Mma Ramotswe nodded. The traffic was getting worse – particularly at lunchtime and in the late afternoon – and one could no longer say with certainty when one would arrive. There were too many cars, and it would be a good idea to round up all the cars and throw away half of them, to make things better for the surviving vehicles. Such a solution, though, was hardly practicable and of course there was Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to think of. Cars were his livelihood and by extension hers too, in a way, until the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency became much more profitable – which it would not, unless people started to have rather more problems than they currently did, and who would wish more problems on other people?

She became aware of somebody approaching, and she turned round.

‘Mma Ramotswe!’

Mma Soleti, carrying a bulging canvas bag in each hand, was struggling towards her. Instinctively Mma Ramotswe reached out to help her, but this only caused the other woman to lose her grip on one of the bags. A cascade of plastic bottles – shampoos, creams, lotions – scattered about their ankles.

Apologising profusely, Mma Ramotswe scooped up the bottles and jars and stuffed them back into the bag.

‘This is the last load,’ said Mma Soleti, fumbling for her keys with her free hand. ‘Once we have these on the shelf, I shall be ready for business.’ She looked at Mma Ramotswe as if she were planning something. ‘In fact, Mma, would you like to be my official first customer?’

It took Mma Ramotswe a little while to answer. She realised that she did not have very much money on her – the purchase of the baby shoes had been more expensive than she had expected, and the remaining one hundred and fifty pula she had in her purse had been earmarked for the purchase of groceries. It would hardly do for her to reveal to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni that there was nothing to put on the table because she had spent the housekeeping money on beauty treatments. Tolerant though he was, no man could fail to be disappointed by such information; some would even be angry, but those particular men would do well to ask themselves how much of the household budget went on beer. If men bought beer, thought Mma Ramotswe, then women should be entitled to spend money on beauty treatments. At least beauty treatments made you look better, while beer generally made you look worse. She had to admit, though, that both were capable of making you feel more cheerful – in moderation, of course.

Mma Ramotswe clapped her hands in gratitude. ‘That is very kind, Mma, but I’m afraid that I’m having to watch my pula these days and I don’t have much money on me. Some other day perhaps.’