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roses and delicate supporting fern. For a moment she stood still and stared at the roses. Oedipus had bought her flowers on how many occasions? None. Not once.

She smiled. Further sounds emanated from the kitchen: running water, the sound of a knife on a chopping board. She made her way across the hall and pushed open the kitchen door.

Hugh had his back to her, but heard her come in and spun round in surprise. “You said that you were going to be late.”

“Well, actually it is quite late,” she said. “I’m normally back shortly after six.”

He picked up a tea towel, wiped his hands and then looked at his watch. “Oh, it’s seven already.”

“You’ve obviously been busy,” said Barbara, looking around. “You lose track of time when you’ve got lots to do.”

He tossed the towel down on the kitchen table. Then he crossed the room and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She felt herself blushing.

“I wanted to surprise you with a meal that was already prepared,” he said. “There’s a bottle of Chablis in the fridge and I thought we’d sit down and have a glass before we eat.”

“We can still do that.”

“Yes, I suppose we can. It’s just that I’ve still got some stuff to do. I have to clean some mussels.”

“Mussels!”

“Yes. And then we’re having … Well, I want it to be a surprise.”

Barbara beamed with pleasure. When had Oedipus last surprised her? “You’re terrific,” she said.

“Not really. I just like cooking.”

She moved over to the sink and looked at the mussels. They were large and succulent-looking. “I love mussels,” she said. “I love all seafood.”

“I know a place where one can get the most wonderful seafood,” Hugh said. “Absolutely fresh. Clams. Lobsters. Octopi.”

“Octopodes,” muttered Barbara.

She regretted it the moment she said it.

“Octopodes?”

She had to explain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be pedantic. Octopi as a plural form suggests a Latin origin. But the word ‘octopus’ is Greek and the plural should not be the Latin -i form but octopodes. I didn’t mean …”

He had turned round and resumed his work at the sink. Oh, she thought, and then, again, oh. I’ve hurt his feelings. Already.

“Why don’t you go and have a bath?” he said over his shoulder. “Then dinner will be ready when you are.”

She went into the bathroom. I must be so careful, she thought.

Then she saw the box of bath oils, tiny flasks in a row, placed beside the taps. He had somehow found out her favourite and had bought it: Jo Malone. And next to that, Clinique’s Sparkle Skin—another favourite. How did he know? How would any man know?

74. Sparkle Skin

IT’S VERY STRANGE, thought Barbara Ragg, how we can be transformed by the small luxuries of life. A new item of clothing, an impractical but glamorous pair of shoes, a well-made pen with a gold nib—any of these things is capable of making us feel so much better about ourselves. Now, stepping out of her bath with its pampering Jo Malone bath oil, exfoliated by Sparkle Skin, she felt herself filled with energy, lit by an exhilarating glow.

It was just the right feeling to accompany the glass of chilled Chablis that Hugh presented her with when she returned to the kitchen. Taking the glass, she raised it to him in a toast. “You’re spoiling me,” she said. “What a lovely surprise through there …” She gave a toss of the head in the direction of the bathroom.

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Oh that. Just a couple of little presents.”

“But how did you know?”

“How did I know that you liked those particular things?”

“Yes.”

He tapped the side of his nose. “Intuition.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Surely it would be impossible to find out a person’s tastes purely on intuition. “I don’t believe …” She stopped herself. She should not contradict him. She had already corrected him over the plural of “octopus”; it would not do to disagree with him again. So she said instead, “You’re very clever.”

He laughed modestly. “Not really.”

“What else can you tell about me on the basis of intuition?” she asked.

“That you like France.”

She nodded. “Yes.” But everybody liked France.

“And Jane Austen.”

He was right once more but then, again, everyone liked Jane Austen. “What else?”

“That your favourite colour is a sort of russet brown.”

That was a little bit more impressive, but then it occurred to her that he had enjoyed the run of the flat and must have seen all the russet brown in the rugs and elsewhere. And he must have seen