The Lady Golfer 3

She called me into the dining room just after eight o'clock. The table was gleaming cherry wood and was set with silver cutlery and white napkins; three candelabra provided intimate illumination. I was famished, which was just as well because Sandra Roberts wasn't the world's greatest cook. It didn't help that she'd tried to go beyond her ability. But on the whole it was edible and I answered her anxious queries with assurances that it was excellent. Oddly, this failing only served to make me feel a deeper warmth for her.

She wouldn't let me help clear away and tidy up so it was back to the television and listening to the background clatter as she rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. Eventually the kitchen and hall lights were switched off and she came into the lounge with the last of the Chablis. Then she went round turning off all the occasional lamps except for one next to the floral-patterned two-seater settee where I was sitting. By this time I was in a state of some cons