She glanced at me. It was not a glance of approval.
"You're just like everyone else," she said. "Why does everyone assume that it's all about his money?"
"Isn't it?"
"No," she said defiantly, "it's not. In fact, I won't get anything when he dies. I said I didn't want it. It all goes to his children."
"Are any of them your children too?" I asked.
"No." I could detect a slight disappointment in her voice. "Sadly not."
"You tried?" I asked.
"At the beginning, but not now. It's too late."
"But you're still young enough."
"I'm all right. It's Jackson that's the problem." She paused, as if wondering whether she should go on. She decided to. "Bloody prostate."
"Cancer?" I asked.
"Yeah." She sighed. "It's a bugger. The doctors say they've caught it early and that it's controllable at his age with drugs. But there are some, shall we say, unfortunate side effects."
She drove on in silence, swerving around a slow-moving truck just in time to avoid an oncoming car.
"Has he tried Viagra?" I asked.
"Tried it?" She laughed. "He's swallowed them like M amp;M's but still not a flicker. It's the fault of the Zoladex-that's one of the drugs. It seems to switch off his sex drive completely. That's the physical side; mentally he's as rampant as ever."
"I can see that would be a tad frustrating," I said.
"A tad? I'll tell you, it's extremely frustrating. And for both of us." She looked at me as if in embarrassment. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Far too much information."
"It's fine," I said. "I'm really quite discreet. I'll only tell the Sunday papers if they pay me well."
She laughed.
"From what the Sunday papers said after our wedding, you'd believe that I only married him for the money and that sex between a twenty-three-year-old woman and a man nearing sixty was all in the imagination-his imagination, that is. What rubbish. It was the sex that attracted me to him in the first place."
I sat in silence, just listening. What could I say?
"I was eighteen when I first met him. He was fifty-four, but he didn't look it. He used to play golf with my dad every Sunday morning. Then one Sunday when Mum and Dad were away, he came round to make sure everything was OK. It seems Dad hadn't told Jackson he wouldn't be playing golf that week, at least that's what Jackson told me at the time, but I've since often wondered if it was true." She smiled. "Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up in bed together." She laughed. "And the rest is history, or in the papers, at least."
"Was Jackson married at the time?"
"Oh yes," she said. "With two children. They're both older than me. But his wife was already ill by then. She had breast cancer. I helped look after her for nearly three years until she died."
"Were you sleeping with him all the time?" I asked.
She smiled again. "Of course."
"But did you live in their house?"
"Not to start with, but I did for the last six months or so of Barbara's life. His son and daughter treated me as their kid sister."
"But did they know you were sleeping with their father?"
"They didn't exactly say so," she said, "but I think they knew. Their mother certainly did."
"What? Jackson's wife knew that he was sleeping with you?"
"Absolutely. We discussed it. She even gave me advice about what he liked. She used to say it took the pressure off her."
Annoyingly, at this point we arrived at Pirbright Camp, so I heard no more juicy Warren revelations.
Isabella remained in her car while I went into the guardroom to sign in.
"Sorry, sir," said the corporal behind the desk. "I can't let a civilian onto the camp without suitable ID."
"What sort of suitable ID does she need?" I asked him.
"A driver's license or passport," he said.
She had neither with her. I'd already asked.
"Can't I vouch for her?" I asked.
"Not without proper authority."
"Well, get the proper authority," I said in my most commanding officer voice.
"I can't, sir," he said. "You would have to apply to the adjutant, and he's away."
I sighed. "So what do you expect me to do?" I asked him.
"You can go in, sir, but you'll have to walk to get your car."
"But it's miles away." The park was at the other end of the camp.
"Sorry, sir," he said adamantly. "That's the security rules we've been told. No ID, no entrance."
I suppose it was fair. In the army one learned very early on that rules were rules. Security was security, after all.
"Can you please get me some transport, then," I said.
"Sorry, sir," he said again. "There's nothing available."
I stepped back and lifted my right trouser leg up six inches. "How am I going to walk to my car with this damn thing?" I lifted my foot up and down with its familiar metallic clink.
"Afghanistan?" the corporal asked.
I nodded. "IED. In Helmand," I said. "Four months ago."
"No problem, then, sir," he said, suddenly making a decision. "Just get the lady to hand this in when she leaves." He handed me a temporary vehicle pass. "Just don't tell anyone."
"Thanks," I said. "I won't."
False legs clearly brought some small benefit after all.
Funny how rules can be so easily ignored with the application of a modicum of common sense. Security? What security?
I found it was surprisingly easy to drive with a false foot. A few practice circuits of the parking lot and I was ready for the public highway. And I was much more confident about arriving safely at my destination with me driving with only one real leg than I had been in Isabella's VW with her driving with two.
She insisted on following me the nine miles from Pirbright to Aldershot.
"You might need help carrying your things," she'd said. "And you won't get much of it into that."
True, my Jaguar XK coupe was pretty small, but Isabella obviously had no idea how little I had acquired in the way of stuff during fifteen years in the army. I could probably have fitted it into my car twice over. But who was I to turn down the help of a pretty woman even if she was married?
We negotiated the busy Surrey and Hampshire roads without any mishaps and, surprisingly, without my Jag being overtaken by Isabella's dark blue Golf, although I was sure she was going to on a couple of occasions before she obviously remembered she didn't know the way.
"Is that all?" Isabella was amazed. "I'd take more than that on a dirty weekend to Paris."
I was standing next to two navy blue holdalls and a four-foot-by-four-inch black heavy-duty cardboard tube. Between them they contained all my meager worldly possessions.
"I've moved a lot," I said, as an explanation.
"At least you don't have to engage Bekins to shift that lot." She laughed. "What's in the tube?"
"My sword."
"What, a real sword?" She was surprised.
"Absolutely," I said. "Every officer has a sword, but it's for ceremonial use only these days."
"But don't you have any furniture?"
"No."
"Not any?"
"No. I've always used the army stuff. I've lived in barrack blocks all my adult life. I've never even known the luxury of an en suite bathroom, except on holiday."
"I can't believe it," she said. "What century is it?"
"In the army? Twenty-first for weaponry, other than the sword, of course, but still mostly in the nineteenth for home comforts. You have to understand that it's the weapons that matter more than the accommodations. No soldier wants a cheap rifle that won't fire when his life depends on it, or body armor that won't stop a bullet, all because some civil-service jerk spent the available money on a flush toilet."