I thought after that evening I’d earn a reprieve from more socialising, but no such luck.

“The tea dance is today at three,” Carol told me over breakfast the next morning.

I stifled a groan. Where did Carol get the energy? I hadn’t slept well, and the last thing I wanted was to go out again.

“I’ll have to pass.”

“You have something else on?”

“I fancy some time on my own.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Sitting alone won’t help matters.” She snapped her fingers. “Vera mentioned yesterday that her son’s looking for a nice young lady. I’ll invite him over to keep you company.”

Spend the evening with a random bloke? No thanks. I went to the tea dance.

Between eating cakes and the endless cuppas, I gained a few new friends by taking some of the old boys for a spin—well, more of a shuffle—around the dance floor. I’d been a bit concerned about their artificial hips and the like, but Carol insisted it would be okay.

“Are their hearts up to this?” I asked.

“If they’re not, at least they’ll die happy.”

My husband had taught me to ballroom dance soon after we met, insisting it was a useful skill for undercover work at posh functions. I’d grown to love it, and even though he pretended it was a chore, I knew he’d secretly enjoyed it too. And boy, could he move. He’d had a particularly dirty tango in him, but we’d reserved that for the privacy of our own home.

Those memories overshadowed the evening, because now we’d never dance again.

***

The day after the dance found Carol and me at the parish council meeting, which wasn’t so much a meeting as a bunch of self-important idiots bickering.

“I’m not on the council myself, dear,” Carol said. “But the Women’s Institute has an outing there each month. The arguments can be quite entertaining. It’s a bit like Jeremy Kyle but with better refreshments.”

She was right. It was all I could do to stop myself from smacking their heads together after an argument about whose turn it was to organise the litter patrol for the Best Kept Village competition.

I hated to admit it, but Carol’s distraction technique had some merit. With all the bullshit she organised to fill my days, I didn’t have time to dwell on more painful subjects. Still, I couldn’t help wishing for something more interesting to do. The old guys were kind, but I felt out of place being the youngest by thirty years, and I could easily live without discussions over the best brand of incontinence pad. Perhaps if they drank less tea, they wouldn’t need to worry about that. Yes, I was English, but I was sick of bloody tea. My palate craved a decent espresso, but asking for one would have been sacrilegious around here.

And while I could cope with my waking hours, the nights gave me more problems. Rather than sleeping, I’d lie awake for hours, thoughts tumbling through a mind filled with darkness. How had my life turned into such a mess so quickly? And more importantly, what was I going to do about it?