With the common so close it gave her a feeling of the country. It reminded her of her childhood, a muddy, messy, chicken-keeping time that she remembered with affection. Sometimes, in town, she felt light-years away from a blade of grass, although of course it was lovely to have the shops and the theatre. Douglas liked the town.

So, this house had been a compromise. It was a pity in a way that he had insisted on a gardener, as well as Mrs Burton to help with the house. Without them she might have had more to do. But that was silly, because after all, she didn’t really want to fill her life with housework and weeding, she wasn’t a bee. She was—what? Sarah Hamilton, wife and mother. Bored wife and mother.

She wondered about a cup of coffee, or possibly a sandwich, though she wasn’t hungry. There was some shopping she could do: Douglas’s blue suit needed cleaning and she could always pop into the library. Yes, that would be best. After all, tomorrow was her meals-on-wheels day and on Friday she and Douglas were going out to dinner, just the two of them. It was her birthday, on Friday . Another year gone.

She went quickly indoors and up to the dressing room, determined to snap herself out of this mood. Her hair was caught in a ribbon at the back of her head and she pulled it free, letting it fall about her face in a dark, misty cloud.

She looked no older now than she had when she married and she knew that the years had given her a certain style. Other women often asked where she bought her clothes and Sarah always told them, but somehow when they wore the same things they always looked different. She had a flair for dress, she could put a blouse and a skirt together, add a scarf, and it looked—right. Dashing. Other women just wore blouses and skirts. Before she married she had thought she might do something in fashion, buying, possibly, or even design, because she was fairly arty, but of course once she met Douglas that was it. He was lovely, Douglas. He took such care of her.

The vacuum cleaner begun to hum in the hall, which meant that Mrs Burton would soon be upstairs. Flinging open her wardrobe Sarah pulled out the stonewashed jeans that Douglas hated because they looked as if they had indeed been through an avalanche, threw on a red, lacy T-shirt and tied her hair in a wispy knot on top of her head. Not today svelte Mrs Hamilton of the shantung suit but Sarah Melling as was, who used to make her own dresses, paint messy pictures and eat ice creams in the street.

As always there was absolutely nowhere to park. After an irritable ten-minute cruise she shoe-horned the Rover into a space suitable for a Mini and locked it with a flourish. The day was definitely improving, there weren’t many women who could have parked that car. A man digging the road saw her and whistled, a great echoing whistle that made everyone turn to look. Sarah pretended she hadn’t heard and sauntered on, allowing her bottom the tiniest possible wiggle. Oh, there was something to be said for sunny days and a home and a husband, a security that allowed you to enjoy whistles like that since there was no need to do anything about them. It hadn’t been all fun when she was single.