Mrs. Lloyd walked through to the kitchen where Florence was finishing her lunch. “I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back,” she said, “and I thought you might even have your lunch out, so I didn’t make anything for you. But I can make you a sandwich, if you like. Tea’s just brewed,” she added, pointing at the pot. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”
“Well, actually, Florence, that would be perfect,” Mrs. Lloyd replied. “No, I didn’t have lunch. Came straight home after the appointment at the… well, never mind that. I am hungry, though, so a cheese sandwich would really hit the spot. I’ll just go and change my shoes. I really shouldn’t be walking all over the place in these. I wonder what I did with my slippers.”
Florence buttered two pieces of bread, scraped the cheese slicer across a hefty slab of mature cheddar, added some thin slices of red onion, and cut the sandwich in two. She set it down on the table and sat down to wait for Mrs. Lloyd.
“Cheese and onion,” said Florence, “just the way you like it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll have the onion today, thank you.” Mrs. Lloyd smiled as she opened the sandwich, picked out a few onion slices, and set them down on the edge of her plate. “Harry’s coming for dinner.”
“I thought he might be, so I’ve left a nice fisherman’s pie in the fridge for you,” Florence said. “All you’ve got to do is heat it up. And there’s a treacle tart for pudding. I was going to make some custard to go with it, but there’s some pouring cream, so you can have that with it, instead.” She paused for a moment and then added as an afterthought, “Custard doesn’t really keep all that well, does it? Gets that nasty skin on it if you don’t put the cling film right down on top of it.”
Mrs. Lloyd nodded and took another bite. The onion slices were piling up on her plate.
“Have you ever been to his place, Evelyn?” Florence asked, breaking the silence. “Have you seen where he lives?”
Mrs. Lloyd stopped chewing and looked at her.
“It’s just that I was wondering if maybe he might be, well, you know, married. Or otherwise spoken for.”
“Hah!” said Mrs. Lloyd. “And here’s me thinking that you’ve been thinking it’s my money he’s after.”
“Well, I did wonder.”
“Now, let’s just consider that for a moment, Florence, shall we? What is it about me that makes you think that he couldn’t like me just for myself? Am I so unlikable, so unattractive that a man wouldn’t want me just for me? To enjoy my company? To go dancing? To have as a bridge partner?”
“I’m sorry, Evelyn, I didn’t mean to imply any of that. It’s just that I’ve been worried about you, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t need you to worry about me, Florence. You and I have only known each other five minutes and, forgive me if I speak frankly, but it’s really not your place to meddle in my affairs. I’ve given you a lovely home here, at practically no rent in exchange for doing a few simple things about the place and now you’re worried about me having a friendship with a nice man?
“I think it’s you that you’re really worried about, Florence. I think you’re worried that Harry’s going to be moving in here and where will that leave you? Back in a shabby-” Mrs. Lloyd, looking somewhat aghast at where her thoughts were taking her, stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That came across as much harsher than I meant it to. I’ll say no more. Least said, soonest mended.”
Florence gathered herself up with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Good-bye, Evelyn. I hope you have a lovely weekend. If it’s all right with you, I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon, by teatime, I should think.”
“Of course, Florence. You get off now and enjoy yourself. You don’t want to miss the bus. Oh, and it’s suddenly got quite cold when I was out. There could be some bad weather coming in.”
Mrs. Lloyd remained at the kitchen table, and a few minutes later she heard the front door closing quietly. She got up from the table and peered down the hallway. As she expected, the little suitcase was gone.
Now then, Mrs. Lloyd thought, as she ran a bath later that afternoon, I wonder if I should wait until Harry gets here to put the fish pie in the oven, or would it be more welcoming if he were to be greeted by the aroma when he walks in the door? But maybe he won’t want to eat right away and we’ll have a drink first. The timing is always tricky on something like this.
Oh dear me.
Never mind the fish pie. What should I wear? I don’t want to seem too eager. But not too casual and not overdressed, either. Still, I don’t want something for every day, like a skirt and blouse. Or do I?
She added some fragrant lavender bath salts to the warm water and then settled in for a nice, long soak. She lay back, resting her head on a towel, and thought about those scenes she had seen on television in which a young beautiful woman, eyes closed, relaxed in a soothing bath with candles all around the tub. Mrs. Lloyd closed her eyes and thought about scented candles. When she opened her eyes, the water had turned a tepid grey and her fingertips looked like prunes.
Wrapped in a warm bathrobe, she slid her garments along the clothes rail assessing each one as it passed by. Too tight. Too severe. Too old looking. He’s seen that. I hate that old thing-must give it to the charity shop. I look like hell in trousers. There’s a button missing on this blouse and anyway it pulls across the bust. One by one she assessed the items in her wardrobe and found nothing to her liking.
She sat down on her bed and sighed. She was regretting those hurtful things she had said to Florence. I’ll ring her later, she thought, and put things right with her. And then she remembered that Florence couldn’t afford a mobile phone and had not left a telephone number where she could be reached.
Mrs. Lloyd stood up and returned to the task of rummaging through her closet, finally taking out a black skirt and a tailored white blouse. I’ll dress that up a bit with my pearls and put on some black stockings. She rummaged around in her drawer, found a new pair of tights, and started getting changed. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black shoes, checked the time on her bedside alarm clock, and after taking one last look around her bedroom to make sure it was invitingly tidy, closed the door behind her. She took a few steps down the hall and then returned to her bedroom. There was something she had forgotten to do.
She sat down on her bed and picked up the photo of her late husband, Arthur, that she kept on her bedside table. She looked fondly at his kind, handsome face, gazing cheerfully back at her from its silver frame, never growing any older, always watching over her as she slept.
She gave the image a little kiss and then gently placed the photo in the top drawer of her nightstand. After a moment’s thought she twisted off her wedding ring, placed it on top of the photo, and then closed the drawer.
The heaviness of the afternoon sky, filled with fast-moving, menacing clouds had given way to an ominous evening, and Mrs. Lloyd glanced out the window before closing the curtains against the darkness. The lamps in her sitting room cast a cozy, comforting light, and she turned on the radio, choosing a station playing soft background music. She lit several candles and grouped them on the coffee table. She stood back and surveyed the room. Deciding that it looked welcoming and attractive but not too obviously seductive, she headed to the dining room to check on the table. Florence had left everything very nice indeed, Mrs. Lloyd had to admit. The silver shone, the dishes were carefully set out, and a centrepiece of white roses gave everything a serene but somehow seasonal look. Satisfied with all the arrangements, she entered the kitchen to see to the dinner.