After choir practice, I found myself walking out of church alone. Angie and Jennie were up ahead discussing dishes Jennie was making for Angie’s freezer, when Luke materialized beside me.

‘Hi.’ He pushed his fringe out of his eyes.

‘Oh, hi, Luke.’

I’d been looking in my bag for some money for Frankie. I hated rooting around for it while she stood waiting; liked to have it ready, so the transaction was swift and clean, prey as I was to the usual ridiculous middle-class hang-ups about paying anyone to work for me. As he wheeled his bike beside me, I eyed it warily. Hm. Now admittedly it was just a common or garden pushbike, but one thing could lead to another and before you know it he could be head to foot in blue Lycra.

‘I thought we pretty much nailed it tonight.’

I couldn’t help smiling at his rock ’n’ roll way of putting it. ‘I agree. We’re nearly there.’

Don’t be mean, Poppy, he’s just making conversation. And he was satisfyingly tall and slim but not skinny, I decided, as he strolled beside me in the light of a full moon.

‘D’you find it hard, that he’s here?’ he asked, glancing around. That endeared him to me immediately. Many people would have conveniently forgotten my husband was amongst us.

‘Not in the least. For one thing I don’t believe in ghosts, and for that reason I’ve always found graveyards rather comforting places.’ I thought of the one I visited quite regularly on the other side of Aylesbury. ‘Quite sleepy and peaceful and not remotely spooky, even at night. I’m glad he’s here and not in some urn on my mantelpiece. It means the children can come later if they want to. Have a chat.’

‘And even if there are ghosts, who’s to say they’d be more scary than the living? I can’t help thinking they’d be rather serene and calm, not having to live in the real world any more. Being well out of it.’

‘Exactly.’

We walked on.

‘I used to be fascinated by tombstones. Still am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining the people, their lives.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said, surprised.

‘I mean, look at this.’ We stopped at a lichen-covered stone. ‘Imelda Ruskin, beloved wife of Arthur Ruskin.’

‘Yes, I know. When equally beloved wives, Rachael and Isabella,’ I pointed, ‘are buried over there.’

‘And Isabella was only twenty-two when she died,’ he reminded me, as we paused at her grave. It was one I knew well, had often wondered about. ‘Childbirth, d’you think?’ He nodded at the tiny grave beside her. ‘We know she was mother of Patrick.’

‘Or poison, to move Arthur on to wife number two perhaps?’

He laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? And was Arthur a warty old dog exercising a spot of droit de seigneur or a dashing young blade?’

‘Oh, a young blade,’ I said emphatically.

Arthur had always been a bit of an attractive cad in my eyes. Cutting a swathe through the damsels in the village, who all swooned for him, before popping his clogs elsewhere, somewhere more exotic. For Arthur wasn’t buried along with his wives in this churchyard. And nor would I be, I determined suddenly. Wouldn’t stay here for ever, to be slotted in beside Phil.

‘D’you ever make it up to London, Poppy?’ Luke said easily. ‘I thought we could have lunch.’

Well, I’d pretty much known he was going to ask me something like that. But London. No, I didn’t, as a rule.

‘Or a pub lunch here?’ He waved his hand at the Rose and Crown.

‘No, I make it to London,’ I said, thinking of Arthur and his travels. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

‘Good. I’ll book a table somewhere. West End? I imagine you’ll be shopping.’

‘Oh, er, yes. I imagine.’

‘What about next Tuesday?’

‘Perfect.’

We’d reached my gate now. Stood facing each other in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’ He reached out and tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear, before lightly kissing my cheek.

Why should that small gesture disarm me?

I turned to open my gate, simultaneously swinging my bag over my shoulder, but it was a clumsy manoeuvre and the strap caught on the picket fence. As I unravelled myself I turned quickly to see if he’d noticed, and just caught his eye. By the time I’d smiled nonchalantly he was well on his way.

I walked up my path thoughtfully. Well, I was out of practice. Flirting. But I’d have to do better than that. One man leaves a message on my answering machine and I’m twirling round the kitchen, another touches my hair and I’m fighting my own garden fence? I shook my head. Any woman’s magazine worth its salt would point out that, recently widowed and bereft in so many other ways for years, I was vulnerable. And susceptible to any man’s attention. Any man, I thought soberly, being a great deal better than Phil.

I could barely get the tenner into Frankie’s hand before she’d sidled past me with the briefest of muffled thanks, and out into the night. I turned and watched her go. Towards the pub across the road. Into the pub? No. Surely not. It was full of locals; she’d never get served. She hurried past the saloon-bar door and went round to the yard where the barrels were stored. A car seemed to be waiting, engine running. She slid quickly into the passenger seat. I watched as it sped off. Oh well, it was still early, I reasoned uneasily as I went inside. And she was sixteen now. Hardly a child. I didn’t want to make things hard for Frankie, and as Jennie kept reminding me whenever I raised it, she really wasn’t my problem.

I found myself dressing rather carefully for my meeting with my lawyer. I gave my hair two washes, wishing it was thicker but pleased it was still satisfyingly blonde from the recent highlights, and blew it dry with a round brush instead of just giving it a hasty blast of hot air. It hung in a fair sheet around my shoulders. Spun gold, Mum used to say when I was little. Then she’d brush it for me, my head in her lap. My face was a bit pale, but a spot of blusher and lipstick and a bright pink scarf improved it, although I did remove the silky skirt and replace it with a navy one. And my new boots, not bare legs. Years ago I’d still have been head to toe in black, I reminded myself, and this was a meeting, not a date. Nevertheless my heart quickened as I tripped lightly downstairs, one hand brushing the rail. I hesitated at the bottom. Ran back upstairs for some scent.

