Sheer Mischief

SHEER MISCHIEF

By

Jill Mansell

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Cha

pter 41

Chapter 42

Cha

pter 43

Cha

pter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to Mum, as ever, for all those hours at the word processor; Dad, the only one who understands it; Tina, babysitter extraordinaire; and Pearl, Sarah and Cino who all helped too.

Chapter 1

Running away from her boring old fiancé had seemed such a brilliant idea at the time. It was just a shame, Maxine decided, that running out of boring old petrol four hours later should be turning out to be so much less fun.

‘Oh please, don’t be mean,’ she begged, but the middle-aged petrol-pump attendant remained unmoved.

‘Look,’ he repeated heavily, ‘you’ve filled your car up with twenty pounds’ worth o’ petrol.

Now you tell me you’ve only got seventy-three pence on you. You ain’t got no credit cards, no cheque book, nor no identification. So I don’t have no choice but to call the police.’

Maxine’s credit cards, house keys and cheque book were back in London, lurking somewhere at the bottom of the Thames. Exasperated beyond belief by the man’s uncharitable attitude, she wondered how and when the inhabitants of Cornwall had ever managed to acquire their reputation for friendliness. As far as she was concerned, it was a filthy lie.

‘But I’ll pay you back, I promise I will,’ she said in wheedling tones. ‘This is just silly. I don’t know why you won’t trust me ...’

The attendant had a glass eye which glinted alarmingly in the sunlight. Fixing her with the bloodshot good one and evidently immune to the charms of hapless blondes with beguiling smiles, he exhaled heavily and reached for the phone.

‘Because it’s seven o’clock in the morning,’ he replied, as if she were being deliberately stupid. ‘Because you can’t pay for your petrol. And because you’re wearing a wedding dress.’

Janey Sinclair, peering out of her bedroom window overlooking Trezale’s picturesque high street, was embarrassed. She’d had twenty-six years in which to get used to being shown up by her younger sister but it still happened. What was really unfair, she thought sleepily, was the fact that none of it ever seemed to faze Maxine.

‘Sshh,’ she hissed, praying that none of her neighbours were yet awake. ‘Wait there, I’m coming down.’

‘Bring your purse!’ yelled Maxine, who didn’t care about the neighbours. ‘I need twenty pounds.’

What Maxine really needed, Janey decided, was strangling.

‘OK,’ she said, opening the front door and wearily surveying the scene. ‘Don’t tell me.

You’re eloping with our local policeman and you need the money for the marriage licence. Tom, are you sure you’re doing the right thing here? Your wife’s going to be furious when she finds out, and my sister’s a lousy cook.’

Tom Lacey, Trezale’s local policeman, had been married for ten months and his wife was due to give birth at any moment, yet he was blushing with pleasure like a schoolboy. Janey heaved an inward sigh and wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

Maxine, however, simply grinned. ‘I did offer. He turned me down.’

Janey pulled her creased, yellow and white dressing gown more tightly around her waist.

That was something else about Maxine, she always managed to upstage everyone around her.

And although it was still relatively early on a Sunday morning, it was also mid-July, practically the height of the holiday season. Tourists, unwilling to waste a moment of their precious time in Cornwall, were making their way along the high street, heading for the beach but pausing to watch the diversion outside the florist’s shop. They couldn’t quite figure out what was going on, but it looked interesting. One small boy, deeply tanned and wearing only white shorts, deck shoes and a camera slung around his neck, was even taking surreptitious photographs.

‘So why are you wearing a wedding dress?’ she demanded, then flapped her arms in a gesture of dismissal. Maxine’s explanations tended to be both dramatic and long-winded. ‘No, don’t bother. Here’s the twenty pounds. Can we go inside now or are you really under arrest?’

But Maxine, having whisked the money from her sister’s grasp and popped the rolled-up notes into her cleavage, was already sliding back into the passenger seat of the panda. ‘My car’s being held hostage,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Tom just has to take me to pay the ransom first, but we’ll be back in forty minutes. Tom, are you as hungry as I am?’

‘Well ...’ Tom, who was always hungry, managed a sheepish grin.

‘There, you see. We’re both absolutely starving,’ declared Maxine, gazing with longing at the array of switches studding the dashboard and wondering which of them controlled the siren.

Then, fastening her seatbelt and flashing her sister a dazzling grin, she added, ‘But you mustn’t go to too much trouble, darling. Just bacon and eggs will be fine.’

Tom, to his chagrin, was called away instead to investigate the case of the stolen parasol outside the Trezale Bay Hotel.

‘Toast and Marmite?’ Maxine looked disappointed but bit into a slice anyway. Rearranging her voluminous white skirts and plonking herself down on one of the wrought-iron chairs on the tiny, sunlit patio, she kicked off her satin shoes and wriggled her toes pleasurably against the warm flagstones.

‘Why don’t you change into something less ... formal?’ Janey, who was wearing white shorts and a primrose-yellow camisole top, poured the coffee. ‘Where’s your suitcase, in the car?’

Maxine, having demolished the first slice of thickly buttered toast, leaned across and helped herself to a second.

‘No money, no suitcase,’ she said with a shrug. ‘No nothing! You’ll just have to lend me something of yours.’ Janey had looked forward all week to this Sunday, when nothing was precisely what she had planned on doing. A really good lie-in, she thought dryly, followed by hours of blissful, uninterrupted nothing. And instead, she had this.

‘Go on then,’ she said as Maxine stirred three heaped spoonsful of sugar into her coffee cup and shooed away an interested wasp. ‘Tell me what’s happened. And remember, you woke me up for this so it had better be good.’

She had to concede, ten minutes later, that it was pretty good. Three years at drama school might not have resulted in the dreamed-of glittering acting career, but Maxine certainly knew how to make the most of telling a story. In the course of describing the events of the previous night her hands, eyebrows – even her bare feet – became involved.

‘... So there we were, expected to arrive at this fancy-dress party in less than an hour, and bloody Maurice hadn’t even remembered to tell me it was on. Well, being Maurice, he phoned his mother and she was round in a flash with her old wedding dress tucked under her skinny arm.

It’s a Schiaparelli, can you believe? So we ended up at this chronic company party as a bride-and-sodding groom and everyone was sniggering like mad because the thought of us ever actually tying the knot was evidently too funny for words. And I realized then that they were right – I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending to be a dutiful banker’s wife and having to socialize with a bunch of boring stuffed shirts. So I told Maurice it was over, and then I told the stuffed shirts and their smirking wives exactly what I thought of them too. Poor Maurice; as far as he was concerned, that really was the last straw. It didn’t matter that I’d humiliated him, but insulting all the directors was too much. Janey, I’ve never seen him so mad! He dragged me backwards out of the hotel and told me I wasn’t worth his mother’s old slippers, let alone her precious wedding dress. ‘I screamed back that as he was such an old woman he should be wearing the bloody dress! Then I kicked him because he wouldn’t let go of me, so he called me a spoilt, spiteful, money-grabbing delinquent and chucked my evening bag into the Thames.’ She paused, then concluded mournfully, ‘It had everything in it. My favourite Estée Lauder eyeshadow palette ... everything.’

All the toast had gone. Janey, reminding herself that it didn’t matter, she was supposed to be on a diet anyway, cradled her lukewarm coffee in both hands and remarked, ‘Bit daring, for Maurice. So then what did you do?’

‘Well, luckily we’d taken my car. All my keys were in the river, of course, but I’ve always kept a spare in the glove compartment and the driver’s door is a doddle — you can open it with a hair slide. I just jumped in, drove off and left Maurice standing in the middle of the road with his mouth going like a guppy. But I knew I couldn’t break into the flat — he’s got that place alarmed to the eyeballs — so I headed for the M4 instead. And because the one thing I did have was a full tank of petrol, I thought I’d come and visit my big sister.’

With a grin, Maxine ran her fingers through her tumbling, gold-blond hair and shook it back over her shoulders. ‘I’m seeking sanctuary, darling. Just call me Quasimodo.’

‘Don’t call me darling,’ grumbled Janey, who hated it. ‘And whatever you do, don’t call me big.’

But it was no good. Maxine wasn’t going to go away. Neither — despite having driven all night from London to Cornwall — did she apparently have any intention of falling asleep.

Janey, who loved but frequently despaired of her sister, followed her upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed whilst Maxine carried out a brisk raid on the wardrobe. She wondered what Maxine had ever done to deserve a twenty-two-inch waist.

‘These’ll be fine.’ Forcing another hole through the tan leather belt, she patted the size fourteen khaki shorts with approval and admired her reflection in the mirror. The white shirt, expertly knotted above the waist, showed off her flat brown midriff and her dark eyes sparkled.

‘There, ready to face the world again. Or dear old Trezale, anyway. Where shall we go for lunch?’

‘You don’t have any money,’ Janey reminded her with a sinking heart, but Maxine was already halfway to the bedroom door.

‘I’ll sort something out with the bank tomorrow,’ she replied airily. ‘They’ll understand when ‘I tell them what that pig of an ex-boyfriend of mine did with my cheque book. Now come along, Janey, cheer up and tell me where we can meet all the most gorgeous men these days. Is the Dune Bar still good?’

‘He wasn’t your boyfriend,’ said Janey, wondering at the ease with which Maxine had apparently discarded him from her life. ‘He was your fiancé.’

Maxine looked momentarily surprised. Then, waving her left hand in the air so that the large, square-cut emerald caught the light, she said gleefully, ‘Of course he was! How clever of you to think of it. If the bank gets stuffy I can flog the ring, instead.’

‘You think I’m a heartless bitch, don’t you?’

They were sitting out on the crowded terrace of the Dune Bar. Janey tried not to notice the way practically every male was lusting after Maxine. Maxine, who genuinely appeared not to have noticed – it was a particular speciality of hers – sipped her lager and looked contrite.

‘I know you’re a heartless bitch,’ said Janey with a faint smile. ‘But at least you’re honest about it. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty.’ Maxine glanced down at her engagement ring. ‘I didn’t love Maurice, you know.’

‘Surprise, surprise.’

‘I liked him, though.’ With a trace of defiance, she added, ‘And I adored the fact that he had money. I think I managed to convince myself that ours would turn out to be like one of those arranged marriages, where love eventually grows. He was generous and kind, and I did so hate being broke ...’

‘But it didn’t work out like that,’ Janey observed, shielding her eyes with her forearm and gazing out over the sea. A pillarbox-red speedboat, skimming over the waves, was towing a water skier. Ridiculously, even after eighteen months, she still had to convince herself that it wasn’t Alan before she could bring herself to look away.

‘It might have worked, if Maurice hadn’t been so boring.’ Maxine shrugged, then grinned.

‘And if I weren’t so easily bored.’

Not for the first time, Janey wondered what it was like to be Maxine. Maybe her cool, calculating attitude to life wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It might not be romantic, but at least it meant she spared herself the agonies of unrequited love and those endless, gut-wrenching months of despair.

I married for love, thought Janey, the cold emptiness invading her stomach as readily as it ever had. And look where it got me.

‘Oh God,’ cried Maxine, intuitively reading her sister’s thoughts and grabbing her hand in consolation. ‘I am a callous bitch! Now I’ve made you think about Alan.’

But Janey, managing a wry smile, shook her head. ‘I think about him anyway. It’s hardly something I’m likely to forget, after all.’

‘I’m still an insensitive, clod-hopping prat,’ insisted Maxine. Her expression contrite, she lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t even asked how you’re coping. Does it get better, or is it as hideous as ever?’

‘Well, I’m not crying all over you.’ Finishing her drink, Janey met her sister’s concerned gaze and forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘So that has to be an improvement, don’t you think?’

‘But it’s still hard?’

‘It is getting better,’ she admitted. ‘But the not knowing is the worst part of all. The awful limbo of not knowing what I am.’ Pausing for a moment, she added bleakly, ‘A widow or a deserted wife.’

