We sat together on the sofa and he showed me the menu. He told me how to make soufflés in advance; he said he sourced his ingredients locally; he put his hand on my arm; he told me his restaurant was called Zest, his signature dish was stuffed pig’s trotter and I had to pay him a visit there soon; he listened attentively when I spoke; he laughed and looked me in the eye; he called me Gwen with each sentence—” . . . don’t you think, Gwen?” and “I’ll tell you what, Gwen . . .” And Gwen flushed with self-consciousness and awkward, complicated pleasure.

When Frances came back, damp with the rain that had started to fall, she looked at the two of us on the sofa with affectionate amusement. “I see you haven’t missed me.” She took off her beautiful coat and threw it on the back of the chair, then kissed him on both cheeks.

“I always miss you,” he said, “but I’ve been well looked after.” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him, gazing at her seriously. “You seem worn-out, Frances. Are you taking proper care of yourself?”

“No, but Gwen is,” she replied, and they smiled at me, warming me with their approval.

JOHNNY DROPPED ME at the Underground station. He took my hand in both of his and said it had been a real pleasure to meet me and we would certainly see each other again soon. I muttered something in reply, and avoided his bright gaze. Why should I feel guilty because a nice man was flirting with me—or, at least, with me pretending not to be me? After all, I was a free woman, and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me without pity and embarrassment. But I didn’t feel free: I felt that I was still in a relationship with Greg, and that to respond would be, in some perverse sense, a betrayal.

It was dark and drizzly as I walked home from the tube. Puddles glistened under the streetlamps. In a few weeks, it would be the longest night of the year; the days were closing in and Christmas was coming. There were decorations in the shop windows and lights strung between the lampposts. I wondered drearily what I would do for Christmas. For a moment, the thought of waking up in my wide bed on Christmas Day, alone, made me gasp with pain. I stopped and put a hand against my heart. I turned into my road and saw my little house ahead of me, with its unlit windows and its soggy, uncared-for front garden.

As I went in I heard my mobile ringing. I saw it was Gwen calling and, for a moment, was confused.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”