‘My flat’s just up here,’ Ethan says, gesturing to the building at the end of the street. ‘Would you like to pop up and, err, use our facilities?’

‘Oh, you are a love,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’

*

I find four clues in Ethan’s flat.

1) A receipt on the hall table for a meal for two, coming to £248. Now, I know London is pricy – the amount they charge for things here is criminal – but that’s an awful lot of money to spend with someone if they’re just a friend or colleague.

2) Two toothbrushes in the bathroom, both heads damp, suggesting recent use. Why would Ethan use two toothbrushes?

3) Alongside a couple of bottles of Leena’s hair potions that I recognise – all designed to ‘manage frizz’ – there is a small bottle of serum for ‘colour-protection’. Leena’s never dyed her hair. Though I suppose it could be Ethan’s. He is very proud of those dark locks of his.

4) No bathroom bin. This doesn’t in and of itself suggest adultery, but I’ve found in my life that I rarely like a person if they’ve not had the consideration to put a bin in a bathroom. It’s always men who do this, and almost always men you cannot trust.

*

Once Fitz and I are back at home, we compare notes. He found no clues at all, which is typical. I did tell him old ladies make the best detectives.

‘You won’t mention this to Leena, will you?’ I say rather worriedly. I’ve fallen into a bad habit of sharing things with Fitz. He knows an awful lot about Tod now, for instance. I had two glasses of wine and he asked such candid questions it was a little disarming. I would never usually tell anyone these sorts of personal things, not even Betsy. Perhaps it’s being down here living somebody else’s life that’s done it. Whatever the reason, it’s been quite fun.

‘My lips are sealed, Mrs C,’ Fitz says. His face turns solemn. ‘If you suspect there’s dirt to be found on Ethan, I’m all for the digging. Leena deserves the best.’

‘She does,’ I say.

‘And so do you, Mrs C.’

Fitz pushes Leena’s laptop towards me across the sofa cushions. Life in Leena’s flat seems to circle around this sofa. We eat here, drink tea here; for a while, it was Martha’s office.

‘Any new messages?’ Fitz asks. ‘Oh, you’ve totally got a message from Howard, look at that smile! You are too cute.’

‘Oh, shush,’ I tell him. ‘Go and make yourself useful – the washing-up needs doing.’

‘Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to your sexting.’

I haven’t a clue what that means, but I suspect it’s rude, so I shoot him a glare just in case. Fitz grins and disappears off into the kitchen, and I settle back into the sofa and read the message from Howard.

OldCountryBoy says: Hi Eileen! I just wanted to say that I’m ready to set up that website for your social club whenever you are. It’ll only take me a day when you give me the go-ahead. Xxxxx

I’d forgotten all about Howard’s offer to make us a website. I beam.

EileenCotton79 says: Thank you ever so much, Howard. What do you need to get started? Xx

I chew my lip in thought as I wait for his reply. Having a website will be very exciting, but it won’t help bring members in for the launch event. I’ve started to fret about that a little, though Fitz’s been plastering those posters all over the area. I just wonder if the people we’re after really look at the posters on the walls around here. There are so many, and most of them are about bands and activism and things. We have said on the posters that transport to the venue can be provided – Tod has offered his theatre company’s tour bus, bless him – but the people we want to reach might well not get out and about enough to spot the posters to begin with.

A thought occurs. I click away from the conversation with Howard, and press Find a Match. I fill in all the boxes, but I do it a bit differently, this time. Age: 75 plus. Locations: East London, Central London. Male or female? I click both boxes.

This is rather cheeky, but it’s for a good cause. I press on the first person who appears on the list: Nancy Miller, aged seventy-eight. I click the little envelope icon to send her a message.

Dear Nancy,

I hope you don’t mind me sending you a message, but I’m setting up a club in Shoreditch for over seventies, and I wondered if you’d be interested in coming along for our grand opening this weekend …

*

I spend hours sending out messages. There are over a hundred people on this list. I’m very glad Fitz showed me how to ‘copy and paste’, otherwise this would have taken all day; as it is, my eyes hurt, and my neck is stiff from sitting here at the laptop for so long.

I begin to get replies already. Some of them are a little nasty – Take your advertising elsewhere! This isn’t the forum for this sort of thing! – and some of the men seem to be taking my invitation as an opportunity to start flirting, which I can’t be doing with – I’ve got more important business to attend to now, and none of them are a patch on Howard or Tod, anyway. But there are already a few people who sound interested in the Silver Shoreditchers’ Club. I’d love to come along, says Nancy Miller. Will there be games? asks Margaret from Hoxton.

Letitia pops around just when I’m at the end of my patience with replying to messages. She says she’s dropping around a new herbal tea she wants me to try. I invite her in to drink it with me – I suspect that was the real intention of the visit – and fill her in on my new plan to advertise our club.

‘I wish I was as nifty with that thing as you are.’ She nods to the laptop.

‘Oh, I’m sure you could learn!’ I say. ‘Ask Fitz, he’ll teach you.’

‘He’s a good man, Fitz,’ Letitia says. ‘Has he found someone to take Martha’s room yet? He was fretting about it when we last spoke.’

I smile. Letitia’s been down in the communal area at least once a day, arranging vases of flowers, plumping cushions. These days when somebody comes through, they always stop for a chat. On Monday evening I saw Aurora and Sally down there playing cards with her. We’re trying out the tables! Aurora had said. Then: Boom! Full house! went Sally, slamming her hand down and making Letitia jump.

‘Not yet,’ I tell her, reaching for a biscuit. ‘I think he’s going to put an advert up on the Internet somewhere.’

‘Well whoever it is, they’ll be lucky to live here.’

‘Letitia … Have you ever thought about moving out of your flat?’

She looks horrified. ‘Where to?’

‘Not far. Over here. To Martha’s old room.’

This is an excellent idea, if I do say so myself.

‘Oh, no,’ Letitia says, hiding behind her tea mug. ‘I couldn’t leave my flat. What about all my beautiful things! And anyway, nobody young wants to live with an old biddy like me.’

I push the last biscuit towards her. ‘Nonsense,’ I tell her. ‘Though I do see your point about your lovely bric-a-brac. I mean,’ I add hastily, catching her expression, ‘your lovely antiques.’

‘I couldn’t leave the flat,’ Letitia says, more firmly this time, so I don’t push the point. It’s a shame, though – she could do with the company, and I worry how she’ll cope when I’m not here to nudge her along, even if we do manage to get the Silver Shoreditchers’ Club running regularly.