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St David’s Day was something she’d forgotten that they celebrated despite having no Welsh blood in the family. Funny old Pip, Fen smiled, texting back.

       and to you. F + C xx

      Fen knew Pip would start to text her at length but soon tire of the thumb effort and phone her instead. The call came a couple of minutes later.

      ‘Happy St David’s Day.’

      ‘Same to you, with bells on.’

      ‘What are you up to today?’

      ‘Oh, the usual – puréeing things, changing nappies, singing daft songs, spending the afternoon with women I have nothing in common with other than postcode and the fact that our babies were born in the same month.’

      ‘Shall we meet up, then? I’m not clowning today – and I’d love to see Cosima. And you.’

      Fen looked around her home. It was a tip. She ought to prioritize the chores and say no. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘that’ll be lovely.’

      ‘Kenwood?’ Pip suggested. ‘It’s equidistant. Let’s have coffee and cake. See you in an hour or so?’

      Fen looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock and though Cosima was dressed beautifully in Catimini, Fen was still in her dressing gown. She opened her wardrobe and perused her pre-pregnancy Agnès B skirts and John Smedley cardigans. It was a perverse, masochistic ritual she taunted herself with almost daily. She didn’t dare hold them against herself, let alone try them on; scrambling instead into yesterday’s cargo pants. Packing Cosima in a snowsuit that made the baby resemble the offspring of the Michelin Man and Laa-Laa the Teletubby, Fen crammed essentials and non-essentials into the changing bag and just about remembered to grab her own jacket before heading out of the house.

      Big Red Bus, Cosima!

      Look at that little fluffy doggie!

      Can you see the blue car, baby girl? Yes, it is a blue car, a nice blue car. Blue, blue, blue car blue.

      Walking through East Finchley, Fen and Cosima passed buses and dogs and cars of various descriptions. However, there was little to point out to Cosima about the Bishops Avenue other than Great Big Houses and Great Big Trees and Great Big Cars.

      But then Fen saw the young man with the flowers.

      She slowed her pace. He was some distance ahead, fixing a bunch of flowers – tulips, they looked like – around the trunk of a tree. Fen was captivated; how often had she passed by a tree, some railings, displaying a bunch of bedraggled flowers as a memorial to a life lost? But such flowers had simply been there and, usually by the look of them, for quite some time. Had she ever actually seen someone placing such flowers? No, she hadn’t. Had she ever seen flowers tied to this tree-trunk? She didn’t think so. Not until today. She was approaching him, the man now fixing a bunch of daffodils alongside the tulips. Fen was close enough to see that some had orange trumpets, others white; a cut above the bog-standard yellow for sure.

       Should I cross the road? Should I treat him as the bereaved – give him space and peace so he can have his ritual as solemn as is fitting? He looks so young. Who did he lose?

      And the young man was offering a daffodil with a broken stem to Cosima. ‘Happy St David’s Day,’ he was saying.

      ‘Oh!’ Fen chirped. ‘A lovely flower! A lovely daffodil. Are you Welsh?’

      ‘No. Will she eat it if I give it to her?’ the man asked.

      ‘Probably,’ said Fen.

      ‘Here, you have it, then,’ he said, worrying his hand through his already tousled jet black hair as if he was genuinely concerned. ‘Put it in her room. Or something.’

      ‘Oh. OK. Thank you.’

      The man paused. ‘My sister would like it.’

      Fen looked at him. Christ, how awful. Suddenly she wanted to know details; how awful. She should say something. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

      ‘Thank you,’ the man said, and he genuinely seemed touched. ‘She was twenty and was killed three years ago. My mum lives in Manchester and I’ve promised her that I’ll replenish the flowers each anniversary.’

      ‘Was it a car?’ Fen asked, cringing that this sounded both tactless and interfering.

      ‘No, a motorbike,’ the man said.

      Fen regarded him. He was fresh-faced and slightly gawky, looked as though he should be putting up leaflets about drama soc at Oxford or Cambridge, rather than road-kill flowers in East Finchley. How old was he? Early twenties? Had he been a younger or older brother to his late sister? ‘How long do the flowers last?’

      ‘Longer than in a vase, bizarrely,’ he replied, ‘but I hate seeing commemorative flowers all withered and limp. I always come back and check. I take them down before they’ve passed their best. You could say my sister was in full bloom when she was cut down. So I don’t think she should be remembered any other way.’

      ‘What was her name?’

      ‘Kay. What’s your name?’

      ‘Fen.’

      ‘Short for Fenella?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Fen, charmed. ‘Not many people know that.’

      ‘I was at college with a Fenella.’

      ‘What’s yours?’

      ‘Al.’

      ‘Short for Alan?’

      ‘No, Alistair.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Know any Alistairs?’

      ‘Nope, you’re my first.’

      ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

      ‘Cosima.’

      ‘That’s pretty.’

      ‘I think some people think it’s a bit pretentious.’

      ‘Is the mum a bit arty-farty then?’

      ‘The mum?’ Fen was simultaneously shocked and charmed again. ‘I am the mummy.’

      ‘No way! I thought you were the nanny.’

      ‘No. I’m the mother all right.’

      ‘Cool. I see. Wow.’

      There followed a pause that was simultaneously awkward yet heightened as they both scrambled around for some other common ground, just something to say, to prolong conversation.

      ‘Anyway, we’d better go – we’re meeting my sister at Kenwood,’ Fen said, as if she’d been miles away and had suddenly come to. ‘It’s been nice talking to you. And I’m sorry – about Kay.’

      ‘Thanks. Thanks. Nice to meet you too – and Cosima. How old is she?’

      ‘Eight months old,’ said Fen, now really wanting to know how old Al was and whether he was younger or older than his late sister. They’d paused too long for her to ask now. ‘Bye, then,’ she said, a little reluctantly. And just a little coyly too.

      Fen walked on. She stopped and turned. Al was looking after her. She waved and he raised his hand. She strolled onwards to Kenwood House, breaking into a sudden grin every now and then. Flattery. How good it felt. ‘I don’t know whether to be charmed or insulted,’ she said to Cosima as she walked. ‘I thought I had “Frumpy mum” written all over me.’

      The unusual incident, the unexpected attention of a stranger, the break from the drag of just a normal day, served as a tonic that Fen wanted to keep private for utmost potency. So when Pip said how bright she looked, Fen didn’t mention Al. She didn’t say that attraction is a peculiar, sly thing that can work wonders on the complexion. She pointed instead to a good night’s

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