‘Er, no.’

‘But you worked together at the Gen?’

‘What?’

‘The General Hospital. In Nottingham.’

I shook my head. ‘Really, I didn’t know her well. We just trained together and went our separate ways.’

He nodded. ‘She was a popular lass, bless her. Always had a lot of friends.’

‘She certainly did.’ I felt the sweat trickling down my armpits.

‘And a first-class nurse. We were so proud when she got that award.’

I had to extricate myself. ‘Actually I never took up the nursing,’ I said. ‘I moved to London and became a teacher, and got married and had children. But we split up recently, my husband and I, and that’s when I saw the notice in the paper, and remembered your wife and how fond I’d been of her.’ This mixture of lies and truth scrambled my brain, but I persevered. ‘So I came today to pay my respects and tell you how sorry I was.’

Evan’s eyes filled with tears. He pulled me to him and held me close. This was so unexpected that the blood rushed to my face.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He let me go and wiped his eyes.

I was shocked at my reaction. Nobody had touched me for so long that it took me a moment to regain my breath.

Just then somebody tapped Evan’s shoulder. As he moved away he turned to me, raised his eyebrows and shrugged. There was something intimate about this, something conspiratorial.

I took an Uber home and sat in the garden. It was early evening and shadows slanted across the lawn. In the forsythia a blackbird poured out its song. Despite my headache from the wine I felt a surge of satisfaction. I’d done it! Azra would have been proud of me. I’d gatecrashed a stranger’s funeral and been hugged by her husband. You have to move fast, Azra had said. That dress had emboldened me. Clothes can do that, of course; they can transform you into somebody else. Without this there’d be no fashion industry.

But what I hadn’t expected was Evan. For, by an extraordinary stroke of luck, the grieving widower had turned out to be remarkably attractive. Tall, tanned, crinkly smile. Not entirely unfuckable.

I was desperate for a man. You know that, of course. But since that meeting with Greg it had grown even more unattainable. For Greg had unravelled the last shred of my already-ravaged self-esteem and filled me with bitterness and bile. It’s not a good look in anyone, especially when they’re my age.

But now I felt the old machinery rumble into action, like a boiler clicking into life and warming up the house. It was the thrill of romance, a sensation I hadn’t felt since I was young.

I know what you’ll say. Wouldn’t it be cruel, you’ll say, to target a man who was grieving? A man weakened and disorientated by loss? Wasn’t that like a lion picking out the most vulnerable antelope in the herd?

You bet. Ever heard about the survival of the fittest?