Chapter 2

They were married on the first of May, the happiest day of Janey’s life.

‘I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to be doing today.’ Alan, emerging from beneath the navy blue duvet with his blond hair sticking up at angles, sounded puzzled. ‘What is it, the dentist ...? Ouch!’

But Janey didn’t let go of his big toe. ‘Much worse,’ she mocked. ‘Much, much worse.’

‘Aaargh, I remember now! The Registry Office. And you should be covering your eyes, you shameless female. You aren’t supposed to see the blushing groom on the morning of his wedding.’

‘Too late, I’ve already seen you.’ Whisking back the duvet, she surveyed him solemnly.

‘All of you.’

Alan grinned and reached out for her, pulling her back into bed and unfastening the belt of her flimsy dressing gown. ‘In that case we may as well have a quickie. One last, glorious, pre-marital quickie. How many hours before we’re married, Miss Vaughan?’

Janey glanced at her watch. ‘Three.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, rolling on top of her and kissing the frantically beating pulse at the base of her neck. ‘In that case, we might even have time for two.’

Once they’d torn themselves away from the bedroom to complete the formalities, Janey found she adored every moment and every aspect of being married. Each morning when she woke up she almost had to pinch herself to check that it was all real. But it always was, thank God, and the sheer joy of being Mrs Sinclair showed no signs of waning.

She enjoyed looking after their tiny flat, experimenting with new recipes and socializing with his surf-crazy friends. And because she was only twenty-five years old she enjoyed above all else knowing that they had the rest of their lives to spend together. Nothing need ever change.

No body was ever found.

‘But something must have happened to him.’ Janey, grief-stricken yet dry-eyed, simply couldn’t believe that it hadn’t. In an effort to convince the police, she uttered the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘He’s my husband ... I know him ... he wouldn’t just disappear.’

The police, however, whilst sympathetic, were less convinced. Every year, they explained, hundreds of people in Britain with no apparent problems or reasons to disappear, did precisely that, leaving behind them distraught families, endless unanswerable questions and countless shattered lives.

Janey’s life was certainly shattered. On a sunny afternoon in July, after just fourteen months of marriage, her beloved husband had vanished without trace. Nothing had been taken from the flat and there were no clues as to the reason for his disappearance.

During the first few frantic days she’d pinned all her hopes on an accident, not serious enough to be life-threatening, just a bang on the head resulting in temporary amnesia. At any moment, she had fantasized helplessly, the phone would ring and when she picked it up she would hear his dear, familiar voice.

But although the discovery of Alan’s body was what she’d most dreaded, as the weeks dragged into months she found herself almost beginning to wish that it would happen. She felt like a murderer, even thinking such a’ thing, but at least it would be conclusive. The torture of not knowing would be over. And – most deeply shaming of all -- she would be spared the humiliation of thinking that her husband had vanished because he could no longer tolerate his life with her.

Nobody else had ever voiced this possibility aloud, of course, but whenever she was feeling particularly vulnerable Janey was only too easily able to imagine what was uppermost in their minds. As time passed she found herself, in turn, the object of macabre curiosity, whispered gossip and pity. And it was hard to decide which of these was worst.

Maxine drifted into the shop at ten-thirty the following morning, yawning and clutching a mug of tea. ‘God your sofa’s uncomfortable,’ she grumbled, rubbing her back.

Janey, who had been up for over five hours, lifted an armful of yellow irises into a bucket and slid them into position between the gypsophila and the white roses. The shop had been busier than usual and she still had three wreaths to make up before midday.

‘Sorry,’ she replied wryly. It would never occur to Maxine to bring her a cup of tea as well.

But Maxine was still massaging her back and pulling faces. ‘I’ll be a cripple by the end of the week.’

‘Are you really planning to stay?’

‘Of course!’ She looked surprised. ‘I’m not going back to Maurice-the-Righteous, and there’s nothing to keep me in London. Besides,’ she added dreamily, ‘I’d forgotten how lovely it is down here. Much nicer than smelly old London. I think a summer by the sea would do me the world of good.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Oh come on, Janey. Don’t look at me like that! It’ll be fun; we can cheer each other up.’

Having consulted the notes on her clipboard, Janey began sorting out the flowers for the wreaths. ‘You’ll be too busy complaining about your back to have any fun,’ she said brusquely.

‘And having to listen to your endless whingeing is hardly going to cheer me up.’

‘You don’t want me to stay?’ Maxine looked hurt and Janey experienced a twinge of guilt.

‘I do,’ she protested as the shop door swung open and Paula, having completed the morning’s deliveries, dropped the keys to the van on the counter. ‘Of course I’d like you to stay.

It’s just that the flat’s so small, and I don’t have a spare bedroom.’

‘I see.’ Maxine shrugged ‘Well, that’s OK. I’ll go and see Mum.’

Janey looked doubtful. Their mother would only complain that nothing cramped one’s style more effectively than a stray daughter hanging around the place. And Thea Vaughan’s highly individual lifestyle didn’t take kindly to cramping. She wasn’t exactly the slippers-and-home-made-sponge-cake type.

But Maxine knew that as well as she did, so Janey didn’t bother to voice these thoughts.

Instead, she said, ‘And you’d need some kind of job.’

‘Oh God.’ Maxine was looking gloomier by the second. Working had never been one of her strong points. ‘I suppose I would. But what on earth can I do?’

Paula, who was a lot more thoughtful than Maxine, returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea.

‘Paula, this is my sister Maxine,’ said Janey, seizing one of the mugs with relief. ‘Now, take a good look at her and tell me what kind of work she might be able to cope with.’

Maxine, perched on the stool next to the counter with her long brown legs stretched out before her, gave the young girl an encouraging smile. But nothing fazed Paula.

‘Here in Trezale, you mean?’ As requested, she studied Maxine for several seconds. ‘Well, selling your body’s out for a start. Too many giggling girlies on the beach at this time of year, giving it away for free.’

Maxine burst out laughing. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Seriously,’ protested Janey, weaving fronds of fern into the circular mesh base of the first wreath.

‘Bar work?’

‘Ugh.’ Maxine cringed, rejecting the idea at once. ‘Too hard on the feet.’

‘Hotel receptionist?’ suggested Paula, unperturbed. ‘The Abbey’s advertising in the paper this week.’

But Maxine shook her head. ‘I’d have to be polite to ghastly tourists.’

Nannying.’ Paula looked pleased with herself. ‘The family my mother cleans for is losing theirs. You could be a nanny.’

Maxine looked amused. ‘Oh no I couldn’t.’

But Janey’s interest was aroused by this item of news. ‘That’s an idea!’ she exclaimed, temporarily abandoning the wreath. ‘You’d be able to live in. That way, you’d have a job and a place to stay. Max, it’d be great!’

‘Apart from one small problem,’ replied Maxine flatly. ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than tourists, it’s children. Children and babies and nappies. Yuk!’ she added with a shudder of revulsion. ‘Especially nappies.’

‘These two are a bit old for nappies,’ said Paula, ever practical. ‘Josh is nine and Ella’s seven. I’ve met them a few times. They’re nice kids.’

‘And they’d be at school during the day,’ put in Janey, her tone encouraging.

But Maxine, sensing that she was being ganged up on, pulled a face. ‘I’m just not the nannyish type. ‘I mean, for heaven’s sake, do I look like Julie Andrews?’

Losing patience, Janey returned her attention to work. ‘OK, you’ve made your point. You probably wouldn’t have got the job anyway,’ she added, unable to resist the dig. ‘Most people prefer trained nannies and there’d be enough of those queuing up when they realize who they’ll be working for.’

Needled by the insult, Maxine’s brown eyes glittered. ‘Why, who is it?’ she demanded, ready to find fault with any prospective employer who wouldn’t choose her.

‘Guy Cassidy.’ Janey shook droplets of water from the stems of a handful of yellow freesias. ‘He moved into Trezale House just over a year ago. He’s a ‘

‘Photographer!’ squealed Maxine, looking as if she was about to topple off her stool. ‘Guy Cassidy,’ she repeated faintly. ‘The Guy Cassidy? Janey, are you having me on?’

Bingo, thought Janey, exchanging glances with Paula and hiding her smile.

‘Of course not.’ She looked affronted. ‘Why ever should I? And what difference does it make anyway? You hate kids. You just said so, yourself.’

‘What difference does it make?’ echoed Maxine, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Janey, are you quite mad? It makes all the difference in the world. That man is gorgeous ...’

Chapter 3

‘God, this is hard work,’ complained Guy, crumpling up yet another sheet of paper and lobbing it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket at the side of the bed. Fixing his son and daughter with a stern expression, he added, ‘And it’s too early in the day for this kind of thing. ‘I don’t know why you two can’t write your own advert, anyway.’

Ella, squirming at his side, nudged his arm. ‘Daddy, I can’t spell!’

‘And you hate those kind of adverts,’ chided Josh, who was sprawled across the foot of the bed. Running his finger down the ‘Help Wanted’ columns of the slim magazine in which the finished advertisement would be placed, he found a shining example and began to read aloud in an exaggerated baby voice.

‘Hello, my name is Bunty and ‘I am two yearth old. I need thomebody to look after me whilst Mummy and Daddy are working. We live in a big houthe in Thurrey, with a thwimming pool. You muthn’t thmoke ...’

‘OK, OK,’ said Guy with resignation. ‘So it wasn’t one of my better ideas. Maybe I’ll just put, "Two spoilt brats require stern battleaxe of a nanny to feed them cold porridge and beat them daily." How about that?’ Ella giggled. ‘I don’t like cold porridge.’

‘You should say, "Widow with two children needs kind nanny",’ suggested Josh, who had been giving the matter some thought.

‘Widower,’ Guy corrected him. ‘Widows are female. Men are called widowers.’

‘I know why you’re a man,’ Ella chimed in. Josh, at the foot of the bed, grinned.

It was too early in the day for this, too. Guy, closing his eyes for a moment and mentally bracing himself, said, ‘Go on then. Why am I a man?’

‘Because you haven’t any bosoms on your chest,’ declared his daughter with an air of importance. And you don’t wear a bra.’

It was four-thirty when the doorbell rang. Berenice, the soon-to-be-married departing nanny, had taken Ella into St Ives for the afternoon on a shopping trip. Guy was busy in the darkroom, developing black and white prints, when Josh knocked on the door and informed him that he had a visitor.

‘She said it was important,’ he told Guy, his forehead creasing in a frown as he struggled to remember. ‘I don’t know who she is, but I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before.’

Maxine was standing before the sitting-room window, admiring the stupendous view of clifftops and sea. When she turned and smiled at Guy, and came towards him with her hand outstretched, he realized at once why his son had thought her familiar yet been unable to place her.

‘Mr Cassidy?’ she said demurely. ‘My name is Vaughan. Maxine Vaughan. It’s kind of you to see me.’

She was here in his house, thought Guy with inward amusement. He didn’t really have much choice. But he was, at the same time, intrigued. Maxine Vaughan was an undeniably attractive girl in her mid-twenties. Her long, corn-blond hair was pulled back from her face in a neat plait, her make-up carefully unobtrusive. The dark green jacket and skirt were a couple of sizes too big for her and she was wearing extremely sensible shoes. It was all very convincing, very plausible. Guy was impressed by the extent of the effort she had made.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied easily, taking her proffered hand and registering short fingernails, a clear nail polish and - oh dear, first sign of a slip-up - a genuine Cartier wristwatch. ‘How can I help you, Miss Vaughan?’

Maxine took a deep, steadying breath and hoped her palms weren’t damp. She’d known, of course, that Guy Cassidy was gorgeous, but in the actual flesh he was even more devastatingly attractive than she’d imagined. With those thickly lashed, deep blue eyes, incredible cheekbones and white teeth offset by a dark tan, he was almost too perfect. But the threat of perfection was redeemed by a quirky smile, slightly crooked eyebrows and that famously tousled black hair.

