Moira began cracking eggs into a bowl. ‘Instead, the years roll by and look at us now.’

Martin chose to take that literally. ‘You don’t look all that different to me.’

But in some ways that wasn’t true. His wife was still as strikingly beautiful as the day they met in an Oxford pub. Martin remembered catching his breath when he saw her. A tall, graceful girl in a tweed suit, a string of pearls around her neck and the satiny sheen of her long black hair enhancing her creamy complexion.

‘What was that scent you used to wear?’ he asked, its headiness returning to him.

‘Shocking de Schiaparelli.’

‘It sure turned me on!’

‘Perhaps I should begin wearing it again.’

A below the belt jibe if Martin had ever heard one. And one of the ways in which Moira had changed. She knew that his frequent absences from their bed were obligatory. Due to work. That he wanted her no less than he always had.

Though Andy sometimes played around on their trips to the States or wherever, Martin never had. Rhoda Frolich, though she didn’t know it, had more to complain about than Moira. And coming home to this, after breaking his head writing lyrics all night, was all Martin needed.

Andy, on the other hand, would now be being fussed over by Rhoda, to whom he seemed to be husband and child rolled into one. The Frolichs had no kids and that was Martin’s impression. Or, he conjectured, had Rhoda set herself up in competition with her mother-in-law? Something had to account for the attention that guy got from his wife!

A picture of a limousine arriving at the commune then returned to Martin. And of a uniformed chauffeur carrying a huge earthenware dish. ‘Remember how Andy’s mother used to send him a Sabbath Eve dinner, every Friday?’ he said with a grin.

Moira said tartly, ‘Well, he married a shiksah, like you did. His mother didn’t want him to forget he’s a Jew.’

‘In this world it would be impossible to forget,’ Martin informed her. ‘Even for those who’d like to, and Andy’s never been one of them. All it takes is for someone to make a slip of the tongue. As for Andy’s mum – well, I’ll grant she’s a fusspot. But couldn’t your interpretation of why she sent him those dinners be all in your mind?’

Moira was now scrambling the eggs and kept her gaze fixed on the pan. ‘It was what Rhoda and I thought at the time, and my experience with your family has done nothing to change my impression.’

Their son’s entrance cut short what might otherwise have become a contentious discussion, and it struck Martin that once again religion was at the heart of it.