‘Want me to have a look at it?’

‘God, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ve done enough, honestly.’

But the next day there he was on my doorstep, wearing blue overalls like a Pickfords removal man.

It was different this time. Calvin hardly spoke. He seemed distracted, even tetchy, bending under the bonnet in his foolish baseball hat. It was a heavy grey day, not like winter at all; even the weather seemed out of kilter. He poked and prodded, tut-tutting under his breath. When I brought him a mug of tea he merely grunted his thanks. If it was just a chore, why had he come? What had happened to our larky conversations about custard?

I’d been married to a moody man and couldn’t face another. Besides, Calvin was obviously not interested in me and I wasn’t in him. I watched him through the window, willing him to pack up and leave. How irritating that I’d tidied up the house for him and washed my hair. I was simply a foolish old woman with a thickening waist and her grey roots showing.

And yet there he was, straightening up when Mrs Feinstein appeared. The dentist’s wife was pushing a double buggy containing her twins. Calvin bent down and said something to them; she laughed. As she walked off, her blond hair bouncing, he gazed at her, wiping his hands on his overalls.

‘Hey, watch out!’ I called through the open window. ‘Traffic warden!’

While Calvin ran across to his Range Rover, I watched Mrs Feinstein disappear down the street in her black leather jacket. I thought: if her husband hadn’t committed adultery I would never have met this man.

I gazed coldly at Calvin and thought: can I really take seriously a chap whose name is printed on a million men’s underpants?

All except Evan’s. Poor Evan, who wore his wife’s knickers. Who chopped down the trees so she could have a last glimpse of the sky. Except by then it was too late.

That evening my phone rang. It was nine o’clock and I was already in bed. These winter evenings seemed to stretch for ever.

‘You busy?’ asked Calvin. ‘Can I see you?’

‘What, now?’

I kicked aside the duvet and heaved myself out of bed. It was a scramble to get myself ready, my face being smeared with rejuvenating serum and a sort of Tippex pasted around my eyes, allegedly to cure wrinkles. There was also a pungent smell rising from an ointment I’d put on my corns.