"That," Patsy says as she returns to the living room, "is not unlike being visited by the queen."

"The queen?"

"The queen."

"And the queen's known for bringing cake round to people's houses, is she?" Delia sweeps up a few stray crumbs from a saucer with a finger. "It's very good sponge, actually..."

"I thought you didn't like cake." Coming to sit on the arm of Delia's chair, Patsy gives her the pushing-one's-luck grin that goes with a joke invoked too many times.

"You're so funny, Pats." For a moment, Delia allows herself to be mollified with a kiss. Then, "I don't think the queen'd be looking at someone's kitchen with that level of scrutiny, though. I don't think the queen's quite so interested in other people's pots and pans. When we decided to move in together, I don't think I quite realized that it'd involve being inspected by your former housekeeper."

"Love me, love Mrs B."

"She was checking up on you. Us. Me. I don't think she thinks you can look after yourself, you know. She doesn't think you can cook."

"She might not be wrong. But now she knows I've got you to run round after me and take care of my every need."

"Pats. Firstly, I don't think that's how it's going to work, and secondly, even if it was, I don't think she thinks I can cook, either. I'm not sure I want to be judged in my own home like that. Judged and found wanting. I don't want people to think we can't be proper!"

"She wasn't judging us. You. Us. Well, she was, but that's just Mrs B. No-one lives up to her standards. And it just means she'll send me home with food parcels."

"She better not." Delia looks at her darkly.

"So you don't want me to bring any more cake home, then?"

Delia opens her mouth, closes it again. Sighs. "Well, if you put it like that..."

Mrs. B wasn't the first who came to check up on them, in those early weeks in their new flat. She wasn't the last, either.