Mma Mateleke sighed. “It’s better than not being alive, I suppose. But there are times when … well, there are times when …” She did not finish her sentence. The waitress had appeared and they gave their orders, Mma Mateleke having coffee and Mma Ramotswe red bush tea. The waitress scribbled down the order and went off. Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend.

“You’re unhappy, Mma?”

Mma Mateleke did not answer immediately. She was seated directly opposite Mma Ramotswe, on the other side of the table, but her eyes were focused elsewhere, looking out into the distance, to the tops of the gum trees lining the road beyond the car park.

“I am happy sometimes, Mma. Then, at other times, I am not happy.” She looked at Mma Ramotswe, as if searching for confirmation. “I think that is probably how it is for most people.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “there are times when I am unhappy and times when I am happy. There are more happy times than unhappy ones, I think.”

“Perhaps,” said Mma Mateleke.

Mma Ramotswe waited for her to say something more, but the other woman was now looking down at the ground, and did not seem to be ready to add to what she had said. “I think that you are unhappy now,” she said, adding, “even if at other times you are happy.”

It was not a remark to take the discussion much further—Mma Ramotswe was aware of that—but it seemed to move something within Mma Mateleke. “Oh, Mma Ramotswe,” she said, “I am very unhappy. I am very unhappy with my husband.”

Mma Ramotswe reached out and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “So, Mma, that’s what it is. It is the same thing that makes so many women unhappy.” And it was; she knew that only too well in her profession. How many women had made their way into her office and started off the consultation with, It is my husband, Mma? How many? She had made no attempt to count them, although the answer could be obtained easily enough by looking through the file that Mma Makutsi kept entitled Unfaithful Husbands. In this file her assistant entered the details of every consultation, every investigation, of such a matter. “It is a very thick file,” Mma Makutsi had once observed. “This is a file that any man should be ashamed to see.”

Mma Ramotswe spoke gently. “He is not behaving well?”

Mma Mateleke shut her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She bit her lip.

“So,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is being unkind?”

This brought a shaking of the head. “No, Mma. He is a generous man. He always gives me as much money as I ask for. It is not that.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. An accusation of adultery was a serious matter, even if made in the context of a private consultation, which this effectively was. “He is … He’s involved with another woman?”