shake. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I fully intend to be you when I grow up.’
‘An actor?’ Tod asks.
‘A proficient lover even in my seventies,’ Fitz corrects him. ‘Ah, no, that’s not a vase, it’s for walking sticks!’
That part was to Letitia. I make an apologetic face at Tod, who is looking very amused, thank goodness.
‘Sorry about the chaos,’ I say, at the same time Tod says, ‘I have some bad news.’
‘What bad news?’
‘The tour bus. It’s needed by the theatre company, I’m afraid.’
I clutch my chest. ‘What You’ve not brought it? We’ve not got transportation?’
Tod looks worried. ‘Oh, dear, was it very important?’
‘Of course it was important! We’ve promised to pick people up!’ I wave my mobile phone at him.
‘Can’t we just order them cabs?’ he asks, nonplussed.
‘So far the lovely people in this building have been funding this club out of their own pocket,’ I snap at him, eyes narrowed. ‘They can’t be paying for who-knows-how-many cab fares on top of everything else.’
‘Oh, right.’ For a moment I think Tod might offer to pay, but he doesn’t, which makes me narrow my eyes even further.
‘Excuse me,’ I say rather frostily. ‘I had better go and sort this out.’
Men. They always bloody let you down, don’t they?
*
I know Sally isn’t keen on the idea of the Silver Shoreditchers, and I’ll bet she’s planning on spending the afternoon firmly locked away in her flat. But we’ve got nobody else to ask. I wait nervously outside her door. She seems to take for ever to answer, and I don’t know what we’ll do if she’s out.
Eventually Sally undoes the three locks on her door, takes one look at me, and ducks back inside.
‘Hello?’ I call, bewildered.
She bobs back up, this time holding her car keys. ‘What’s the emergency this time?’ she says, already closing the door behind her.
She grumbles and sighs all the way out of the building, but I’m not convinced. I think Sally likes to be the hero.
Once she and Fitz have set off, complete with their list of names and addresses, I busy myself setting up dominoes and packs of cards on the tables, nervously glancing towards the door. I’m patting at my hair so often I’m at risk of ruining my lovely new ’do. I can’t seem to stop fussing and fidgeting.
Just as I’ve run out of jobs to do, my phone beeps with a new message. It’s from Arnold.
Dear Eileen,
I thought you’d want to know Betsy gave Cliff the boot today. Leena has sorted her out a safe place to stay for a while, with Nicola from Knargill, and we’ve had some choice words with Cliff, who has promised to move in with his brother in Sheffield by next weekend so Betsy can have her house to herself at last.
Sorry if I’m interrupting your grand opening, I know it’s an important day. But I thought you would want to know.
Arnold.
I clutch the phone to my chest. My first instinct is to call Betsy, but then I remember how I felt right after Wade left, the humiliation, the shame. I didn’t want to speak to a soul, not at first.
So instead, I send her a text message.
Thinking of you, I write. And then, on impulse: You are a brave and wonderful friend. Lots of love, Eileen xxx
I open Arnold’s message again, but I’m not sure quite how to reply. It was so thoughtful of him to send me the news about Betsy. In a strange way, Arnold has been a comfort, these last few weeks, with his silly cat videos and his news from Hamleigh.
‘Eileen?’ Fitz calls. ‘They’re here!’
I turn to the door. He’s right: the Silver Shoreditchers are coming, some with walkers to help them, some briskly strolling, but all blinking bright, curious eyes at the new communal area as Sally and Fitz help them through the doorway. I see it afresh through their eyes, the sage-green walls, the beautiful bare floorboards, and I beam with pride.
‘Welcome!’ I say, spreading my arms. ‘Please, come on in!’
*
I asked myself, when I first met Letitia, how many other fascinating people might be pocketed away in little flats across London, never saying a word to anybody.
And now here I am, with a whole roomful of Letitias, all so different, all so extraordinarily interesting. There’s Nancy, who used to play the flute in the London Symphony Orchestra. There’s Clive, who’s spent his whole life driving trucks at night-time, and now can only get to sleep if it’s light. There’s Ivy, who