Before, they’d read newspapers and books when they weren’t socialising with each other, playing whip-smart games of racing demon and canasta, watching TV or listening to music.
Then technology had entered their lives, following the installation of lightning-fast Wi-Fi, and nowadays, more than fifty per cent of the residents had their own tablets.
And not the kind you swilled down with a cup of tea either.
It never failed to entertain Flo to see ninety-year-olds overcoming their fear of the unknown and launching themselves into the brave new electronic world of the internet.
Margot, one of her favourite residents, was simultaneously chatting on Skype with a retired Italian archaeologist, completing a cryptic crossword online and debating the merits of Bombay Sapphire gin versus Tanqueray London Dry with a history professor in Zagreb on Twitter.
If only Elsa could have been persuaded to come and live here in one of Nairn House’s stunning garden apartments. Flo just knew she and Margot would have got on like a house on fire.
‘Seven across. Switched palms, illuminating. Five letters.’ As she said it, Margot glanced up at Flo. ‘Any ideas, darling?’
‘Oh God, you know how hopeless I am with crosswords.’ Flo was busy changing the water in the crystal vase and preparing to rearrange the out-of-season white roses. ‘Um, something to do with light?’
‘I know ze answer to zat.’ The Italian archaeologist with the deliciously accented voice came to the rescue via Skype’s audio feed on Margot’s trusty iPad. ‘Eet ees lamps.’
‘Of course. Thanks, Paolo. OK now, twelve down, seven letters. Sheepish puff is violent.’
Honestly, how did people do these things? Flo was completely lacking in the cryptic gene.
‘Ha, too easy,’ said Paolo from his villa in Florence. ‘Eet is rampant.’
And it wasn’t even his first language.
‘You know, you’re not bad at this, for a foreigner!’ Having chuckled and tapped in the answer on the screen, Margot switched back to her Twitter conversation with Erik in Zagreb and deftly typed: You’ve just reminded me, I once drank martinis with David Niven at the Hotel du Cap. Such a charming man. #happydays
For the next twenty minutes, Flo tidied the apartment, washed dishes and made up the bed with new sheets Margot had ordered online from Liberty. She listened as Margot finished the crossword, concluded her conversation with Paolo and signed out of Twitter.
‘He sounds lovely.’
‘Paolo? I know. Great fun to chat to. Not so great in the looks department, sadly. Bit of an old bullfrog. That’s why I stick to audio.’ Margot pulled a not-very-apologetic face. ‘Still, nobody’s perfect. I’m no oil painting myself these days.’
Margot wore her silver hair pulled back in a sleek bun; her eyes were hooded but bright, she had an elegant aquiline nose and a narrow, clever mouth. Her outfits were flowing, her taste in jewellery baroque. Flo said honestly, ‘When I’m ninety, I’d love to look like you.’
‘Oh darling, aren’t you kind? Sometimes I completely forget how old I am, then get the most terrible shock when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.’
‘Oh well, I get that too. Did you really drink martinis with David Niven?’
‘I did! Back when life was full of adventure. Here, I’ve been uploading some photos from around that time . . .’
The photos showed Margot in her thirties, as leggy and glamorous as a movie star herself. When she’d finished skimming through them on her iPad, a ting announced the arrival of a new email in her inbox.
‘Ooh, lovely, our favourite. Now, have a listen to this.’ With great relish, Margot began to read aloud:
Dear Rose,
OK, three things about me. I’m twenty-six, my wedding is in six weeks and my mum is trying to ruin everything.
You should see the dress she’s bought to wear . . . Rose, she’s the mother of the bride and she’s going to make a mockery of the whole show. I have spent months planning every last detail and our colour palette is ivory, palest heather and duck-egg blue. I told my mum to make sure she chose something to tone in with these colours. I also stressed that it had to be elegant and appropriate for the occasion. Well, she came home with an above-the-knee orange dress and the cheapest-looking pair of shoes you ever saw. It’s a complete nightmare. She’s always had hideous taste in clothes and I’ve told her a million times how much she shows me up. When I said she wasn’t wearing that dress, she actually burst into tears. Rose, is it OK to ban my embarrassing mother from my wedding? If she comes along, she’s just going to wreck the whole day and all the photographs. And please don’t tell me to ask my dad to have a word with her – he walked out before I was born and she hasn’t had another boyfriend since.