The heavy oak front door onto the high street had been varnished, I noticed, and there was a new sign on it: Sam’s name in gold letters picked out just below that of the senior partner. The stairs, as I climbed the two flights, had been carpeted in something cream and expensive, with gilt stair rods. Very Harley Street, or whatever the legal equivalent was. Wigmore? No, that was teeth. Very private practice, anyway. Maybe we could share a joke about that? Except we’d already done one about makeovers. Anyway, something quick and witty would come to mind, I decided, as I bounded up with a new authority and sailed into Janice’s waiting room. I was feeling decidedly sparky today.

Janice’s room was more than just tidy, it was freshly painted, with flowers on the desk. After she’d greeted me with a beaming smile I admired the decor and the flora, and then we indulged in a spot of girly chat about how we both loved lilies. She ushered me on through, assuring me Sam was waiting for me, and I noticed the new carpet continued seamlessly into his room, which was also immaculate. Although the half-empty packet of Orios on the desk, I decided with a small smile as I turned to shut the door, was a nice familiar touch. I wondered what pretext he’d manufactured for this meeting?

‘Poppy. Thanks for coming in again.’ He stood up with a smile.

‘My pleasure.’ I gave a dazzling smile back, taking the seat he indicated. I noticed the shirt was pink today with a button-down preppy collar and a dark blue tie. A good combination. No social peck on the cheek, but perhaps later, when we said goodbye. And Poppy was a very good start, not Mrs Shilling.

‘And I’m sorry if my message alarmed you in any way.’

‘It didn’t at all,’ I said, surprised.

His face, as he sat, was serious; devoid of laughter lines. I suddenly realized I should be alarmed. Very alarmed.

‘Why? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid Emma Harding has crawled out of the woodwork. She’s making a claim on your husband’s estate.’

My heart plummeted. All the skippy excitement of the morning went with it. It seemed to me it seeped out of my boots and right through the creamy carpet and the spongy new underlay to the floorboards below. I felt old. Tired again. And not because of the claim. Not because of the money. But because suddenly I was plunged into a world where my late husband had been sleeping with another woman for years. A world I thought I’d left behind; one I didn’t want to return to. Not when I’d been happily choosing between Sam’s broad shoulders and Luke’s hair-tucking technique.

‘I see,’ I said miserably. I remembered Emma Harding’s scrubbed, anxious little face in my sitting room, saying she didn’t want a bean. Yeah, right. I crossed my legs, noticing a tiny ladder on the inside of my knee.

‘How much does she want?’

‘She wants half.’

‘Half!’

‘Well, she claims she’d been his partner – in the domestic sense – for four years, and in the professional sense for longer. Nine, in fact. Four at Lehman’s, and five at the new firm. She claims they left to set it up together, albeit under his name, and that during those years any wealth he accumulated was due largely to her, because she was responsible for new investment. Apparently she gathered most of the clients. She says your husband was only a success because of their partnership, ergo she’s entitled to half his estate.’

‘But that’s outrageous. She wasn’t married to him, hasn’t got children by him. God – I hope not!’

‘No, no children,’ he said quickly.

‘And if she was so instrumental in the business, how come I’d never even heard of her? She certainly wasn’t one of the directors. I knew them. And OK I knew her name but, honestly, that was about it!’

‘Well, that’s … hardly surprising, really, is it? Under the circumstances.’ It was said kindly. And he was looking at me in a detached, speculative way, rather as a doctor would a patient. If he’d had half-moons he’d have been peering over them.

‘No. No, I suppose not.’

A silence ensued. He shuffled some papers awkwardly. ‘She was only on a basic salary because she’d been promised a share in the business when it was sold later this year. If that had happened, incidentally, it would have made millions. It won’t now. Not without your husband at the helm and his Midas touch. Investors have lost confidence, it seems. It won’t affect your inheritance but it’s not in such good shape. It’s still trading, but Miss Harding has been eased out.’

‘She’s lost her job?’

‘So it seems. And of course she’s lost your husband’s protection. The other directors were jealous of what they felt to be her elevated position. It appears she also sailed close to the wind trading-wise, which worried them. She was a bit of a chancer.’

‘Right. Good.’ I clenched my fists. That nice Robert Shaw, who Phil had also taken with him from Lehman’s. Ted Barker too, with whom we’d been to dinner. Classy men; old school tie. Too right she was a chancer.

He cleared his throat. ‘Her claim, however, has the backing of your late husband’s mother and sister. They both support it.’

I stared at him. Could feel my mouth opening and hanging. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia?’

‘Yes.’

‘They knew her?’

‘It appears so.’

‘How come?’ But I knew how come.

‘They met her. Originally, they’re keen to stress, in a business context. As a colleague of Phil’s, and in order to discuss their own personal finances. But later, under more friendly circumstances. They had lunch together after various meetings in London, apparently. And she was a visitor to their house in Kent.’

My heart began to hammer. Sam looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘But … why? Why would they do that, support her?’ The walls of my throat were closing in, but I got the words out.

‘The letters I have from both parties state that Mr Shilling was, ah, miserable at home, and only stayed for the sake of the children.’ He looked studiously down at the letter before him, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘Quoting this one from Mrs Shilling, she says, “My son had wanted to leave his wife for years.” ’