A teenage waitress in a white blouse, long skirt and the heavy shoes they like to wear, arrived and we ordered glasses of white wine and open sandwiches. We’d both been heavy smokers when we were together and now we exchanged stories about how we’d managed to quit. When the food and drink came I attacked mine as a way of not asking her why we were here. I wanted her to explain herself. Still fencing, as in the old days. She made a brave show of drinking her wine and eating but I could tell it was a battle. But she was the old Cyn still, not going on the back foot. She asked me about my business and if I’d kept the house. I said business was okay and I had.

‘It must be worth a bit,’ she said, playing with an olive and a cube of cheese.

Eat it, I thought. Put some meat on your bones.

‘I like it too much to sell it,’ I said. ‘I like the memories – good and bad.’

She nodded and pushed the olive and the bit of cheese around. I felt that I was losing the fencing match so I said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad. I had a lot of time for him.’

‘I know. I don’t suppose you heard about my husband?’

That stopped me. I took a drink and realised my glass was almost empty while hers had barely been touched. What the hell, I thought. I reached over and tipped half of it into my mine. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What?’

She lifted an eyebrow when I pinched her wine and again the movement emphasised her lack of flesh. ‘Colin died about six months after my father. Heart attack. He worked too hard, didn’t sleep, didn’t exercise

‘I’m sorry. Really. You were together for a long time. Kids and all. That’s tough.’

She put her fork down, lifted what was left of her wine and wet her lips before putting the glass down and pushing it over to me. ‘I’m dying, Cliff,’ she said.

Her eyes were fixed on mine as she spoke and her voice was firm. I knew she was speaking the truth.