Norma stood in the station lavatory and checked her make-up in the dim mirror. A thick coating of foundation almost hid the tell-tale lines under her eyes and around her mouth and she regarded her image with satisfaction.

It was important to make a good first impression and Norma had spared no expense. She had been to Maison Celia to have her roots tinted and warm copper highlights put in her hair. She had even tried to lose a bit of weight but with no success – after a certain age those extra pounds were unmoveable. Instead she had bought an attractive beige two-piece in Evans that made her look almost slim. She was going to meet Howard for the first time and she could feel little butterflies fluttering in her tummy.

“Foolish girl,” she simpered into the mirror.

After months of chatting over the internet they had become friends but there was that exciting possibility of so much more. He had sent her a picture, a casual snapshot of a middle-aged man with a pleasant, slightly podgy-looking face. She had sent him something much more impressive – a studio portrait posed against a painted backdrop of a woodland glade. She could not quite remember when it had been taken but it was an excellent likeness.

She knew his age – forty seven. He, of course, did not know hers. A lady never reveals her age. Besides, what does age matter? Especially when one has aged so well. Chrissie at Maison Celia said that the copper highlights made her look 20 years younger, which would almost make her the same age as him. However, she did feel slightly nervous about the age gap – hence the annoying persistence of the butterflies.

It was nearly time for his train to arrive. She adjusted the white gardenia in her buttonhole and hurried out to the platform. She had told him to wear a white gardenia as well so they would recognise each other. The train pulled in and she was delighted to see that he had obeyed her romantic impulse and was also wearing a white gardenia.

Having alighted from the train he stood uncertainly looking up and down the platform. His gaze passed over her and then snapped back, his eyes focussing on her gardenia.

His hand fluttered towards his own buttonhole in what almost looked like an attempt to conceal it, then a thought seemed to strike him and he hurried towards her.

“Mrs Clutterbuck?” he said.

Norma blinked. He was being very formal. Oh well, if that was the way he wanted to play it she was happy to go along. She offered him her hand and said “Hello.”

He seemed not to notice her hand, he was looking beyond her, his eyes scanning the shadows. “I have come to meet your daughter,” he said. Daughter? She gaped at him, too astonished to answer.

“Norma Clutterbuck,” he said, “ she must have told you. We met on an internet dating site. My name is Howard Robertson.” He took her hand and shook it then looked more closely at her expression.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

No everything was not all right. Norma felt as if she had been stabbed through the heart. She managed to say “Did you get the picture?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “It was a lovely picture – a bit formal, kind of old-fashioned looking. In fact she looks a bit like you Mrs Clutterbuck – only much younger, of course.”

Norma’s hurt and bewilderment were turning to anger. How dare this man insult her like this. How dare he not see how young and desirable she was.

“Is something wrong?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered though gritted teeth. “Norma isn’t coming.”

“Not coming?” It was his turn to look bewildered. “But why? And why not tell me earlier, it would have saved me a journey. I must say this is too bad.”

Norma racked her brain for a plausible excuse and gave up. “Because she is dead,” she said.

“Oh I am so sorry.” His annoyance turned at once to contrition and sympathy. “How awful for you. Is there anything I can do?” His stammered condolences were interrupted by the station announcer.

“The next train for Winchester will be departing from platform three.”

A look of relief flooded over his sweating face. “Perhaps I had better be getting home. I am so sorry to impose upon you at this unhappy time, all my sympathy for your grief Mrs Clutterbuck,” and he scurried off to board his return train.

As she waved him off her romantic mind was already weaving its spell over their meeting. He had fallen  in love with her, of course. The way he had held her hand and looked into her eyes – a woman could always tell.

But it would never have worked. It was better she had told him straight away and saying she had died was the kindest way to do it – that way he would not live on in hope. Poor man, he had taken his disappointment with such brave fortitude.

She limped down the platform on her new beige shoes. Her dodgy hip was starting to ache. Half – remembered lines of poetry echoed in her mind – ‘Age shall not wither her nor the years decay.’

“Too bloody right,” she thought and with renewed determination she hurried home to the fantasy world of her computer.