That it would soon be six years since Pete died seemed impossible. The first two had been a fog of numbness, overlaid by the supreme effort just to survive day to day. During the next four she had felt a gradually increasing acceptance and, along with the mist of sadness that never seemed quite to disperse, the burgeoning reality that there were still pleasures to be had out in the world. But romance was in a different category: an entirely alien concept.

Her eye caught the photograph on the chest of drawers: Pete, larger than life, blond, laughing and handsome in a T-shirt and shorts, his arms around Joni and Peggy – then about fourteen and eleven respectively – squinting in the sunshine at the top of a hiking trail in the Alps. Her husband’s smile did not appear reproachful. Far from it. ‘Why not, Sara?’ he seemed to be asking.

‘Why not?’ was his favourite question whenever Sara expressed doubt about a situation. He’d held all the confidence for them both.

‘It’s just a drink, Mum,’ Peggy was urging gently. ‘How bad can it be? If he’s gross, do a runner. At your age you can be honest, can’t you?’

Sara winced at the use of her most hated phrase, ‘at your age’ – she didn’t consider herself old, yet, at fifty-eight – but held her peace. ‘Perhaps not too honest.’ She wavered. Maybe she should go.

‘What’s his name?’ her daughter was asking.

‘Colin.’

‘Seriously? Colin? ’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

Peggy began to giggle. ‘Nothing, Mum, sorry. It’s just Lizzie at school had a gerbil called Colin.’

‘Look, do you want me to go on this date or not?’ she said briskly, but was unable to stem her own laughter. She felt a little mad right now.

‘I do! I do!’ Peggy insisted, clearly trying to bring herself under control. ‘So, what are you wearing?’

‘The blue dress with the white piping. The one I wore for Granny’s birthday … Do you think it’s too smart?’ Sara’s wardrobe was not extensive. She had work clothes and a few summer dresses, the rest mostly jeans. She thought jeans might look as if she didn’t care … which she didn’t, really, but still.

‘No, it’s perfect. You look gorgeous in it. Knock ’em dead, Mum!’

Encouraged by her daughter’s enthusiasm, Sara straightened her shoulders. ‘Don’t say that, I just might,’ she joked. ‘He’s admitting to sixty-three, so he’s probably ninety with a gammy leg and no teeth.’ She heard a snort of laughter from her daughter. ‘The photo’s probably of his grandson! I’ll blame you, obviously, if the whole thing’s a disaster.’