Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

      ‘It’s Valentine’s Day,’ Tess chirped. She’d bought him a card, a blue tie wrapped in tissue paper; they were upstairs, next to the bed.

      Alan shook his head. ‘It’s just commercial rubbish,’ he grunted. ‘I was going to get you some chocolates, but I thought with you being on a diet you wouldn’t appreciate it.’

      Tess looked down at herself, at the baggy pullover and comfy jeans. She didn’t remember telling Alan she was on a diet – she thought she was fine; her waist was a bit thicker than it had been before the children, but she was not bad for her seventy-two years. She met his eyes. ‘Do I need to go on a diet?’

      He shrugged. ‘It’s an after Christmas thing, I suppose – you had too much wine and chocolate and cake.’ He sniffed. ‘Tess, bring the coffee into the lounge, would you? There’s some golf on Sky Sports. I thought I might…’

      He shoved back his chair and mumbled as he moved towards the door. Tess stared at him – the dark hair, sparse on the top – and sighed as she watched him go. There had been a documentary she’d wanted to watch about a woman who had travelled to Egypt, an archaeologist in search of evidence about the life of Nefertiti. Tess had wondered what it would be like to travel and research, to go somewhere exotic and interesting. But now she’d have to take her book in the lounge and read while Alan watched golf and gabbled a ridiculous running commentary on each shot, speaking to himself as he always did. Tess filled the kettle and thought about Nefertiti. She’d been a mysterious and powerful woman in Egypt. Tess was a skivvy in Exmouth to a man who was a slave to golf.

      ‘Elvis. Elvis, I’m home.’

      The black cocker spaniel rushed towards her, his long ears swinging, and leapt up at her knees. Pam reached down and fondled the curly fur on his head. ‘I haven’t been too long, have I, Elvis? I just wanted to do a mile – the weather’s awful.’

      To prove her point, Pam ran her fingers through her hair. The usually blonde spiky cut hung in dark dripping clumps over her face. ‘A man at the bus stop shouted at me: “You must be bloody mad, woman, running in this weather at your age.”’ I just laughed. But I’m freezing now. I must get out of these jog pants and into the shower. Come on up with me, Elvis – no, I’ll feed you afterwards, I promise. I must get this clobber off and get warmed up.’

      Pam rushed up the stairs, the spaniel bounding behind her. She peeled the damp layers from her body and hurried under the stream of hot water, reaching for soap and lathering herself. Through the steam and the glass, she could see the dark shape of Elvis, sitting patiently on the bath mat, waiting for her.

      Swathed in a fluffy dressing gown, her feet bare, Pam padded downstairs, Elvis at her heels. In the little living room, the wooden table had been set with one plate, one knife and one fork, and a fire was blazing in the hearth. Pam curled up on the colourful rug, pushing a hand through her hair. Elvis snuggled down next to her legs, placing his wet nose on her lap. She rubbed his head and met the soulful eyes.

      ‘OK, it’s dinner time soon, Elvis.’

      The spaniel wagged his tail, a steady drumbeat against the rug. She smiled at him. ‘I’ve got some food for you in the kitchen. And I was going to make a nice Buddha bowl for myself but guess what? I’ve just remembered. It’s Valentine’s night. I’ll do a pizza and open a bottle of red wine and afterwards we can both have a treat. Mine’s ice cream. What’s yours?’

      Elvis bounded up towards her, his front paws on her chest. The dressing gown sagged open. Pam laughed.

      ‘Elvis, really! I know you’re the best valentine I’ve ever had but you need to keep your passion under control.’ She hugged him close, the fire warming her face, and she offered him her wide smile.

      ‘I must be the only woman in the world sharing Valentine’s night with Elvis. But it has to be said, although you look gorgeous…’ she kissed his damp nose ‘… your breath is terrible.’

      2

      Jen had offered to pay half the bill, but Eddie had insisted. He’d reached for his wallet and taken out cash, winking at her conspiratorially as he added an extra five pounds on the silver tray. He’d smiled towards the waiter. ‘That’s for the good service. The pie was particularly tasty. And I’m a great believer in coming back to somewhere if the service is of a good standard.’ He’d held up her coat as she slipped it on. ‘Shall we go, my dear?’

      He presented his arm and Jen poked her wrist through the crook of his elbow as they strolled along the path. The rain had stopped but there was a strong breeze from the seafront and the streetlamps reflected light from neon signs in the puddles. Jen and Eddie turned the corner towards Barley Mow Avenue, where she lived. Jen raised her eyebrows. It was gone ten o’clock and Eddie lived half a mile’s walk from her house. She turned to face him. ‘Eddie, you don’t need to walk me all the way home. I’d hate you to be caught out in another rainstorm…’

      He chuckled. ‘It’s Valentine’s Day. I thought I might get an invite to come in for a coffee.’

      ‘Oh.’ Jen frowned. He hadn’t been in her house, not yet. He usually walked her to the corner of her road, pecked her cheek and turned away, discreet and polite. But then, most of their dates had been lunchtime meetings or strolls on the seafront or an afternoon tea. She had met him for the first time on Boxing Day; they’d both been wandering on the beach and he’d started a conversation, invited her to join him for a warm drink in the Olive Grove before enquiring where she lived and walking her halfway back. They’d talked about how quiet it was, being by themselves over Christmas – he was a widower – and he’d invited her for a drink the next day, then they’d met twice a week for lunch, then recently more frequently: a cream tea, a brisk walk. He was charming, good looking, good company. But he’d never asked to come in for coffee before.

      ‘Oh,’ Jen repeated. ‘All right.’

      She wondered what he meant by coffee. He was walking next to her, an impatient roll to his stride as if he was in a hurry. She could smell the tang of his aftershave. He’d clearly sprayed on a good deal more when he’d visited the Gents just before they’d left. And he’d combed his hair. Jen thought he was well groomed, smart, suave even, but she hadn’t considered the wider implications of coffee.

      They rounded the corner to Barley Mow Avenue, walking at a pace towards her little semi-detached house with the green front door. Jen’s thoughts were racing. She had coffee in the kitchen: an instant ground mix in a jar, some decaff at the back of a cupboard. She even had a cafetière and some Machu Picchu beans. She wondered what sort of coffee Eddie would drink. Or if he’d prefer tea. There was an unopened packet of custard creams somewhere too.

      She glanced up at him and he winked again. She wondered if coffee mightn’t mean something completely different, not coffee at all, but an innuendo, a euphemism for something else. Jen caught her breath. She had no idea what to say to him. She pulled the key from her handbag, opened the front door and muttered, ‘Well, what takes your fancy, Eddie?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I mean, do you want it hot and strong, sweet, milky or just as it comes out of the spout?’ She felt herself blushing and fluttered her hands in front of her face.

      ‘Shall we take our coats off and sit down?’ Eddie glanced around the hall, at the thick carpet and velvet door curtain that kept out the draughts. ‘You keep it nice here, Jen.’

      He sat in the lounge on the sofa, his feet on the rug. His shoes were damp and Jen wanted to tell him not to get mud on the carpet. He was glancing around the room, taking in the furniture, the books, the photos on the sideboard, her wedding photo with Colin in 1970. Jen was holding a bouquet as if it was heavy, a smiling bride with her long chestnut hair and the flowing white dress; Colin with sideburns and a fringe over his eyes.

      She retreated to the small kitchen, banging open the cupboard door and clutching a small jar of freeze dried Costa