He exuded sex appeal without even trying, she realized. He possessed an indefinable charisma. Not to mention a body to die for.

‘I’m hoping we can help each other,’ said Maxine. Then, because her knees were on the verge of giving way, she added, ‘Would you mind if I sat down?’

‘Please do.’ Having concluded that she must be either a journalist or a model desperate for a break, Guy gently mimicked her formal style of speech. Either way, he would give her no more than ten minutes; he was all for a spot of personal enterprise but her unexpected arrival wasn’t exactly well timed. He had work to do, phone calls to make and a nine-year-old son demanding to be taken for a swim before dinner.

He glanced at his watch. Maxine, sensing his veiled impatience, took another deep breath and plunged in. ‘Right, Mr Cassidy, I understand you’ll shortly be requiring a replacement nanny for your children. And since I myself am an experienced nanny, I’d like to offer my services.’

It was a good start, but the rest of the interview wasn’t going according to plan, she realized several minutes later. And she hadn’t the faintest idea why not.

On the surface, at least, Guy Cassidy was asking the appropriate questions and she was supplying faultless replies, but at the same time she had a horrible feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously. Worse, that he was inwardly laughing at her.

‘They’re in Buenos Aires now,’ she continued valiantly, as he studied the glowing references which she’d slaved for an entire hour to produce. ‘Otherwise I’d still be with them, of course. The children were adorable and Angelo and Marisa treated me more as a friend than an employee.’

But her potential employer, instead of appearing suitably impressed, was glancing once more at his watch. ‘I’m sure they did,’ he replied. Rising to his feet, he shot her a brief smile.

‘And it was thoughtful of you to consider us, Miss ... er... Vaughan. But I don’t think you’re quite what we’re looking for.’

Maxine’s guard slipped. ‘Why not?’ she wailed, remaining rooted to her chair. ‘I’ve shown you my references. They’re brilliant! What can possibly be wrong with me?’

Guy, enjoying himself, maintained a serious expression. ‘You’re too dowdy.’

‘But I don’t have to be dowdy,’ said Maxine wildly. She knew she shouldn’t have worn Janey’s horrible suit. ‘I’m not usually dowdy at all!’

‘OK.’ Gesturing for her to calm down, he continued. ‘You’re too prim and proper.’

I am not prim!’ Maxine almost shrieked. ‘Please, you have to believe me. These aren’t my own clothes ... I’m not the least bit proper either and I hate these shoes!’

But Guy hadn’t finished. Fixing her with his deadpan gaze, he said remorselessly, ‘And you’re a liar, Miss Vaughan. Which wouldn’t set a particularly good example to my children.

I’m afraid I can’t employ someone who is dishonest.’

Maxine felt her cheeks burn. He was bluffing, he had to be. Stiffly, she replied, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you?’ This time he actually smiled. ‘In that case, wait here. I’ll just go and find my son.’

He returned less than two minutes later with the boy in tow Although nine-year-old Josh Cassidy had straight, white-blond hair in contrast to his father, Maxine was struck by the similarity of their extraordinary dark blue

‘Hello, Josh,’ she said, dredging up a brave smile and wondering why he was staring at her in that odd way.

But Guy was handing his son a large brown envelope. ‘Here,’ he said casually. ‘I developed that film you gave me earlier. Take a look at these prints, Josh, and tell me how you think they’ve turned out.’

Maxine spotted the offending item a fraction of a second before Josh. Having tipped the photographs out of the envelope and spread them across the coffee table, he was still studying them intently, one at a time, when she let out a strangled cry and made a grab for it.

Guy, standing behind her, whisked the photograph from her grasp and handed it, in turn, to his son.

‘Golly,’ said Josh with a grin. Staring at Maxine, who was by this time redder than ever, he added, ‘I thought I knew you from somewhere!’

‘And the moral of this story,’ she muttered sulkily, ‘is never trust a member of the paparazzi.’

‘You look different today.’ Studying the glossy ten-by-eight at close quarters and looking pleased with himself, he said, ‘I think I prefer you in the white dress. It’s a good photograph, isn’t it?’

It was a bit too good for Maxine’s liking. No wonder Guy Cassidy had been able to recognize her. There she was, captured for posterity in that stupid wedding gown, laughing as she clambered out of the panda car and not even realizing that her skirts had bunched up to reveal white stocking tops and a glimpse of suspender. And the expression on Tom-the-policeman’s face, she observed with resignation, didn’t help. He was positively leering.

‘Hang on a minute.’ Josh was looking puzzled again. ’If you got married yesterday, why aren’t you on a honeymoon?’

‘I wasn’t getting married,’ said Maxine impatiently.

‘Or arrested. It was a fancy-dress party, that’s all. Then I ran out of petrol on the way home and the policeman gave me a lift.’ Fixing Guy with a mutinous glare, she added, ‘It was nothing sinister, for heaven’s sake.’

He shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I’m sure you understand why I can’t consider you for the job.

I’m sorry, Miss Vaughan, but I do have the moral welfare of my children to take into account.’

‘At least I’m not dowdy and prim,’ she muttered in retaliation.

‘Oh no.’ This time, as he drew a slim white envelope from his shirt pocket, he laughed. ‘I’ll grant you that.

But I’m afraid I have work to do, so maybe I could ask my son to show you out. And Josh, I’ve written out the advert. If you run down with it now, you’ll just catch the last post.’

‘Well?’ said Guy, when his son returned twenty minutes later.

‘She gave me five pounds and a Cornetto.’ Josh looked momentarily worried. Was that enough?’

Amused by his son’s concern, Guy ruffled his blond hair. ‘Oh, I’d say so. Five pounds and a Cornetto in exchange for a first-class stamp and an empty envelope. It sounds like a fair enough swap to me.’

Chapter 4

The response to the advertisement when it eventually appeared the following week wasn’t startling, but it was manageable. Guy preferred to do his own hunting as a result of the futile experiences he’d had three years earlier when he’d tried using an agency. Having also learned to expect applications from star-struck girls and would-be second wives, he had omitted his name from the advertisement.

But last time he had struck lucky. Berenice, profoundly unimpressed by his celebrity status, had fitted the bill to perfection. Stolid, hard-working and not the least bit glamorous, what she lacked in sparkle she’d more than made up for in dependability. Guy, whose work required him to travel abroad at short notice, was able to do so without a qualm, safe in the knowledge that his children would be competently looked after by someone who cared for them and who would never let him down.

It had come as something of a shock, therefore, when Berenice had shyly informed him that she was shortly to be married, and that since her future husband had been offered a job in Newcastle, she would be leaving Trezale.

Guy hadn’t even been aware of the existence of a man in her life, but discretion had always been one of Berenice’s major attributes — as he had himself on numerous occasions had cause to be thankful for. The courtship, it appeared, had been conducted on her days off. And although she was sorry to be leaving, she now had her own life to pursue. She hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a replacement.

Interviewing the half dozen or so applicants, however, was both tedious and time-consuming. What Guy wanted was a clone of Berenice with maybe a sense of humour thrown in for good measure.

What he got, instead, was a succession of girls in whom it was only too easy to find fault.

Josh and Ella, dutifully trotted out to meet each of them in turn, were equally critical.

‘She smelled,’ said Ella, wrinkling her nose in memory of Mary-from-Exeter.

‘She laughed like a sheep,’ Josh observed bluntly when Doreen from Doncaster had departed.

Neither of them could make head nor tail of Gudren from-Sweden’s singsong accent.

‘She’s all right, I suppose.’ Josh, referring to another contender, sounded doubtful. ‘But why did she have a bottle of vodka in her handbag?’

They finally settled on Maureen-from-Wimbledon, a pale, eager-to-please twenty-five-year-old who was keen to move in and start work as soon as possible. Carefully highlighting her good points — she didn’t smell, possess an irritating laugh or an incomprehensible foreign accent — Guy prayed the children wouldn’t make mincemeat of her before she had a chance to find her feet. She barely seemed capable of looking after herself, but maybe she’d just been too nervous to create a dazzling first impression.

And at least, he thought dryly, recalling the very first candidate, she hadn’t fluttered inch-long eyelashes at him, surreptitiously edged up her short skirt and treated him to a flash of emerald-green knickers each time she’d crossed and re-crossed her legs.

Janey was working in the shop when Guy Cassidy and his children walked in.

‘I need some flowers,’ he said without preamble, removing his dark glasses and surveying the myriad buckets lined up against the wall. ‘For a wedding reception next Saturday. If ‘I place the order now, would you be able to bring them to my house on the Friday afternoon and arrange them?’

‘Of course I would.’ Janey was delighted. Men for whom money was no object were definitely her kind of customer. Reaching for her clipboard she said, ‘Tell me what type of arrangements you have in mind and which kind of flowers you think you’d like.’

Flowers, however, evidently weren’t Guy Cassidy’s strong point. Looking momentarily helpless, he frowned and said, ‘Well, blue ones?’

‘Berenice likes daffodils,’ supplied Ella, tugging his white shirt sleeve. ‘Remember? We picked her some for her birthday and she said they were her favourite.’

Janey had already guessed that the flowers were for Berenice’s wedding but now that Guy’s daughter had given her the excuse she needed, she raised her eyebrows and said, ‘You mean Berenice Taylor? Oh, I’m doing her bridal bouquet.’

Put it on my bill,’ said Guy casually, producing his wallet and pulling out a wad of twenties. With a self-deprecating smile he added, ‘She’s been our nanny for the last three years.

Holding the reception at our house is my present to her.’

‘How lovely.’ Janey returned his smile, then gave Ella an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m afraid daffodils are out of season now, but maybe we could see which flowers Berenice has chosen for her bouquet and work from there. I’ll have to check to be sure, but I think she decided on a yellow and white colour scheme. Yes, that’s it ... white roses and sweet peas with mimosa.’

Guy Cassidy didn’t even flinch when she eventually wrote down the estimated cost of the work involved.

‘As long as it looks good,’ he said good-humouredly, dealing the notes on to the counter.

Then, as an apparent afterthought, he glanced down at his children and added, ‘Actually, whilst we’re here, why don’t you two pick out a bunch of something-or-other for your new nanny?

She’s arriving tomorrow afternoon and some nice flowers will make her feel welcome.’

Josh liked the green, earthy smell of the shop but he was bored sick with flowers.

‘They haven’t got dandelions or deadly nightshade,’ he said, his tone dismissive.

‘Or stinging nettles,’ put in Ella with a smirk.

Poor new nanny, thought Janey. Without speaking, she selected a generous bunch of baby-pink spray carnations, wrapped them in pink-and-silver paper and calmly handed them to Josh.

Appalled, he said, ‘Boys don’t carry flowers,’ and shoved them into Ella’s unsuspecting arms.

Janey, watching the expression on his face, burst out laughing.

And Guy, who had in turn been watching her, said, ‘Of course. You’re Maxine Vaughan’s sister.’

‘Oh help!’ said Janey. ‘Not necessarily. Not if it means you cancelling the order.’

He looked amused. ‘Don’t panic, I don’t think I could face the prospect of going into another shop and starting all over again.’

‘But how did you know?’ She flushed. ‘We aren’t a bit alike.’

Tilting his head to one side and studying her in greater detail, he disagreed. ‘Physically, there are similarities. She’s skinnier ... blonder ... wears more make-up than you do, but the resemblance is still there. And you have the same laugh.’

This must all be part of the famous Cassidy charm, thought Janey. By cleverly reversing the usual comparisons he had actually managed to make her sound more attractive than Maxine.

What a neat trick.

‘And at least you’ve managed to find a new nanny.’ Changing the subject, she nodded at the gift-wrapped carnations. With an encouraging smile at Josh and Ella, she said, ‘Is she nice?’

