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‘Oh! Did you know?’

‘No. She was only just. Maybe she hadn't known herself.’ A muscle went in his face.

‘Oh God, I'm so—’

‘So you see,’ he swept on, ‘our lives would have changed anyway. That's the way I looked at it. We wouldn't have been reporting from Baghdad together, it's not as if we'd have gone on like that. My life – our lives – with responsibilities, children, would have changed anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do. To adopt a different lifestyle. Settle down a bit. Buy a house. Get a steady job. And obviously to get a penis extension.’

My hand flew to my mouth. ‘I'm so sorry!’

‘Don't be. It amused me.’

‘So stupid.’

He shrugged. ‘You weren't to know. And maybe you were right. Maybe I was an older man in a cool car cruising for chicks. It certainly made me think.’

Older. Was he older? Not than me, surely. Just Estelle.

‘Well, under the circumstances,’ I blustered, ‘who can blame you if you were? You must be lonely.’

‘No, no,’ he got to his feet suddenly and I realized I'd gone too far. ‘No, I'm very busy. Life's… very full.’ He walked to the shelves and realigned some books unnecessarily. ‘Lots of friends, lots of plans.’ His profile was to me now. A strong jaw. Strong nose, slightly hooked with faintly hooded eyes like Charles Dance's. But dark. Better. I could see him in Baghdad, head down, running across sniper-watched streets, his film crew behind him: no guns, of course, so vulnerable; his beautiful French wife, camera around her neck, racing along beside him, or just behind him. Was that how it happened, I wondered. Was he running ahead of her, heard her cry out, turned to see her crumple, fatally wounded in the dirt? Or had he not been there? Had he got a call, raced to the teeming, overstretched hospital, pushed through the banks of wailing, shrouded women, to see her being rushed in on a stretcher, or in someone's arms, bleeding, head lolling back. I wondered if I could decently, or even indecently, steer the conversation… No, of course not. Well then, maybe I could steer it back to how life was for him now, how he'd coped, moved on, but his stony profile didn't invite enquiry. I opened and shut my mouth a few times, uncharacteristically stumped for an opening gambit, and then, just as I thought I'd found one, admittedly along the rather gauche lines of how come you're living in my street, the door flew open.

On a gust of wind and eau-de-something-strong, my mother burst into the shop, jogging. She was in her pink catsuit, jogging as she turned and shut the door, jogging up to the counter, gasping for breath.

‘Evie! What are you doing here?’ She jogged on the spot in front of me.

‘Waiting for you. Malcolm had to pop out, so I said I'd hang on, but you were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.’ My voice, I knew, had become unattractively sharp. But then I was ridiculously disappointed to see her for some reason. ‘But don't worry,’ I rushed on in a much chummier, gentler tone. ‘It couldn't matter less. I wasn't doing anything and, anyway, you're here now.’ Hopefully he'd see me as a nice girl now. I glanced across to the shelves, but he'd gone: melted around the archway into his half of the shop.

‘I know, I'm sorry,’ she puffed, still jogging, ‘but I decided to run, and it's further than I thought. But, darling, you're supposed to be with Felicity. Why haven't you got the lights on?’ She lunged for the switch. Illuminated the shop.

‘Mum, could you please stop jogging? It's making me feel ill.’

‘Sorry, wanted to do my full hour.’ She glanced at her watch. Surreptitiously jogged a few more steps.

‘Felicity?’ I frowned.

‘Yes. Remember you said you'd do meals on wheels for me? She'll be waiting for you at the Civic Centre. Sixty-four liver and bacons gently congealing.’

I stared at her. ‘Bugger!’

I scrambled to my feet, shoved them in my flip-flops, and grabbed my handbag. I made for the door. ‘God, how stupid! Sorry, Mum. So sorry!’

‘Don't worry, you'll make it. Am I here on my own?’

‘In this bit, yes, but Malcolm will be back in a minute.’

‘No Ludo? Incidentally, I