‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, forget it.’

‘No, tell me what you mean. You’re saying I undermine you?’

‘No! I’m sorry, it’s just that sometimes you do just what you say Greg did.’

‘Greg? What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Squelching.’ I paused. ‘Never mind, I probably am a bit pathetic.’

We were sitting on the patio. I gazed at Greg’s collection of herbs, each in its terracotta pot. They were already choked with weeds. He’d been a terrific cook, much better than me. Ottolenghi recipes, using ingredients one never used again; our cupboards were full of the obscure little packets and bottles. And he’d loved giving dinner parties. It was one of his best qualities. He liked preparing in advance, the rows of chopped herbs, the more arcane the better, the obligatory heap of pomegranate seeds. He even wrote out placements, standing at the kitchen table, biro in hand. Who’s going to sit next to your stroppy friend Azra?

She was stroppy, he was right. Suddenly I missed him so much my eyes filled with tears. Why had he left me, just when we were free to go anywhere and do whatever we wanted? We had so many plans. It was so companionable, getting old together. Did he ever regret abandoning our shared life? Did he really want to live like a hermit, gales roaring around him and only a bike for transport?

Today Azra seemed a poor substitute. How difficult women were, compared to men! She sat beside me, rolling a cigarette while she gazed into the middle distance. She’d painted her nails silver, and wore her red velvet leggings and a beautiful stripy jumper she’d found in a charity shop. Somebody must have spent weeks knitting that, and finding its star-shaped buttons. Azra wasn’t beautiful, but she was stylish and sexy and utterly confident of the effect she had on other people. It was hard to believe she was seventy.

To change the subject, I told her about the men at the local car wash, who I’d discovered were Syrian. One of Azra’s many jobs was working with Syrian refugees at a community hub in Tottenham. I said how courteous and kind the car-washers were. ‘Trouble was, they’ve retuned my radio to Kiss FM and I can’t get it back to Radio 4.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a pantywaist.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Pantywaist?’

‘You’re a perfectly capable woman, don’t pull this helpless shit.’

‘What’s got into you?’

‘Nothing!’ She tipped back her head and drained her mug. ‘I’m just saying you can learn to tune a radio. It’s not rocket science.’

In this mood she needed careful handling. I didn’t reply and we sat there in silence. It had rained during the night and the daffodils’ lovely heads were still bowed from their battering. I remember that day so well, how distracted Azra seemed, tense and quivering, like a racehorse. I thought: sometimes I don’t really like you at all.

In mid-April something happened that was to change everything. It didn’t seem significant at the time. It simply seemed material for a comic anecdote, funnier in the telling than in the experience.