‘She’s a wimp,’ replied Josh flatly.

‘But honest,’ Guy interjected, shooting him a warning look before returning his attention to Janey. ‘Unlike your sister.’

‘Look, Maxine isn’t as bad as you think,’ she bridled, springing instinctively to her defence.

‘She really wanted to work for you. And children adore her. If you ask me, you could have done a lot worse.’

‘Of course children adore her,’ drawled Guy. ‘She bribes them with money and ice cream.’

Josh brightened. ‘I liked her. The lady in the wedding dress, you mean? She was good fun.’

‘She had good references too,’ Guy remarked tersely, ‘but that still doesn’t make her ideal nanny material. Has she found another job yet?’

Janey shook her head. Maxine’s efforts in that department had been half-hearted to say the least. ‘Not yet.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Guy, his blue eyes narrowing with amused derision. ‘Tell her from me, the next time she writes out her own references not to use violet ink. At least, not if she’s planning to trot off to the interview with a smudge of it on the inside of her wrist.’

Chapter 5

Janey was leaning into the back of the van, stretching for the box of flowers which had slid up to the front and wedged itself behind the passenger seat, when Bruno gave her sticking-out bottom a friendly pat.

‘You’ll do that gorgeous body of yours an injury,’ he said, nudging her out of the way and taking over. ‘Come on, leave it to me.’

She flushed and smiled, and glanced quickly over her shoulder in case anyone was watching. Bruno, a notorious flirt, didn’t mean anything by the playful gesture, but she still wouldn’t like Nina to get the wrong idea.

Intercepting her glance as he carried the box into the empty restaurant, he winked. ‘It’s OK, she’s still asleep.’

‘She might be,’ Janey protested. ‘But you know what people are like for gossip around here.’

‘Exactly. And they know what I’m like,’ Bruno countered with an unrepentant grin.

‘They’d be far more suspicious if I didn’t lay a finger on you. Then they’d really know they had something to gossip about.’

He was pouring them both an espresso, as he invariably did when she arrived with the twice-weekly delivery of flowers for the restaurant.

It was ridiculous, thought Janey; since nothing had ever happened between them, there was no reason at all why she should feel guilty. But she felt it just the same, because no matter how many times she told herself that circumstances made him the most wildly unsuitable choice, her muddled emotions had taken charge and made the decision for her.

At the age of twenty-eight, she had developed a humiliating crush on Bruno Parry-Brent.

And all she could do now was hope and pray that it would burn itself out before anything did happen.

In the meantime, however, it was so nice to feel human again, after all the endless months of aching deep-frozen nothingness. And Bruno was undeniably good company. A ladies’ man in every sense of the word, he possessed that happy knack of being able to talk about anything under the sun. Even more miraculously he was a great listener as well, always genuinely interested in hearing other people’s views. He paid attention, asked questions, never appeared bored.

It was, of course the great secret of his success with the opposite sex. Janey had watched him at work in the restaurant before now, weaving his magic in the simplest and most effective way possible. Real conversation with a real man was a powerful aphrodisiac and the women succumbed to it in droves, as Janey herself had done. But it was better this way, she felt, at least there was safety in numbers.

‘New earrings,’ he observed, bringing the tiny white cups of espresso to the table where she was sitting and leaning forward to examine them more closely. ‘Very chic, Janey. Are those real pearls?’

‘They’re Maxine’s.’ Self-consciously, she fingered the slightly over-the-top earrings and prayed he wouldn’t guess that he was the reason she was wearing them. Even Maxine had raised her eyebrows when she’d caught Janey digging around in her jewellery box. ‘Earrings, lip gloss and mascara?’ she’d remarked in arch tones. ‘Darling, are you sure there isn’t something you’d like to tell me?’

But diplomacy was another of Bruno’s assets and, if he’d noticed such additional details himself, he was too nice to comment on them. Instead, stretching out in his seat and pushing his fingers through his long, sun-streaked hair, he said, ‘I was going to ask you about Maxine. So you haven’t managed to get rid of her yet?’

Janey pulled a face. ‘She won’t go, she won’t look for work and she’s so untidy: it’s like living with a huge, unmanageable wolfhound.’

‘But house-trained, presumably.’ Bruno grinned. ‘You haven’t told me yet, what does she look like?’

‘Maxine?’ As she sipped her coffee, Guy Cassidy’s words came back to her. ‘Skinnier, blonder and noisier than me.’ Then, because it sounded catty when she said it, she added shamefacedly, ‘And much prettier.’

‘Hmm. Well, we’re pretty busy here at the moment. Maybe I could offer her a couple of evenings a week behind the bar.’

‘She wouldn’t do it,’ said Janey hurriedly. ‘Her feet, they’d ache .

Bruno shrugged, dismissing the suggestion. ‘Just a thought. But you’ll have to bring her down here one evening, I’d like to meet her.’

Of course he would. And she could only too easily imagine Maxine’s reaction when she, in turn, met Bruno Parry-Brent. They were two of a very particular kind.

‘I will.’ Janey tried not to sound unhappy, evasive. She had no intention of introducing them but Maxine had a talent for seeking out ... well, talent, and Trezale wasn’t a large town. It would surely be only a matter of time before she discovered Bruno for herself.

‘Oh come on, cheer up.’ He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘We all have our crosses to bear. Look at me, I have Nina!’

Janey tried not to laugh. He really was disgraceful.

‘And where would you be without her?’ she countered. Bruno and Nina made an odd couple, certainly, but after ten years together they still seemed happy enough in their own way. It wasn’t something Bruno had ever discussed in detail but, as far as Janey could figure out, Nina didn’t ask any questions and in return he was discreet. Indeed, although he was such a notorious flirt, she didn’t even know whether he actually had affairs.

‘Where would I be without Nina?’ he repeated, teasing her. ‘Probably in big trouble, because she’d have a contract out on me.’

Janey burst out laughing. Nina was the most placid woman she’d ever met. She doubted whether Nina could even summon the energy to read a contract, let alone organise taking one out.

‘You’d be lost without her,’ she told him in mock-severe tones. Rising to her feet, she smoothed her pink skirt over her hips. ‘I’d better be getting back to the shop. Thanks for the coffee.’

Bruno grinned, unrepentant. ‘Thanks for the pep talk. If you bring your sister down here maybe I’ll be able to return the favour.’

‘Hmm,’ said Janey, renewing her vow to keep Maxine as far away from the restaurant as humanly possible. She could imagine what kind of favour he had in mind.

Maureen-from-Wimbledon wasn’t on the four-o’clock train.

Guy, who had cut short a session in the darkroom and driven hell for leather in order to reach the station in time, couldn’t believe it. If she’d missed the train at Paddington, she could have bloody well phoned and let him know, he thought furiously. And now what was he supposed to do, hang around on the platform and wait an hour for the next train to roll in?

But he hadn’t waited and the would-be nanny hadn’t phoned. By eight-thirty, when there was still no sign of her, he dialled the London number she had given him.

‘Oh dear,’ said Berenice, thankful that at least Ella, whom she had put to bed half an hour earlier, wasn’t there to witness his language.

Josh, who was used to it, wondered if this meant his prayers had actually been answered.

‘What is it, Dad?’

‘No wonder she was in such a hurry to come and live down here,’ Guy seethed, pouring himself a hefty Scotch and downing it in one go. ‘I’ve just spoken to her mother. The lying, conniving bitch was arrested this morning and charged with credit-card-fraud! This is all I bloody need ...’

‘Does that mean she isn’t going to be our nanny?’ said Josh, just to make absolutely sure.

Guy raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I knew that expensive private education of yours would come in useful one day. Yes Josh, it means she isn’t going to be your nanny.’

Hooray, thought Josh. Aloud he said, ‘Oh. So what are we going to do?’

‘Only one thing for it.’ It was Wednesday night, Berenice was getting married on Saturday and he had to fly to Paris for a prestigious calendar shoot on Monday morning. ‘We cancel Berenice’s wedding.’

‘You’ll have to answer it,’ said Maxine, when the doorbell rang. She was wearing bright orange toe separators and the crimson nail polish on her splayed toes was still wet. ‘I look like a duck.’

‘You look like a duck,’ Guy Cassidy remarked when Janey showed him into the sitting room two minutes later. Maxine, sitting on the floor with her bare legs stretched out in front of her, carried on eating her Mars bar. ‘Just as well,’ she replied equably. ‘It means your insults roll off my back.’

Mystified by his unexpected appearance on her doorstep, Janey said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled at her and lowered himself into an empty armchair. To Maxine, whose attention was fixed upon an old re-run of Inspector Morse, he said, ‘Haven’t you seen this one before? Lewis did it.’

Her gaze didn’t waver from the television screen. With thinly veiled sarcasm she countered,

‘Who’s lying now?’ Janey fled to the safety of the kitchen.

‘Go on then,’ said Maxine eventually, when she had finished the Mars bar and dropped the wrapper on to the coffee table. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’

There wasn’t much point in beating around the bush. Guy said, ‘The job. If you still want it, it’s yours.’

‘You’ve been stood up, then.’

He nodded.

‘Gosh,’ said Maxine, her expression innocent. ‘You must be desperate.’

His mouth twitched as he allowed her, her brief moment of triumph. ‘I am.’

‘And here am I, such an all-round bad influence ..

‘You might well be,’ he replied dryly, ‘but your sister put in a few good words on your behalf and for some bizarre reason my son has taken a liking to you.’

‘And you’re desperate,’ Maxine repeated for good measure, but this time he ignored the jibe.

‘So are you interested, or not?’

‘We-ll.’ Tilting her head to one side, she appeared to consider the offer. ‘We haven’t discussed terms, yet.’

‘We haven’t discussed your funny webbed feet either,’ he pointed out. ‘But live and let live is my motto.’

Janey had been eavesdropping like mad from the kitchen. Unable to endure the suspense a moment longer, she seized the mugs of tea and erupted back into the sitting room.

‘She’s interested,’ she declared, ignoring Maxine’s frantic signals and thrusting one of the mugs into Guy Cassidy’s hand. ‘She’ll take the job. When would you like her to start?’

Chapter 6

Guy Cassidy was twenty-three years old when he met Véronique Charpentier. It was the wettest, windiest day of the year and he was making his way home after a gruelling fourteen-hour shift in the photographic studios where his brief had been to make a temperamental forty-four-year-old actress look thirty again.

Now the traffic was almost at a standstill and his car was stuck behind a bus. All he could think of was getting back to his flat and sinking into a hot bath with a cold beer. In less than two hours he was supposed to be taking Amanda, his current girlfriend, to a party in Chelsea. It wasn’t a prospect that particularly appealed to him but she had insisted on going.

There was no room to overtake when the bus came to a shuddering halt and began to spill out passengers. Guy amused himself by watching them scurry like wind-blown ants across the pavement towards the relative shelter of the shop canopies lining the high street.

The last passenger to disembark, however, didn’t make it. As her long, white-blond hair whipped around her face she struggled to control her charcoal-grey umbrella. At the exact moment the umbrella flipped inside out, she stumbled against the kerb and crashed to the ground.

Her carrier bag of shopping spilled into the gutter. The inverted umbrella, carried by the wind, cartwheeled off into the distance and a wave of muddy water from the wheels of the now-departing bus cascaded over her crumpled body.

By the time Guy reached her, she was dragging herself into a sitting position and muttering

‘Bloody Eenglish’ under her breath.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, helping her carefully to her feet. There was a lot of mud, but no sign of blood.

Her expression wary, she shook her wet blond head, then cast a sorrowful glance in the direction of the spilled carrier bag lying in a puddle. ‘Not me. But my croissants, I theenk, are drowned. Bloody Eenglish!’

