‘Of course not.’ Allison wished she could do the same. There wasn’t a breath of air in the room. She knew it was useless to ask if a window could be opened. Portia was paranoid about being burgled and every window was, she’d told Allison once when they were discussing the question of security, locked tight. She gulped a mouthful of the wine, feeling the chill trickle down her throat with far more pleasure than a mouthful of wine normally brought.

After another gulp, she felt a little cooler and smiled across at Portia. ‘I needed that, thank you.’

Portia leaned closer and patted her arm. ‘You’re doing brilliantly. I don’t know how you’re keeping yourself together so well.’

Allison had spent several minutes in front of her bathroom mirror perfecting a slight quiver of her lower lip. It paid off now. Much better than trying to force tears. ‘It’s hard. I’m trying not to think of Peter, trying to get through one day at a time.’ Another lip quiver, this time accompanied by a smile she knew Portia would see as brave. ‘I keep expecting the reality of my loss to hit me, but I think, for the moment, shock is making me numb to it all.’

‘You’re being incredibly brave.’ Portia reached for the wine bottle she’d placed on the table. ‘Let me top up your glass. I know alcohol isn’t the answer but there’s no harm getting a little tipsy today of all days.’

Allison thought back to the last dinner she’d shared with Portia and her husband. Alcohol had flowed freely before, during and after. Neither husband nor wife had appeared drunk, at least not the falling-down variety, but their tongues had loosened, they’d become more touchy-feely, their conversation more risqué and, like most inebriated people, they’d become rather boring.

Not a heavy drinker, Allison was only ever mildly tipsy. That day, though, she was planning to get totally blotto.

The chime of the doorbell, a prosaic ding-dong that matched the house and not the flamboyant owner, brought both their attention towards the doorway to the hall.

‘That’ll be lunch.’ Portia got to her feet, leaving the room in a flash of pink. She popped her head around the edge of the door seconds later. ‘I’ll pop the main in the oven, dish up the first course and be back to get you, okay?’

She’d left the wine, so Allison was more than happy. Happier, in fact. For a few minutes she didn’t have to pretend to be the grieving widow whose life was over. She had to concentrate on the bright future before her. The lovely house that would soon be hers. She wouldn’t remember Peter’s smiling face, or think of his sad, crushed body.