“Yes, great,” said Frances. “Oh, Lord, that’s amazing. You’re my savior. I was on the point of—Hang on, I don’t even know your name.”

And I answered, without a beat, “Gwen. Gwen Abbott.”

Chapter Twelve

As soon as I arrived home, I looked up Gwen’s name in the phone book. It wasn’t there, probably because she teaches math in a secondary school. If her name was in the book her phone would never stop ringing: What’s the homework for tomorrow? I can’t do question three. Why did my child fail his exam? And, now, baffling messages from the party-organizing company she didn’t know she worked for.

Then I looked up Hugo Livingstone and, before I could stop myself, punched in his number. On the second ring it was answered by a woman with a strong Eastern European accent.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” I said. “Could I speak to Hugo Livingstone?”

“He’s not here.”

“When would be a good time to call back?”

“He will be away for many days. He is in America.”

“Oh. Sorry to have troubled you.”

I put a baking potato into the oven, poured myself a glass of wine and then another as I thought about what I had done. Had I committed a crime? I didn’t think so. As long as I wasn’t doing it to perpetrate a fraud or theft, I couldn’t actually be arrested. Was that right?

Was I being dishonest? Well, obviously.

Was it morally wrong to give a false name, and not just a false name, a name that belonged to somebody else, in fact, to one of my best friends? But, then, borrowing a name wasn’t like borrowing a sweater without asking. I wasn’t depriving Gwen of it. I wasn’t going to damage it or get it dirty. I had misled Frances and Beth. But if I had been open about who I was, they might have thought I was insane. Which brought me to the question . . .

Was I insane? Or had I just done an insane thing? Or both? Or neither? And if I was insane, could I myself tell—from the inside, as it were?

After an hour or so, I took the baked potato out of the oven and mashed it with lots of butter, then sprinkled it with salt and pepper. I ate the soft inside first, then the crunchy skin. It was delicious. The phone rang.

“Where the hell are you?” Mary said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re coming here for dinner,” she said.

“Am I?”

“I asked you several days ago. You said yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’re all about to sit down.”

“All?”

“There are seven of us. Or, rather, there will be when you get here.”

“Ten minutes,” I said. “Fifteen at the most.”