‘Come on.’ Smiling at her choice of words, he led her towards his car. When she was installed in the passenger seat inspecting the holes in the knees of her sheer, dark tights, he said,

‘Why bloody English?’

‘Eenglish weather. Stupid Eenglish umbrella,’ she explained, gesticulating at the torrential rain. ‘And how many kind Eenglish people stopped to ‘elp when I fell over? Tssch!’

‘I stopped to help you, he remarked mildly, slipping the engine into gear as a cacophony of irritated hooting started up behind them.

The girl, her face splashed with mud and rain, sighed. ‘Of course you did. And now I’m sitting in your car and I don’t even know you. It would be just my luck, I theenk, to get murdered by a crazy person. Maybe you should stop and let me out.’

‘I can’t stand the sight of blood,’ Guy assured her. ‘And I’m not crazy either. Why don’t you tell me where you live and let me drive you home? No strings, I promise.’ She frowned, apparently considering the offer. Finally, turning to face him and looking puzzled, she said, ‘I don’t understand. What ees thees no strings? You mean like in string vests?’

Her name was Véronique, she was eighteen years old and she lived in an attic which had been shabbily converted into a bedsitter but which had the advantage — in daylight at least — of overlooking Wandsworth Common.

As a reward for not murdering her on the way home, Guy was invited up the five flights of stairs for coffee. By the time his cup was empty he had fallen in love with its maker and forgotten that Amanda even existed.

‘Let me take you out to dinner,’ he said, wondering what he would do if Véronique turned him down. To his eternal relief, however, she smiled.

‘All wet and muddy, like thees? Or may I take a bath first?’

Grinning back at her, Guy said, ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘It is best if I take a bath, I theenk,’ Véronique replied gravely. Rising to her feet, she gestured towards a pile of magazines stacked against the battered, dark blue sofa. ‘I won’t be long. Please, can you amuse yourself for a while? They are French magazines, but maybe you could look at the pictures.’

The tiny bathroom adjoined the living room. Guy smiled to himself as he heard her carefully locking the door which separated them. The magazines, he discovered, were well-thumbed copies of French Vogue, one of which contained a series of photographs he himself had taken during last spring’s Paris collections. The thought of Véronique poring over pages which bore his own minuscule by-line cheered him immensely. It was, he felt, a good omen for their relationship.

But the magazines were also evidently a luxury for her. The bedsitter, though charmingly adorned with touches of her own personality, was itself unprepossessing and sparsely furnished.

The sofa, strewn with hand-embroidered cushions, doubled as a bed. Strategically situated lamps drew the attention away from peeling wallpaper and the posters on the wall, he guessed, were similarly positioned in order to conceal patches of damp. Neither the cinnamon-scented candles or the bowls of pot pourri could eradicate the slight underlying mustiness which pervaded the air.

And there was no television; a box of good quality writing paper and a small transistor radio seemed to comprise her only forms of entertainment. Guy, exploring the meticulously tidy room in detail, greedy to discover everything there was to know about Véronique Charpentier, felt an almost overwhelming urge to bundle her up and whisk her away from the chilly, depressing house, to tell her that she no longer needed to live like this, that he would take care of her .. .

And when she emerged from the bathroom twenty-five minutes later, he actually had to bite his tongue in order not to say the words aloud. Mud-free, simply dressed in a thin black polo-necked sweater, pale grey wool skirt and black tights, she looked stunning. The white-blond hair, freshly brushed, hung past her shoulders. Silver-grey eyes regarded him with amusement. She was wearing pastel pink lipstick and Je Reviens.

‘OK?’ she said cheerfully.

‘OK!’ Guy nodded in agreement.

‘Good.’ Véronique smiled at him. ‘I theenk we shall have a nice evening.’

‘I know we will.’

She blew out the cinnamon-scented candles and picked up her bag. ‘Can I make a confession to you?’

‘What?’ Guy’s heart sank. He couldn’t imagine what she was about to say. He didn’t want to hear it.

But Véronique went ahead anyway. ‘I theenk I begin to be glad,’ she confided, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘that I fell off the bus in the rain. Maybe Eenglish weather isn’t so bloody after all.’

Oliver Cassidy wasn’t amused when his son informed him, three weeks later, that he was going to marry Véronique Charpentier.

‘For God’s sake,’ he said sharply, lighting a King Edward cigar and not bothering to lower his voice. ‘This is ridiculous. She’s eighteen years old. She’s French. You don’t even know her.’

‘Of course I do!’ Guy retaliated. ‘I love her and she loves me. And I’m not here to ask your permission to marry her, because that’s going to happen anyway. I’ve already booked the Register Office.’

‘Then you’re a bloody fool!’ Oliver glared at him. ‘She’s in love with your money, your career; why on earth can’t you just live with her for a few months? That’ll get her out of your system fast enough.’

‘There’s no need to shout,’ said Guy. Véronique was in the next room.

‘Why not? Why can’t I shout?’ His father’s eyebrows knitted ferociously together. ‘I want her to hear me! She should know that not everyone is as gullible as you obviously are. If you ask me, she’s nothing but a clever, scheming foreigner making the most of the opportunity of a lifetime.’

‘But I’m not asking you,’ Guy replied, his tone icy. ‘And Véronique isn’t someone I want to get out of my system. She’s going to be my wife, whether you like it or not.’

Oliver Cassidy turned purple. ‘You’re making a damn fool of yourself.’

‘I’m not.’ His son, sickened by his inability even to try to understand, turned away. ‘You are.’

They were married at Caxton Hall and Véronique accompanied Guy on a working trip to Switzerland in lieu of a honeymoon. Upon their return, she moved her few possessions into his apartment, gave up her job in a busy north London delicatessen and said, ‘So! What do we do next?’

Joshua was born ten months later, a perfect composite of his parents with Guy’s dark blue eyes and Véronique’s white-blond hair. With no family of her own, Véronique said sadly, ‘It’s such a shame. Your father hates me, I know, but he should at least have the chance to love his grandson.’

Guy, though not naturally vindictive, wasn’t interested in a reconciliation. ‘He knows where we live,’ he replied in dismissive tones. ‘If he wanted to see Josh, he could. But he clearly doesn’t want to, so forget him.’

The arrival of Ella two years later brought further happiness. Contrary to Véronique’s plans that this time the child should have silver-grey eyes and dark curly hair, she was a carbon copy of Josh. Guy, his career skyrocketing, took so many photographs of his family that they had to be stored in suitcases rather than albums. It wasn’t until he received a large Manila envelope through the post, addressed to him in familiar handwriting and containing a selection of the choicest photographs, that he realized Véronique had sent them to his father. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said furiously, hurling the envelope to the ground. ‘He doesn’t deserve anything. I’ve told you before ... just forget him!’

But Veronique could not forget. All children were supposed to have grandparents, and her enduring dream was that her own children should know and love the only living grandparent left to them. As the years passed and the rift remained as deep and unbridgeable as ever, she became quietly determined to do something about it. Both her husband and her father-in-law were clearly too proud to make the first move but for Josh and Ella’s sakes she was prepared to take the risk.

If Oliver Cassidy were to come face to face with his grandchildren, she reasoned, the rift would instantly be healed. It would be a fait accompli, following which human nature would take its course and all would be well.

Knowing that her fiercely protective husband would never allow her to make the initial move towards reconciliation, however, she planned her campaign with secretive, military precision. Oliver Cassidy was at that time living in Bristol, so she waited until Guy was away on a two-week assignment in New York before booking herself and the children into an hotel less than a mile from her father-in-law’s address.

By the time of their arrival at the station, Véronique’s head was pounding and she was feeling sick with apprehension, but there was no backing out now. For the sake of Josh and Ella she struggled to maintain a bright front. At their hotel, overlooking the Clifton Suspension Bridge, she treated them to ice-cream sundaes on the sweeping terrace and said gaily, ‘Eat them all up, and don’t spill any on your clothes. We’re going to see a very nice man and he might not be so impressed with chocolate ice-cream stains.’

Josh, six years old and enjoying the adventure immensely, said, ‘Who is he?’

But Véronique, whose headache was worsening by the minute, simply smiled and shook her head.

‘Just a very nice man, my darling, who lives not far from here. You’ll like him, I’m sure.’

Josh wasn’t so sure he would. The big house to which his mother took them was owned by a man who didn’t look the least bit pleased to see them. In Josh’s experience, very-nice-people smiled a tot, hugged you and, perhaps, gave you sweets. This man, with fierce grey eyebrows like caterpillars, wasn’t even saying hello.

‘Mr Cassidy,’ said Véronique quickly. It was an unpromising start and her palms were sticky with perspiration: ‘I have brought Josh and Ella to see you . I thought you would like to meet them ... your family--’

Oliver Cassidy didn’t like surprises. Neither did he appreciate emotional blackmail. A man who seldom admitted that he might be in the wrong, he saw no reason to revise his opinion of his only son’s French wife. In her flowered dress and with her straight blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders, she still looked like a teenager, which didn’t help. And as far as he was concerned, the fact that she thought she could simply turn up out of the blue and expect some kind of fairytale reunion proved beyond all doubt that she was either stupid or staggeringly naïve.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said coldly, eyeing her white face with displeasure and ignoring the two children at her side. His gesture encompassed both the Georgian house and the sloping, sculptured lawns. ‘Afraid they’ll miss out on all this when I’m gone?’

‘No!’ Appalled by her father-in-law’s cruelty, Véronique took a faltering step backwards.

‘No,’ she cried again, pleading with him to understand. ‘They are your grandchildren, your family! This isn’t about any inheritance snapped Oliver Cassidy as Ella, clinging to her mother’s hand, began to cry. ‘Because they won’t be seeing any of it anyway.’

‘I feel sick,’ Ella sobbed. ‘Mummy, I feel—’

‘And now, I have an urgent appointment.’ He glanced at his watch in order to give credence to the lie. Then, with a look of absolute horror, he took an abrupt step sideways.

But it was too late. Ella, who had eaten far too much chocolate ice-cream, had already thrown up all over her grandfather’s highly polished, handmade shoes.

It wasn’t until they were back at the hotel that Véronique realized she was ill. The headache and nausea which she had earlier put down to nervousness had worsened dramatically and she was aching all over.

By early evening a raging fever had taken its grip and she was barely able to haul herself out of bed in order to phone downstairs and ask for a doctor to be called. Summer flu, she thought, fighting tears of exhaustion and the shivers which racked her entire body like jolts of electricity. Just what she needed. A fitting end to a disastrous visit. Had she been superstitious she might almost have believed that Oliver Cassidy had cast a malevolent jinx in order to pay her back for her impudence.

The doctor, however, took an altogether more serious view of the situation.

‘Mrs Cassidy, I’m afraid we’re going to have to get you into hospital,’ he said when he had completed his examination.

‘Mais c’est impossible!’ Véronique cried, her fluent English deserting her in her weakened state. Wes enfants But it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a statement. An ambulance was called and by midnight Véronique was being admitted to the neurological ward of one of Bristol’s largest hospitals. The hotel manager himself, she was repeatedly assured, was contacting her husband in New York and had in the meantime assumed full responsibility for her children who would remain at the hotel and be well looked after for as long as necessary.

By the time Guy arrived at the hospital twenty-seven hours later, Véronique had lapsed into a deep coma. As the doctors had suspected, tests confirmed that she was suffering from a particularly virulent strain of meningitis and although they were doing everything possible the outlook wasn’t good.

‘Mummy said we were going to see a nice man,’ said Josh, his dark eyes brimming with tears as Guy eased the truth from him ‘But he wasn’t nice at all, he was horrid. He shouted at Mummy, then Ella was sick on his shoes. And when we came back to the hotel Mummy wasn’t very well. Daddy, can we go home now?’

It was as Guy had suspected. He didn’t contact his father. And when Véronique died three days later without regaining consciousness, he saw no reason to change his mind. Oliver Cassidy might not have caused Véronique’s death but he had undoubtedly ensured that her last few waking hours should have been as miserable as possible. For that, Guy would never forgive him.

