The Woman Next Door. Cass Green

mean, I just didn’t … think,’ he says.

      ‘No,’ I say.

      I can imagine so very clearly what it would feel like to strike that cheek. The smoothness, despite the speckle of juvenile beard. It’s so vivid in my mind, the satisfying slapping ring, the warm tautness of his young skin against my palm, that for a second I think I have actually hit him.

      They are both staring at me, a little curiously now.

      ‘I really am sorry, Hester,’ he says, a bit more boldly. ‘I bought you these to apologize.’

      I eye the flowers and then reach for them. They are beautiful and totally out of my budget. But I can’t bring myself to say thank you.

      ‘He bought them with his own money,’ says Saskia, a wheedling note to her voice. As if I should be impressed!

      I want to tell them to go away but force myself to be polite. I will not stoop to the level of these appalling people.

      ‘I have things to attend to,’ I say. ‘Good afternoon.’ And I close the door in their faces.

      I do still have some vestige of dignity.