I put the telephone down with mixed emotions. Hurt and despair fight hope and amusement. Sitting in my favourite chair with a medicinal gin and tonic I decide what to do.

My thoughts take me back 18 months to my nephew’s wedding. Having no children of our own we were particularly fond of him. My husband laughed as I squandered time and money choosing an outfit. The wedding gift? That was tricky! The bride and groom had particularly requested donations for their honeymoon fund. They had a beautiful home already making traditional household gifts inappropriate. As John’s only Aunt I felt some tangible reminder was required. After 40 years I still treasure small items given to us as wedding presents, thinking lovingly of the giver when I use them.

After a great deal of thought we decided on a set of crystal gin and tonic glasses plus a substantial cheque. The glasses were large enough for my tastes, I like to think should I visit, they will give me a decent sized drink. I placed some confetti, the cheque and a gift card in a glass and wrapped the box with loving care.

How we enjoyed the wedding, it was the last really happy day we had together as a couple. My husband collapsed and died three weeks later. Amongst all the trauma I did not note the absence of a thank you letter. Nor was the bank statement scrutinised with the usual care.

What shall I do? I decide to waiver my own rule of one drink per day and pour a second. It helps. I make my decision; a plan takes shape in my mind.

I phone John; saying that I am in Chelsea and invite myself round. Their apartment is modern; furnished in a stark, minimalist style.

“G and T?” John asks brightly. His wife, Gill, is in the kitchen wrestling with Waitrose canapés. As expected, my drink comes in a small, plain glass.

“Do you use the glasses Bob and I gave you much?”

“All the time,” he lies confidently, he is after all a politician. “They are in the dishwasher now; we had a bit of a do last night.”

“Gosh! Can you put crystal in a dishwasher? Every day is a school day!”

Gill appears holding a plain white china plate on which the canapés are artfully arranged. The conversational ball bounces about happily. I drain my glass, I have discovered one important fact, how many more might I find?

“Another drink?” says my nephew looking at his watch, a subliminal hint.

“These dinky glasses are very stylish but personally I prefer something a bit heavier, like the ones we gave you”

Gill, a PR guru, emerges as a more creative if less skilled liar. “That stupid Lithuanian cleaner dropped the box and smashed them all.”

“Was that before or after they went in the dishwasher? I better be going; I don’t like to walk back from the tube after dark.”

As the lift doors close behind me, I imagine them blaming each other for the deed, the incompetent lies and putting a rescue plan into action.

I am not wrong. The next morning, a large bouquet from an exclusive florist arrives. The sender telephones. “I am so sorry, I must come clean with you, we gave those glasses to Florence, Gill’s friend. They were so beautiful, but as you know we have everything we need. There was a breakdown in communication; somehow or other we ended up about to set off for Florence’s wedding emptyhanded.”

He grovels on; I let him. Should I tell him he missed the cheque? Decide against this as I harbour the unpleasant thought that he fancies himself as the sole heir to my modest estate when the time comes. I decide to play with him a bit longer.

“That’s been a tad embarrassing for you then”

“Absolutely ---“

“It’s just unfortunate that I placed a surprise in the glasses, confetti with your names on it. I cannot imagine what Florence thought.”

I wish I had a phone with vision because I am certain he is changing colour; Florence’s father is the party chairman.

I take the bouquet out into the street. The first person to come along is the lady from number 12, noted for her dourness, her face creased into its familiar scrunched pattern. She has never done more than grunt at me in passing although we have both lived here for twenty years.

“I have been given these but have an allergy to pollen; would you like them?”

A beautiful smile splits the crumpled face transforming it, “I’ve never been given flowers in my whole life, thank you so much.” I agree to come round for a cup of tea later.

So far so good. I contact Florence who sent a thoughtful text when my husband died. Through the wonders of face time, I am delighted to learn that she is well and currently living in New York. She is about to leave for the nail bar in her rain boots. I ask her what pattern of crystal glasses John and Gill had given her as my Goddaughter would like the same pattern.

She admits she no longer has the glasses. She thought it was an odd choice, not her style at all. They had to part with a lot of stuff when they moved; she gave them to Felicity. Felicity sent such a delightful letter back too!

Where would the trail take me next? I guess who Felicity is, another condolence text sender, mutual friend of Gill and Florence, who runs a boutique in Cheltenham. Ensuring it will appear as number withheld, I telephone claiming to be calling from the manufacturer. Having spoken to Florence I believe she is the holder of the lucky box of crystal glasses. All she must do to win a substantial cash prize is give me the number from the bottom of the box. Felicity is, I suspect, pushed for cash. She tells me that she has loaned the glasses to her uncle for a charity event.

“Would your uncle be Sir Harry Salt?” Her uncle, the odious TV personality.

“Yes.” I give her a fictitious number to get back to me.

Meanwhile I have an appointment with the finder of the cheque, Tracey. She tracked me down via the phone book, the advantage of an unusual surname. This honest, thoughtful girl was given a set of glasses by her boss. She described her as “a lovely woman, so kind and caring.”

The glasses are beautiful but mysteriously she found a cheque in there made out some time ago. When she was throwing the confetti out to wash the glasses, she noticed the names, John and Gill. She enthuses over the beautiful gift wrapping which sounds suspiciously similar to the original.

She could not imagine how it had happened but felt I would be worried. I asked her if I might have the cheque and card back and arranged to visit her to collect them. I suggested she just thank her boss for the glasses and the lovely surprise.

I depart for the outreaches of the Piccadilly line. Using my A to Z I navigate my way to a rather dark graffiti ridden street. There is fresh name card beside the bell. Tracey opens the door, showing me into a shabby, immaculately clean flat. There is a single lily in an unusually shaped wine bottle on the table; the scruffy sofa is piled with knobbly homemade cushions.

Tracey offers me tea which I accept gratefully, being an explorer in these parts. I reveal what I have discovered. She is a lovely girl, not in looks but in personality. She says that Lady Salt, her boss, is an extremely busy lady, “I buy and wrap all her Christmas gifts.” Tracey is not hurt as I would be to receive a recycled gift. The glasses are proudly arranged in the centre of a 60s glass fronted cabinet.

After tea she pours gin and tonics using two miniature bottles and a bottle of basic brand tonic. It is most enjoyable. I am touched, here is a newlywed couple struggling for cash but kind and appreciative. I hand her a cheque, the exact amount intended for my nephew. A very easy decision to make.

My mother always said “twice given stinks.” In this case I decide it is crystal clear that there are advantages; it has brought me two new friends, my neighbour and Tracey.

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