Chapter 7

Guy watched from the kitchen window as Maxine’s Jaffa-orange MG screeched to a halt at the top of the drive. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking doubtful. ‘I’m still not sure about this.

Somebody tell me I’m not making a big mistake.’

Berenice followed his gaze. The girl climbing out of the car was wearing white shorts and a sleeveless pale grey vest with MUSCLE emblazoned across her chest.

She also possessed a great deal of gold-blond hair and long brown legs.

‘Just because she doesn’t look like your idea of a nanny,’ she replied comfortably. Then, secure in the knowledge that by this time tomorrow she would be a married woman, she added with a slight smile, ‘She certainly doesn’t look like me.’

There really wasn’t any diplomatic answer to that; the differences between the two girls were only too evident. But Berenice had been such relaxing company, thought Guy, and it had never occurred to anyone who’d met her that there might possibly be anything going on between the pair of them.

The arrival of Maxine Vaughan, on the other hand, was likely to engender all kinds of lurid speculation.

‘I don’t care what she looks like.’ His expression was deliberately grim. Above them came the sound of thunderous footsteps as Josh and Ella hurled themselves down the staircase. ‘I just want her to take care of my kids.’ He was about to continue but his attention was caught by the scene now taking place on the drive.

‘OK,’ Maxine was saying, leaning against her car and surveying the two children before her. ‘Just remind me. Which one of you is Ella and which is Josh?’

Josh relaxed. She wouldn’t, he was almost sure, force them to eat cold porridge. He had high hopes, too, of being allowed to stay up late when his father was away. Berenice had always been a bit boring where bedtimes were concerned.

‘I’m Ella,’ said his sister, meeting Maxine for the first time and struggling to work out whether she was being serious. ‘I’m a girl.’

‘Of course you are.’ Maxine grinned and gave her her handbag. ‘Good, that means you can carry this for me whilst I get my cases out of the boot. Isn’t your dad here?’

‘He’s in the kitchen,’ supplied Josh. ‘With Berenice.’

‘Hmm. Nice of him to come out and welcome me.’ With a meaningful glance in the direction of the kitchen window, she hauled the heavy cases out of the car and dumped them on the gravelled drive. She’d been so serious about the live-in aspect of the job that she’d been up to Maurice’s flat in London to collect all her things. ‘Well, he can carry them inside. That’s what men are for.’

By the time Janey arrived at Trezale House in the van, Maxine appeared to have made herself thoroughly at home. Her enormous bedroom, flooded with sunlight and nicely decorated in shades of pink, yellow and cream, was already a mess.

‘Berenice has given me a list of dos and don’ts,’ she said, rolling her eyes as she tossed an armful of underwear into an open drawer and kicked a few shoes under the dressing table. ‘She seems incredibly organized.’

‘Nannies have to be organized,’ Janey reminded her.

‘Yes, well. I pity the chap she’s marrying.’

‘And you’re going to have to be organized,’ continued Janey remorselessly. ‘If these children have a routine, they’ll need to stick to it.’

Maxine gazed at her in disbelief. ‘We never did.’

This was true. Thea, engrossed in her work, had employed a cavalier attitude to child rearing which involved leaving them to their own devices for much of the time, whilst she, oblivious to all else, would lose herself in the wonder of creating yet another sculpture. Janey, in the months following her own marriage, had traced her love of domesticity and orderliness back to the disorganized chaos of those early years when she had longed for order and stability. It had never seemed to bother Maxine, however. More adventurous by nature, and less interested in conforming than her elder sister, she positively embraced chaos. Janey just wished she could embrace the idea of work with as much enthusiasm.

‘That’s different,’ she said sternly. ‘At least we had a mother. Josh and Ella don’t. It can’t be easy for them.’

‘It isn’t going to be easy for me.’ Maxine looked glum and handed over the list, painstakingly written in neat, easy-to-read capitals. ‘According to this they get up at six-thirty.

And I’m supposed to give them breakfast!’

‘Oh please,’ sighed Janey, exasperated. ‘You wanted this job! You were desperate to come and work here. Whatever’s the matter with you now?’

‘I wanted to work for Guy Cassidy.’ Maxine stared at her as if she was stupid. ‘But he’s just been going through his diary with me and from the sound of it he’s going to be away more often than he’s here. Whilst he’s leaping on planes and jetting off all over the world, I’m going to be stuck here in the wilderness with the kids like some frumpy housewife.’ She paused then added fretfully, ‘This wasn’t what I had in mind at all.’

Guy emerged from his study as Janey was putting the finishing touches to the flowers in the hall. Crossing her fingers and praying that it wouldn’t pour with rain overnight, she had garlanded the stone pillars which flanked the front entrance to the house with yellow and white satin ribbons, and woven sprays of mimosa and gypsophila between them. Together with the tendrils of ivy already curling around the bleached white stone they would provide an effective framework for the bride and groom when they stood on the steps to have their photographs taken by none other than one of the country’s best-known photographers.

‘It looks good.’ Standing back to survey the overall effect with a professional eye, he nodded his approval. ‘You’ve been working hard.’

‘So has the hairdresser,’ Janey observed, as a car drew up and Berenice stepped out, self-consciously shielding her head from the light breeze coming in off the sea. Her mousey brown hair, pulled back from her face and teased into unaccustomed ringlets, bounced off her shoulders as she walked towards them.

‘How are you going to sleep tonight?’ said Guy, and Janey glimpsed the genuine affection in his eyes as he admired the rigid style.

Berenice, turning her head this way and that, said, ‘Upright,’ then broke into a smile as she inspected Janey’s work. ‘This is gorgeous; it must have taken you hours!’

‘I think we all deserve a drink.’ Placing his hand on her shoulder, Guy drew her into the house. When Janey hesitated, he added, ‘You too.’

Berenice said, ‘Where are the children?’

‘Upstairs with the new nanny.’ He grinned. ‘And a pack of cards. I heard her saying she was going to teach them poker.’

‘Enjoying yourself?’ asked Guy, coming up to Janey in the sitting room the next day. She was perched on one of the window seats overlooking the garden, watching Maxine flirt with the best man.

‘It was nice of Berenice to invite me,’ she replied with a smile. ‘And even nicer for her, being able to have the reception here. She’s terribly grateful -- she was telling me earlier that otherwise they would have had to hold it in the skittle alley at the Red Lion.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. Weddings and bar- mitzvahs a speciality. And forty guests is hardly over the top.’

‘You’ll miss her,’ said Janey, nodding in Berenice’s direction.

‘The kids certainly will. We were lucky to keep her as long as we did.’ He hesitated, a shadow coming over his face. ‘She’s been with us since my wife died.’

Weddings were an integral part of Janey’s job but she still found them difficult to handle at times. They invariably brought back memories of her own marriage to Alan.

‘It can’t be easy for you,’ she said, guessing what would be uppermost in his own mind.

Out in the garden, Berenice and Michael were posing with their arms around each other’s ample waists whilst Josh, his expression exquisitely serious, finished up yet another roll of film.

Through the open window they could hear him issuing stern commands: ‘Don’t laugh ... stay still

... just look happy ...’

Moving her half-empty wine glass out of the way, Guy eased himself down next to Janey and stretched out his long legs.

‘Not easy, but bearable,’ he said, his tone deliberately even. ‘I don’t resent other people’s happiness. And Véronique and I had seven years of it, after all. That’s more than some.’

More than I had, thought Janey sadly, but of course he didn’t know anything of her own past. Since she wasn’t about to try and compete in the tragedy stakes, she said nothing.

Now that the subject had been raised, however, Guy seemed to want to continue the line of conversation. ‘Other people’s attitudes are harder to cope with,’ he said, breaking the companionable silence between them. ‘In the beginning I just functioned on automatic pilot, doing what had to be done and making sure Josh and Ella suffered as little as possible.

Everybody was so concerned for us, everywhere you turned there were people being helpful and sympathetic ... I couldn’t do a thing wrong in their eyes. Then, after about six months, it was as if I couldn’t handle any more sympathy. I kicked against it, went back to work and started, well, it was a pretty wild phase. Subconsciously, I suppose, I was looking for a replacement for Véronique but all I did was pick up one female after another, screw around like it was going out of fashion and get extremely drunk. All I managed to do, of course, was make an awful lot of people unhappy. Including myself. And everyone who’d been so sympathetic in the early days changed their minds and decided I was a real bastard instead. Sleeping with girls and dumping them — deliberately hurting them so they’d understand how I felt — seemed like the only answer at the time but all it did was make me more miserable. In the end, I came to my senses and stopped doing it.’ With a rueful smile and a sideways glance at Janey, he added, ‘I suppose I was lucky not to catch anything terrible. At the time, God knows, I deserved to.’

Janey, who had read books on the subject of coping with grief, said hesitantly, ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s a fairly normal kind of reaction. Probably men are more likely to go through that kind of phase than women, but once it’s out of their system they ... settle down again. What’s it like now? Do you feel more settled?’

It was an amazingly intimate conversation to be having with someone who was, after all, a virtual stranger. But she was genuinely interested in finding out how he had coped and was continuing to cope. She wondered too whether she would ever enter a promiscuous phase .. .

Guy didn’t appear in the least put out by her questions. Reaching for a bottle of white wine, he refilled both their glasses. ‘There’s still the problem of other people’s attitudes.’ His eyes registered mild contempt. ‘Not that I particularly care what they think, but it can get a bit wearing at times. After three years, it seems, I’m expected to remarry. And the pressure’s always there. Nowadays, every time I’m introduced to some new female at a dinner party I know it’s because she’s a carefully selected suitable candidate. Sometimes I half expect to find a tattoo on her forehead saying "Potential Wife". The next thing I know, everyone’s telling me how marvellous she is with children and saying how hard it must be for poor Josh and little Ella, at their ages, not having a mother.’ He shuddered at the unwelcome memory. ‘God, that’s happened to me so many times. It’s like a recurring nightmare. And it’s a bigger turn-off, of course, than a bucketful of bromide.’

‘What’s bromide?’ said Ella, and they both jumped.

Guy, recovering from the surprise of her unexpected appearance, said, ‘It’s a kind of cold porridge. You wouldn’t like it.’ Then, pulling her on to his lap, he added, ‘And what you need is a cowbell around your neck. Have you been eavesdropping, angel?’

‘No.’ She shook her head so vigorously that her white velvet headband slipped off. ‘I was listening to you. Daddy, when can I get married?’

He assumed a suitably serious expression. Why? When would you like to get married?’

‘Tomorrow’ Ella giggled and smoothed her lilac cotton dress over her knobbly knees. ‘I’m going to marry Luke.’ Luke was eight years old and Berenice’s nephew. ‘I see.’ Guy looked thoughtful. ‘Well, tomorrow sounds OK to me. But maybe I should have a word with him first.’

Ella frowned, anxious that he shouldn’t hear about the glass of lemonade she had accidentally spilled into a handbag left open and unattended in the kitchen. Biting her lower lip and looking dubious, she said, ‘Why?’

‘Marriage is a serious business,’ Guy told her. ‘I’d definitely need to speak to Luke, man to man. Apart from anything else,’ he added severely, ‘I have to ask him about his future prospects.’

‘You seemed to be getting on rather well with my boss,’ said Maxine, polishing off a slice of seafood quiche and sounding faintly put out. ‘What were you doing, giving him the rundown on my sordid past?’

‘Not at all.’ It was early evening now and they were sitting outside on a wooden bench enjoying the light breeze. For most of the day the temperature had been up in the eighties. Janey, examining her arms for signs of sunburn and hoping she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow with strap marks, said, ‘I was the one who stuck up for you, remember? I’m hardly likely to scare him to death by telling him what you’re really like. He might drag me into court and sue me for misrepresentation.’

