When she got back to the office that day, she had not only paid a visit to Harry Moloso's scrapyard, but, having dropped Fanwell at the garage, she had gone on to interview one of the names on the list. This was the newest member of the team, the physical education teacher. The interview had left her none the wiser, and she was keen to hear what Mma Makutsi had discovered in her conversation with Oteng Bolelang. She felt that this investigation was not going to get anywhere, and she needed to talk to Mma Makutsi about it. Her assistant had expressed doubts—and perhaps these were better placed than she had imagined.

The solution to both the anxiety and the need to discuss the case was neatly provided by an invitation to dinner.

“I am going to be eating by myself this evening,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The children are both staying with friends tonight— they like to do that, you know. They like to sleep over at their friends' houses. I think that they like to try different beds!”

“I remember that as a child,” Mma Makutsi said. “I had a friend whose house was better than ours. I always liked going to sleep there. The food was better too.”

“Everybody else's food always is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Especially when you are a child. Everybody else always has a better life than your own. Their parents are nicer. Their house has more comfortable furniture. And so on.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. In her case, of course, everybody else's house really had been better, as the Makutsis did not have much money and this meant their home contained very little furniture. Now, of course, it was different; she had her salary and the money which Phuti gave her. And when she married—if that ever happened—then she would be even more comfortable. Perhaps Mma Ramotswe could come and sleep at her house then. They would have a large guest room with a big double bed and red curtains and …

“I wonder if you would like to eat with me tonight,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I could make some nice stew, and we could talk. You could bring Phuti if you wanted.”

“He cannot come,” said Mma Makutsi quickly—rather too quickly? Mma Ramotswe asked herself—”but I would like that very much.” She was pleased to receive this invitation from Mma Ramotswe, as there was now no food at all left in the house. Yesterday the choice had been between shoes and groceries, and she had chosen shoes. As a consequence Phuti had enjoyed a very frugal meal—”Is there going to be a main course?” he had asked at the end, and she had been obliged to report that the kitchen cupboard was bare. “I almost bought more food,” she said, “but …” The but presaged a story of temptation and fall— a shoe story, in fact—but Phuti had not pressed her and the tale remained untold.

The two women agreed on a time and Mma Ramotswe dropped in at the supermarket on the way home to make sure that she had the necessary supplies. She knew what Mma Makutsi's favourites were, and she would make sure these were on the menu. Mma Makutsi liked chicken, especially if it was smothered in garlic, and she enjoyed ice cream served with tinned South African pears. Mma Ramotswe did not particularly like either of these—certainly she avoided garlic and she found that the slightly grainy texture of pears set her teeth on edge. But she would provide both for Mma Makutsi's sake.