‘James Hewitt is on Tinder, I read it in the paper. He’s looking for a divorcee’

Yesterday being Mother’s Day, I gave Mum a call. I don’t just wait for the big occasions to call her, of course, but I remembered the significance of this particular Sunday with a jolt at eleven in the morning and knew that if I didn’t call her before she got to my brother’s house for lunch (they’re bubbling) then my name would be mud. I caught her just as she was putting her coat on. Had she received my flowers? She had. They were wilting when they arrived.

Mum said that my brother could wait another 15 minutes and sat to chat. She was still furious that ITV had chosen to bump Unforgotten for the Harry and Meghan interview. Nothing comes between Mum and her crime dramas. I didn’t dare ask her what she’d thought about the actual interview, in case I had to cancel my own mother. There was other royal news on Mum’s mind, in any case. Royal-related news at least.

“James Hewitt is on Tinder,” she told me. “I read it in the paper. He’s looking for a divorcee, around 50 years old, within 20 miles of Exeter.”

“Well, that rules me out,” I said, relieved.

“But you fit two of his criteria,” Mum continued. “And the Daily Mail says he has a Porsche so I’m sure you could meet at a service station halfway.”

“I’m not sure my car could get halfway to Devon.” My car had barely moved all year. There was moss growing on the window seals. “And I wouldn’t have anything in common with Hewitt anyway.”

Mum was insistent. “He’s doing landscape gardening to make ends meet. You’ve got a hedge. You could ask for his advice on trimming it.”

“Not a lot of hedge trimming has gone on in my life since the start of this pandemic,” I said.

“Can you imagine what Cynthia would say,” Mum continued. “If I told her my daughter was going out with Princess Diana’s ex! She would be green.”

“I don’t think so, Mum.”

Mum’s neighbour, Cynthia, had run up special black curtains for her whole house the day Diana died. “Cynthia probably thinks Hewitt should have been executed for treason.”

“You’re turning 50 in November, Trudy. When your age begins with a five, all the eligible men swipe left without even looking at your likes and dislikes.”

I was both impressed and suspicious that Mum even knew which direction one swiped on Tinder to reject a potential date. How did she know? Surely she wasn’t on Tinder too.

“I only joined up to see what’s out there for you,” she said. “And I think I’ve found James Hewitt already. I’ll send a screenshot.”

As we were talking on her landline, Mum was able to send the screenshot straight over. The profile she’d decided belonged to Princess Diana’s ex-lover was illustrated by a picture of a horse’s head. Still attached to a horse, I hasten to add.

“Could be anyone,” I pointed out. “Or someone with a really, really long face.”

“But how many men who know how to ride, who are 62 years old and live in Devon are on Tinder?”

“Hundreds, I would think. And they’re all called Neil.”

Later, I spoke to my best friend Liz, who had also heard that James Hewitt was back in the dating game.

“He’s looking for a divorcee of a certain age, Trudes. That’s you!”

“I’m not his type. He likes blondes. Tall, royal blondes.”

“Maybe he’s realised that his ‘type’ only ever got him into trouble so now he’s looking for lasting happiness with a small brunette. Gosh! Can you imagine if you ended up going out with Princess Diana’s ex-lover? I could dine out on that for years.”

“But I’m the one who’d have to go to bed with him.”

“You don’t have to go to bed with him. You just have to go on one date and report back. Just one date, Trudes, that’s all I’m asking. I have to live vicariously through you now I’m married.”

“I’d have to find him on Tinder first and then he’d have to swipe right on me and then I’d have to talk to him. I don’t think I even know how to talk to strange men anymore, having spent three months with no company but a hamster. Who, incidentally, is far better company than my ex-husband ever was. At least Minky looks at me when she comes out from beneath the fridge.”

“You’re no fun,” said Liz. “And you ought to be online dating. The end of lockdown is coming. You need to be ready to get out there.”

I told Liz I was trying. I’d had another FaceTime “date” with her neighbour the Foxy Farmer. Once again, he dialled in from the shed. This time I’d asked why, determined to find out if he had a girlfriend in the house.

“My wifi got cut off,” he said. “So I’m borrowing Liz and Fred’s. Shed is the only place I can pick up their signal.”

I told Liz of course. “What? He’s using our wifi? No wonder Netflix keeps cutting out. That is so rude.”

As I talked to Liz, I glanced out of the window towards my neighbour Brenda’s house. She was doing some stretches, using her garden gate as a barre. She was wearing yet another Eighties tracksuit. I wondered if she had any idea that she was in possession of several thousands pounds’ worth of vintage leisure wear. Stretches finished, she set off on her run at an impressive pace. She was taking very seriously the need to get into shape before her “boyfriend” flew in from his important job as a “Red Cross surgeon in the DRC” to meet her in person for the first time.

Hmmm. Perhaps if I pretended to Brenda that I needed advice on internet dating, I could get round to suggesting that perhaps her own online amour wasn’t all he seemed. I sincerely hoped she hadn’t already sent him the money he’d asked for.