‘So what were you talking about?’

Despite having wolfed down at least half a dozen sausage rolls and a slice of wedding cake as well as the quiche, Maxine’s lipstick was still immaculately in place. Shielding her eyes from the sinking sun, she was surreptitiously watching Guy Cassidy as he stood at the far end of the terrace talking to Berenice’s new mother-in-law.

‘He was telling me how fed up he gets, being chased by women hell-bent on becoming the next Mrs Cassidy.’ Janey’s tone of voice was casual but she felt it necessary to point out this fact, both to save her sister from making a fool of herself and to ensure that Guy wouldn’t dispense with Maxine’s services. Now that she had her flat to herself once more she wanted to keep it that way.

But Maxine only laughed. ‘They can’t have been very good at it then. The whole point of chasing a man — and catching him — is to make sure he doesn’t realize it’s happening. It’s a delicate process, Janey! Practically an art form in itself.’

‘Well, it sounds as if he’s had plenty of practice at being on the receiving end.’ Janey, having at least made her point, changed the subject. And you seemed to be getting on rather nicely with the best man anyway,’ she observed. ‘What was his name, Colin? He looked keen.’

‘He was.’ Maxine, licking her forefinger and dabbing at the crumbs of pastry on her plate, sounded gloomy. And I may as well change my name to Cinderella. Guy wants me to stay here for the rest of the weekend so the kids have a chance to get used to me before he leaves for Paris on Monday morning. Then I’ll be here on my own with them until he gets back on Friday. I’m allowed next weekend off, apparently, but by that time Colin will have left on a cricket tour.’

She shrugged. ‘We did try, but we couldn’t seem to get ourselves synchronized. At this rate my social life looks set to have all the sparkle of a squashed snail.’

‘Welcome to the real world,’ said Janey shortly. Her own social life had been practically non-existent for the past eighteen months.

Maxine cast her an impatient glance. ‘Yes, but it’s all right for you,’ she replied with characteristic lack of tact. ‘You’re used to it.’

Chapter 8

The heatwave continued. On Sunday morning Janey packed a canvas holdall and headed down to the beach. It would be packed solid but she could amuse herself by guessing, according to the various shades of pallor, redness and tan, how long the holidaymakers had been in Trezale.

And eavesdropping on their conversations — bickering couples were a particular favourite —

was always entertaining.

The beach was crowded but the tide was on its way out, which helped. A lot of sandcastles were being constructed along the stretch of damp sand, leaving more room for the serious sunbathers on the dry sand. Janey chose a promising spot where she could stretch out, make a start on the latest Danielle Steel novel and simultaneously overhear the lively argument already in progress between a pair of big, sunburnt Liverpudlians who couldn’t decide whether to go for cod and chips later or splash out on a proper Sunday lunch at that posh place in Amory Street.

She wondered idly whether to tell them that the posh place, Bruno’s, was closed on Sundays, but it seemed a shame to interrupt them. Uncapping her bottle of Ambre Solaire she smoothed the lotion haphazardly over the bits of her most likely to burn and promptly fell asleep instead.

She awoke with a start some time later. Ice-cold liquid was being dripped into her navel.

Grinning, Bruno held the Coke can aloft.

‘It should be Bollinger of course,’ he said, admiring her exposed body in the brief, fuchsia-pink bikini, ‘but sometimes one just has to improvise. Can I sit down?’

‘I don’t know.’ Shielding her eyes from the sun, Janey deadpanned, ‘Can you?’

‘OK. May I be permitted to share a corner of your towel?’ He lowered himself down beside her anyway and offered her the Coke. ‘You’re looking rather gorgeous, ‘I must say. I hardly recognized you at first, without your clothes on.’

Behind them, the Liverpudlian couple tittered. Janey tried hard not to flinch as Bruno ran a hand lightly across her stomach. It was a disturbingly pleasant sensation; she just wished her diet had been a bit more of a success.

But he wasn’t stopping. ‘Don’t,’ she protested, pushing his hand away. ‘I’m too fat.’

‘Rubbish!’ replied Bruno firmly. The female predilection for dieting was a source of constant irritation to him, particularly when they tried to do it in his restaurant. ‘Everyone else is too thin.’

Out of sheer desperation, she said, ‘Where’s Nina?’

‘Gone to visit her parents.’ He gave her a soulful look.

‘She comes back on Tuesday morning. I’m all alone for two whole days.’

‘You poor thing.’ Janey smiled at the expression on his face. ‘Whatever will you do with yourself?’

He knew what he’d like to do, but he also realized that he would have to tread very carefully indeed. Janey Sinclair was one of those rare females who seemed genuinely unaware of her own attractions. Since getting to know her, he had been struck by the aura of sadness surrounding her, and impressed by her refusal to seek sympathy from those who knew what she had gone through.

She was certainly no holiday bimbo. If she had been, he would have seduced and discarded her long ago. As it was, however, the sense of intrigue and interest had been maintained. She was, in a way, forbidden fruit. Time and again Bruno had told himself that in view of his own track record he should simply leave it at that and not get involved, but the attraction was definitely there and he was expert enough to know that it was mutual. Behind the awkward, diffident exterior he sensed Janey’s own interest. It was heady stuff, all this self-denial and surface badinage. It had been years since he had experienced the pain and pleasure of such a slow-burning, tentative friendship. But at the same time Sunday and Monday stretched emptily ahead and he was certainly no saint ..

‘I’m too hot,’ he said, finishing off the Coke and eyeing her glistening, Ambre-Solaired body. ‘And if you stay here you’re going to burn. Come on, let’s go and get some lunch.’

It was a tempting offer. Hungrier than she’d realized and delighted at the prospect of company, Janey raised herself up on her elbows and said, ‘Where?’

‘My place.’

‘Oh.’ Nina wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure she should But—’

‘Oh dear,’ he mocked, sensing her doubt. ‘Now I’ve got you worried and you’re desperately trying to think o a diplomatic way to say no.’

Janey, floundering, felt her cheeks redden. ‘Well ...’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Bruno, sounding faintly exasperated. ‘Live a little. All I’m talking about is a spot of lunch. I’m not inviting you to have wild sex with me.

Embarrassed, she replied, ‘I didn’t think you were.’

‘Oh yes, you did.’ He grinned and helped her to hex feet. ‘But there’s no need to panic; you’ll be quite safe. Come on, let’s go.’

Like Janey, Bruno and Nina lived above the shop, but whereas her own flat was tiny, their apartment was both spacious and stylish.

Janey, who had never visited it before, was impressed. Immaculate white rugs on the tiled floors offset the lavender and green décor. Modern, semi-abstract paintings were ranged around the walls and well-tended plants spilled out of white porcelain pots. The main ceiling was palest lavender, exactly matching the two three-seater leather sofas, and the cat occupying the one closer to the windows was white with luminous green eyes.

‘You’re surprised,’ said Bruno, handing her an ice-stacked Pimm’s.

‘A bit,’ she admitted. The almost clinical perfection of the apartment was so at odds with languorous, faintly hippyish Nina.

But once again he seemed able to read her mind. ‘This is me. Nina isn’t bothered about interior design; she just goes along with my ideas.’ As far as Janey could make out, Nina went uncomplainingly along with most things. Following him into the well-equipped kitchen, she leaned against the wall and watched Bruno prepare lunch. There was something almost irresistible about a man who could cook and talk at the same time. Before she had a chance to put down her empty glass, he had refilled it and added an extra dash of gin for good measure.

The unaccustomed strength of the drink went straight to her head. By the time they sat down to eat, her knees were like cotton wool and she was feeling deliciously uninhibited.

Why aren’t you two married?’ she asked, intrigued. ‘I don’t make promises I can’t keep.’

‘So you aren’t faithful to Nina.’ Gosh, she couldn’t believe she’d actually said that. To make up for it, Janey tried to look disapproving, although the effect was slightly spoiled when she attempted to fork up a frond of radicchio and it slipped, landing on the pale green tablecloth instead.

This time his smile broadened. ‘Actually, I was thinking of the for richer, for poorer bit.’

‘Oh.’ She wondered if he was joking. It was difficult to tell, with Bruno.

But this time, it seemed, he was serious. ‘Nina’s the wealthy one,’ he explained guilelessly, the sweep of his arm encompassing both the apartment and the restaurant below. Then he shrugged. ‘She bought this place, I run it, and the arrangement suits us both. But if she didn’t have any money, well ...’

‘That’s terrible,’ Janey protested, but Bruno wasn’t in the least put out.

‘No it isn’t. It’s honest.’ Finishing his omelette and pushing his plate to one side, he lit a cigarette. ‘There are trade-offs in every relationship. Ours simply happen to involve money. And Nina does realize this,’ he added, pausing to execute a perfect smoke ring. ‘She understands. If she decided she didn’t like it she could always kick me out.’

The Brie omelette and tomato salad were delicious but Janey had lost her appetite. It was all very well for Bruno. He made it sound so simple and natural, but as far as she was concerned his theories were too unnervingly close for comfort. She wasn’t wealthy by any means, but after meeting Alan she had worked hard and long enough to acquire the lease on her own small shop and the flat which went with it. He, on the other hand, had been falling behind with the rent on his own shared apartment and taking on casual work only when it became absolutely necessary in order to eat. Surfing and water skiing, his two great passions in life, weren’t exactly profitable.

During the moments of dark despair following his disappearance, Janey had wondered uneasily whether she had ever been more than a convenient stop-gap, supplying bed and board to a man whose love she’d only imagined.

But she was here now, with Bruno, and she damn well wasn’t going to cry. He and Nina had an understanding: they were more of a business partnership than a real couple, and they weren’t even married. Taking another gulp of Pimm’s, she felt her own resolve weakening.

She’d been alone for eighteen months, mourning the loss of her husband and wondering if life would ever be truly enjoyable again. Maybe it was time she had a little fun. Maybe she should take the plunge and find out.

‘So your life is perfect,’ she said, her smile deliberately provocative. ‘You have everything you want.’

‘Pretty much.’ He nodded in agreement, those devastating bedroom eyes roaming lazily over her body. Janey shivered with sudden longing; it had been so long since she’d felt wanted.

Bruno certainly wanted her, but he had no intention of doing anything about it. Not yet, anyway. Tempting though the thought was, he knew that Janey had her preconceived ideas about him and that if he lived up to them this afternoon she would undoubtedly have her regrets by tomorrow. And he didn’t want their relationship prematurely curtailed by a guilt attack. Where Janey Sinclair was concerned, he had decided, a single afternoon of pleasure simply wouldn’t be enough.

Janey, walking home several hours later, didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Her virtue was still intact, which was good in one way, but at the same time her ego had taken a bit of a knock. For Bruno, true to his word, had behaved like a perfect gentleman. Lunch had been followed by coffee on the sunny balcony, easy conversation and absolutely no untoward moves whatsoever. When she had succumbed to the effects of the Pimm’s and closed her eyes, he had brought cushions for her head and left her to doze whilst he dealt with the washing up. When she awoke, it was to the muted strains of Vivaldi emanating from the stereo and the sight of Bruno, sitting opposite her, quietly reading the Sunday Times.

Glancing up, he’d grinned and said, ‘Oh good, you can help me with the crossword. I’m stuck on eight across.’

Chapter 9

Over at Trezale House Maxine found herself on the receiving end of a similar lack of interest, but in Guy Cassidy’s case it was entirely genuine. Spending his working life surrounded by some of the most beautiful women in the world, she decided sourly, had evidently had some kind of immunizing effect. Instead of the admiration to which she was accustomed, she was only too well aware that when he looked at Maxine Vaughan all he saw was the new nanny. And when he had observed the haphazard way in which she tackled the ironing, he’d been even less impressed.

