‘You implied by voice.’

‘No, darling, no. Anabel’s lovely. She gets around a lot. She’s so pretty people are bound to talk about her. It’s a pity about her hair.’

‘She’s young, it doesn’t matter what she does to her hair.’ How fast, Matilda thought sadly, one catches the breeze. What am I doing here talking to this spiteful old bag, she isn’t my friend at all.

‘I always loved Tom’s hair, the way it flopped forward.’ Lalage was removing their plates, fetching the next course. ‘The same colour as Anabel’s exactly, wasn’t it?’

Lalage had her back to Matilda who sat forcing herself to be quiet, forcing herself not to get up and hit that freshly lifted face that knew that Tom’s hair only flopped forward when he bent over making love. Then it flopped, but at no other time. She was surprised how mild her feelings were at having what had been a suspicion verified. So what? If he had slept with Lalage it didn’t matter. Once she would have tried to kill Lalage; now she would not even slap her.

They finished the meal to the tune of Lalage’s other affairs, her new fur coat, her new car, a hoped for diamond. As she combed her hair in Lalage’s bedroom Matilda, her feet comfortable in their espadrilles, was able to say with easy laughter:

‘Everything new, darling, face, clothes, car, lovers, everything except old moneybags. You are so clever to hang on to him.’

‘My husband’s not just an old moneybags, Matilda. You are a bitch.’

‘Yes, I know. Thanks for the lunch. Take care of yourself. Give him my love. I suppose he’s a veritable Kojak by now, poor Bertie.’

Matilda crossed Oxford Street and walked down to the Curzon cinema where there was an erotic German film showing. As she settled in her seat she thought idly, Tom must have been sloshed to sleep with Lalage. There was no doubt in her mind that he had. She was surprised she did not care. She dozed off after the first half of the film, took a taxi back to John’s house, soaked agreeably in a boiling bath before dressing to go out. If Tom had slept with her friends then life was a little diminished. Time to go, time for the picnic.

‘Would you like to have dinner at the Mirabelle or The Connaught?’ John’s voice called from the landing.

‘You choose John, Piers I mean.’

‘The Mirabelle then, and The Connaught tomorrow.’

‘You spoil me.’ Matilda ran more water in the bath. Staying with John was like having a rich, undemanding husband, though perhaps as a husband he might have demanded more? Somewhere at the back of her mind Matilda knew what he would demand. She decided to entertain him during dinner with a spiced up version of lunch at Lalage’s.