It was so near to what he had actually thought at the time that he stared hard at his wife. Probably she hadn’t meant the suggestion seriously. But these days he could never be sure what Alison was thinking. He took a sip of his wine, watching her surreptitiously as she ate. She picked her way expertly through runner beans, broccoli and new potatoes, then left her pork chop as clean as if it had been attacked by a scavenger. Her knife and fork sped round the plate as swiftly and deftly as a surgeon’s scalpels. She seemed to have become quicker over the years, as if developing this small, deadly skill had been her primary aim in life. He said, ‘I certainly wasn’t pleased with her. But Lorna’s very knowledgeable. You have to allow her a certain latitude.’ Alison frowned, setting her knife and fork down on the empty plate as precisely as if she had been setting a clock to midnight. ‘I don’t see why. You seem to me to put up with far too much from the guides. And from Lorna Green in particular.
