‘I looked in the mirror one morning, and saw the face of a stranger. Who was she, this haggard, bun-faced woman with the softening jawline, the downturned mouth, the world-weary air of a woman who hasn’t had what she wanted from life, and knows she isn’t going to get it now? Why, it was no one else but me, myself and I.’ Middle age took Jane Shilling by surprise. She hadn’t seen it coming, and ...