the doctor. He takes pills now. That settles him.’

‘Female hormones?’

‘Oh, you know about them.’ Mrs Green was disappointed.

‘I don’t really think Mr Leach needs pills, not yet anyway. But he’s got you to keep an eye on him, lucky fellow.’ She could see that Mrs Green also considered John fortunate.

‘Would Madam like the telephone? I can plug it in for you.’

‘Oh, I would. I’ve got to do something about my hair.’

‘I took a chance. I made an appointment for you at Paul’s for eleven.’

‘Mrs Green, I could kiss you.’

‘Also your friends Lalage and Anne are in London, but Mrs Lucas and Mrs Stern are away, Madam.’

‘You’ve been spying for me!’

‘Anticipating your desires, Madam.’

‘Stop the “Madam”, Mrs Green. You know you call me Matilda to your husband and everyone else.’

Mrs Green laughed. ‘I’ll get the telephone. D’you want your dress for tonight pressed?’

‘No, it’s that black thing of Anabel’s. D’you think I shall look all right in it?’

‘If Anabel does, you will. You are the same size.’

‘Have you seen Anabel lately?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Green, who had, and thought Anabel a selfish good-for-nothing tart to neglect her mother so.

‘Nor have I. She seems to like living in Germany.’

Mrs Green made a non-committal noise and went to fetch the telephone. ‘Don’t be late for your appointment. You know that Paul –’

‘All right, I won’t.’ Matilda telephoned Lalage.

‘Lalage? It’s me. Lunch tomorrow?’

‘La Green warned me,’ shrieked the telephone voice. ‘Of course, sweetie, lunch tomorrow. Come here. Anne left a message. Lunch with her the day after tomorrow. La Green rang her up. All right?’

‘Sure.’

‘See you tomorrow, must rush. I’m having my face done, late already, ’bye.’

‘She’s having her face done, Mrs Green.’

‘Wait till you see it.’ Mrs Green showed her teeth.

‘Oh, Mrs Green, up again? Really?’