But that story about Greg … how stupid I’d been, blurting it out. I knew why I’d done it. I’d needed to extricate myself from the conversation about Susan. But it was deeper than that. I’d wanted Evan’s sympathy; I’d wanted us to be thrust into intimacy, bound together by a shared sorrow. We were in it together, the two of us; only I could understand how he was feeling.

And it had worked, hadn’t it? Suddenly we’d become close, we could both feel it. I’d left those casserole women way behind.

But I had to watch my step. With those impulsive words I’d planted a minefield. The best way forward would be to avoid the subject of my husband altogether. If it came up I’d simply say the whole thing was too raw to talk about, and that no doubt Evan felt the same about his wife. It would be a relief not to dwell on our mutual bereavement. If the relationship flourished, of course, there might be complications in the future. For instance, what would happen if he talked to my children? Indeed, talked to my friends?

Maybe I’d swallow my pride and confess I’d made the whole thing up. I’d tell him that my husband had run away with my best friend and I’d been so devastated, so utterly humiliated, that I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth.

Fuck it. I’d face all this when the time came. If, indeed, it did come. It was perfectly possible that Evan had felt no flicker of interest in me and was just being polite. I might have imagined the whole thing. After all, when it came to matters of the heart I was pretty rusty. It was only ten days ago that Evan had lost his wife; he was in no state for a new love affair. The man might just want his lawn mowed.

I spent Saturday in a state of turmoil. My emotions spun around wildly; I felt like a teenager. I tried to calm my nerves by hanging up the washing in the garden, usually a therapeutic activity. Baking was another soother of the soul but I had nobody to bake for, and I certainly couldn’t present Evan with one of my legendary orange polenta cakes. That would be a step too far.

There were three cars parked on Evan’s forecourt. What was up? I parked down the road, hauled the grass-encrusted lawnmower from the boot and dragged it along the pavement.

As I eased it between the cars a small girl ran out of the front door. She was wearing a mauve angel dress, complete with tiara. Behind her, a woman appeared.

‘Lyra! Come back inside.’

The little girl saw me and stopped. She turned to her mother. ‘There’s a gardener lady here.’

The woman frowned at me. ‘Don’t scratch our car, will you?’ She pointed to the lawnmower. ‘You can take it round the side.’ She took the little girl’s hand and went back indoors.