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Elizabeth was just that. Elizabeth. Not Liz or Betty. Elizabeth. She was that little bit formal so no one ever called her anything else. Her husband, Brent, called her ‘Hun' in public.

They had moved in down the street about a month before I knew they were there, the ideal family, a girl of twelve and a boy ten. My daughter Jenny got to know her girl, Chris, at school and they hit it off. The girls wanted to go to a concert together so we, the parents, had a talk on the phone and decided they could go if we could go. We'd sit near the back to stay out of their hair. I got the nod at our house. Elizabeth theirs. Imagine the surprise on both our parts when we saw each other for the first time. We'd dated in high school!

She was the same as I remembered. Quiet. Not exactly shy, but reserved. An inch or two shorter than I. Same nice figure. Not really extraordinary in any way. Just like me, seventeen years older now. The kids thought it so ‘keen' that we'd known each other, and in the car on the way, we reminisced about the old days. Neither of us confided we'd been close.

The concert was a very noisy affair, and it was impossible to have a conversation without shouting. We soon gave up, but I was very conscious of her beside me, and the occasional times we could not help but touch, my heart jumped in my chest. I pretended to keep looking around at the crowd, but every time I looked left, I examined her ...

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