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CURTIS.

The whole thing was my fault, born of a flippant remark that was never intended to be taken seriously but which a woman who was old enough to know better allowed to blossom.

What happened was that Curtis, one of my husband's workmates, called around one Saturday afternoon looking for him. He knocked briskly on the kitchen door and then walked in the moment I opened it. Curtis has an aura of confidence about him, he's a big, powerfully built young Jamaican with a shaved head, a big smile and a personality to match, and he takes too much for granted but in such a way as to make it difficult for anyone to take offence.

‘Is Greg in?' He asked, his accent far more local than Jamaican.

‘No. He's gone to collect our new lawnmower,' I told him, glancing at the clock. ‘But he'll be back in about half an hour if you want to wait?'

‘I'll wait.' He nodded, and then grinned his big friendly grin. ‘Do you know what today is?'

I shook my head; Saturday was all that came into my mind.

...

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