My name is Jenny Blithe. At the time of writing I am in my mid fifties. I have been married once, to Tom, who died in a skiing accident about five years after we got married. I have had two lovers since then, but neither of them worked out, the first turning out to be a lout, and the second a foul-mouthed pig. After that I gave up and contented myself with a dildo.
I saw him across the room being greeted by the host. I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought for a moment I was going to faint.
I was attending the exhibition of a third rate painter's work, for which, as a freelance journalist, I was to write a review for a minor local paper. I had got sick of the sugary pink and white creations, and was standing around with a cocktail called, I believe, "A Landmine." It tasted of dishwater and kerosene.