‘That is Mrs Jones, Mrs Clay,’ the woman confirmed. ‘But surely you know your own sister-in-law?’ ‘We only met once and that was years ago,’ Helen fabricated, wondering what other lies Jack had spun when he’d visited Maggie. ‘Are you better, Mrs Clay?’ ‘Better?’ Helen asked in confusion. ‘Your husband mentioned that you were in hospital the first time he visited Mrs Jones.’ ‘Yes … yes, I’m fine now,’ Helen stammered. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to supervise the tea.’ ‘Yes, of course. Thank you,’ Helen watched the woman walk away before turning back to the lounge. The image she had conjured of a beautiful seductive siren who had cavorted with Jack against the backdrop of a sun-drenched Mediterranean beach, faded as she stared at the plump, dowdy, middle-aged woman who sat knitting a tiny white garment. Her fair hair was more silver than blonde. Her skin was creased with wrinkles, sallow with a faded tan, and there was a defeated, beaten expression in her eyes.