‘I can’t do it if you’re standing there watching me,’ she’d said defensively, seizing Ella’s fiendishly difficult pink cotton dungarees and realizing that she should have checked the pockets before chucking them into the machine earlier. Shreds of blue paper tissue clung to the bib like burrs.

‘Don’t worry,’ he’d replied, backing out of the kitchen in horror. ‘I can’t bear to watch.’

And now here she was, stuck in the rotten kitchen with the beastly ironing, feeling more like bloody Cinderella than ever. Outside, Guy was fooling around with Josh and Ella, threatening them with the garden sprinkler. Ella, shrieking with laughter and making a desperate bid for freedom, tripped and landed in the flowerbed. As she scrambled to her feet once more, Maxine sucked in her breath; the clean white tee-shirt and jeans were clean no more. And no prizes for guessing who would have to deal with them.

Josh, skidding into the kitchen, grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and emptied the contents into a mug, rubbing ineffectually with his muddy toes at the drops spilled on the floor.

‘Why don’t you come out and play?’ he asked kindly when he had gulped down the orange juice in one go. ‘We’re having fun.’

‘Fun?’ Maxine echoed, glancing out of the window at Guy. Her voice heavy with irony, she said, ‘Oh dear, I’d better not then. Your father wouldn’t approve of that.’

Josh looked troubled. ‘Don’t you like it here?’ Softening, she turned and smiled at him. It was hardly his fault, after all, that coming to work for Guy Cassidy wasn’t turning out as she had expected.

‘Of course I do. I’m just not that keen on ironing.’

‘You aren’t going to leave then?’

Maxine, reminding herself that she didn’t really have anywhere else to go, shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Good,’ he said not bothering to hide his relief. ‘I know Dad’s a bit strict sometimes, but we like you.’ Brightening, he added, ‘And he’s going out tonight, so we’ll be able to have fun without him. We can play poker again. For real money, if you like ...’

In the event, the evening was more entertaining than she had anticipated. Guy, preparing to go out, was in a good mood. To Maxine’s utter amazement, he had even asked her if she’d like him to bring back an Indian takeaway.

‘Where’s he gone?’ she said, when the cream Mercedes had disappeared down the drive.

Josh was sitting cross-legged on the floor, practising his shuffling technique. Ella, curled up next to her on the sofa wearing red spotted pyjamas and furtively sucking her thumb, was engrossed in a video re-run of Friday night’s Coronation Street.

‘Dad?’ Josh shrugged. ‘Seeing one of his girlfriends, probably.’

‘One of his girlfriends?’ Maxine’s spirits plummeted. Despite having got off to a not-terribly-promising start, she still entertained fantasies of her own in that department. The ridiculously handsome widower and the pretty nanny, living and working together and eventually falling in love had a certain ring to it. But this was the first she’d heard of any girlfriends. When Guy had remained un-partnered during yesterday’s wedding reception, she’d assumed the field was clear.

Josh, however, was more interested in mastering the art of the shuffle. ‘He’s got lots,’ he said vaguely. ‘I expect it’s Imogen tonight, because she phoned up this morning.’

Pushy, thought Maxine. Aloud, she said, ‘Is she nice?’

Coronation Street had finished. Ella, who was humming along with the theme tune, took her thumb out of her mouth and said, ‘I like Imogen. She’s pretty.’

Hmm. Maxine decided she couldn’t be that fantastic. Guy had said he’d definitely be home by eleven.

‘She’s quite pretty,’ Josh corrected his sister. ‘But Tara’s better.’

‘Tara can sit on her hair,’ agreed Ella happily, confirming Maxine’s suspicion that the girl in question was Tara James, currently one of the most sought-after models in Europe. Hell, she thought gloomily. Talk about competition.

Josh was now painstakingly dealing out the cards. Looking up and glimpsing the expression on Maxine’s face, he said in matter of fact tones, ‘They’re OK ‘I suppose. But none of them is as good as Mummy. She was prettier than anyone.’

‘Really?’ Maxine was intrigued. ‘I’d love to see some photos of her.’

‘We’ve got loads,’ said Josh cheerfully. ‘I’ll bring them downstairs later and show them to you.’

She looked hopeful. ‘We could do it now’

‘We have to play poker first,’ he replied firmly. ‘And I need to buy some new batteries for my Gameboy tomorrow, so we can’t stop until I’ve won at least two pounds.’

It took some deft manipulation on Maxine’s part, but she managed; a respectable forty minutes later, Josh was two pounds and twenty pence up and he hadn’t noticed the sleight of hand which had been necessary in order to achieve it.

‘Well done,’ said Maxine, clearing away the cards with some relief. ‘Go on then, run upstairs and find those albums. I love looking at other people’s photographs.’

Particularly when they belonged to Guy Cassidy. And there were hundreds of them, depicting his life over the past decade. Josh steered her through the albums, pointing with pride to the many pictures of Véronique. ‘That’s Mummy with Ella, just after she was born. This is me with Mummy in Regent’s Park when I was four. And this one’s Mum and Dad at a party in St Tropez. He’s laughing because Sylvester Stallone just asked her for a dance and she said no.’

Véronique Cassidy had certainly been beautiful. Maxine pored over the close-ups which revealed stunning blond good looks in all their glory. Even more dauntingly, she had been a natural beauty, never over-embellishing herself, simply allowing the exquisite basics to speak for themselves.

But what shone through most of all was happiness. Maxine knew instinctively which of the photographs of his wife had been taken by Guy. And those featuring the two of them together were almost unbearably poignant. Their obvious love for each other shone out; it was almost a tangible thing.

Quite uncharacteristically, she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. Something approaching envy curled in her stomach; not for Véronique, but for their shared happiness.

Looking at them with their arms around each other, Maxine was reminded that she herself had never been in love, not really. Her own experiences were of a string of tumultuous and usually short-lived relationships where lust had figured high on the agenda. Instinctively drawn to men whose volatile personalities mirrored her own, it was almost as if she was ensuring that the affairs wouldn’t last. For all their similarities, she and her partners never seemed to have much in common in so far as ordinary, day-to-day living was concerned. Within weeks of the initial dazzling attraction, boredom would set in and she would find herself looking for a way out.

Invariably, the way out involved another man.

Yet she was, it seemed, doomed to failure. In a deliberate attempt to break the sad and sorry pattern she had got herself involved with Maurice Stanwyck and that, thought Maxine ruefully, had turned out to be the biggest mistake of all. Poor, pedantic Maurice, hell bent on conforming to his mother’s ideas of success, simply hadn’t been able to cope with a wayward fiancée. And she in turn had tried to conform, she really had, but all she’d managed to do in the end was to hurt and humiliate him.

Returning to London last week to pick up her belongings, she had attempted to apologize.

The meeting, however, had been an awkward one. Maurice, his stiff upper lip super-glued into place, had initially betrayed no emotion at all. Then, after twenty minutes of following her around whilst she packed her cases, his guard had dropped. Maxine had been forced to endure the far more harrowing ordeal of listening to him as he begged her to change her mind. At one point he had been on the verge of tears. All she’d been able to do was to remind him how miserable she would undoubtedly have made him if she’d stayed, and what a disaster she would have been as a corporate wife.

Poor Maurice, she thought now, gazing numbly down at the photographs of Guy and Véronique in her lap. She hoped he’d put the experience behind him and find himself another more suitable girlfriend soon.

Josh, meanwhile, was still sorting through the piles of photos which hadn’t made it into the albums. Thrusting a selection into Maxine’s hands, he said in matter-of-fact tones, ‘This is us after Mummy died. That’s me when I was seven, on my new bike. That’s Ella’s birthday party when she was five. And these are some of Dad’s girlfriends.’

It was as if Guy had deliberately chosen women who in no way resembled his wife.

Véronique, with her straight blond hair and Madonna-like beauty, couldn’t have been more different from these gypsy-eyed, dark-haired females who pouted and smiled for the camera and who were evidently trying too hard to impress.

The difference in Guy, she observed, was equally apparent. Just as earlier she had been able to tell at a glance which photographs of Véronique had been taken by him, so now she could have guessed which of those featuring him had been taken after her death. It was almost indefinable, but there nevertheless; a hardening of the expression in the eyes ... the loss of carefree pleasure .. . concealed sorrow reflected in the wryness of his smile.

Feeling uncomfortably as if she was intruding upon his private grief, Maxine bundled the photographs together and handed them back to Josh. Ella, still sucking her thumb, had fallen asleep at her side.

‘They’re lovely.’ Maxine smiled as Josh replaced them with care in the cardboard box.

‘You’re lucky to have so many pictures of your mum.’

‘Yes.’ The boy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have forgotten what she looked like but Ella might have. She was only young when it happened.’

She wondered how he felt about the string of subsequent girlfriends but sensed that she had done enough prying for one night. Outside, it was growing dark. It was past both children’s bedtime. Tugging tentatively at Ella’s thumb, Maxine found it plugged into the rosebud mouth as firmly as a sink plunger.

‘Come on, I’m still on parole. Your father will shoot me if he finds out how late I’ve let you stay up. You take the photographs back upstairs and I’ll carry Ella.’

They Think It’s All Over was about to start on TV. Josh said jealously, ‘What will you do when we’ve gone to bed?’

Maxine gathered Ella into her arms. She was only small but she weighed an absolute ton.

‘What else?’ she countered, with a long-suffering sigh. ‘The rest of the rotten ironing.’

True to his word, Guy was back by eleven with the Indian takeaway. Maxine, having watched They Think It’s All Over, switched the television off and the iron on the moment she heard his car pull up the drive and promptly assumed the kind of saintly-but-weary expression which indicated that whilst he’d been out enjoying himself with one of his floozies, she had been hard at work for hours.

Her mouth watered as he unwrapped the brown carrier bag and lifted the cardboard lids from their foil containers. Prawn korma, scented and golden, was piled over pilau rice.

Massaging her back for good measure, she switched the iron off.

‘What time did they get off to bed?’ said Guy, turning his attention to the lamb dhansak and naan bread. ‘Nine o’clock.’

He grinned. ‘That means ten.’

‘Well ...’ It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what time he’d gone to bed, but she didn’t want to risk spoiling his good mood. ‘Ella fell asleep on the sofa and Josh thinks he’s the Cincinnati Kid. At this rate I can see my entire salary disappearing into his piggy bank.’ She pulled a face. ‘I wish now I’d never taught him how to play poker.’

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ said Guy, deadpan, ‘you didn’t. I did. Last Christmas.’

For the first time, Maxine realized, they were actually sitting down and discussing the children rather than engaging in a battle of verbal wits. The sparring subsided, she began asking suitably intelligent questions about Josh’s education and the atmosphere, helped along by a bottle of Sancerre, grew positively relaxed.

Before she knew it, she was asking Guy the question she hadn’t felt able to ask Josh.

He frowned. ‘Why? What’s he been saying?’

‘Nothing really.’ She crushed a poppadum and licked her fingers. ‘Just that you have lots of girlfriends, but none of them is as pretty as his mother was.’

‘I see.’ The dark blue eyes registered amusement. ‘Well, he’s probably right about that.

Although I don’t know about the actual number. "Lots" sounds pretty alarming.’

‘Aren’t there?’ Maxine cast him an innocent look.

‘Lots, I mean.’

‘One or two.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve tried to keep it low key, for the kids’ sakes. On the other hand, I’m only human. And they’ve never seemed to mind the occasional ... visitor.’

‘Children are adaptable,’ agreed Maxine, reassured by his reply. ‘And it isn’t as if you went through a traumatic divorce. At least they know you were happily married.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ Guy looked pensive. ‘Maybe it does help.’

Pleased with herself for having said the right thing, she nodded. ‘I’m sure it does.’

‘I could show you photographs of Véronique, if you’re interested.’

Maxine wondered if this was some kind of test. She didn’t want him to think of her as morbidly curious.

‘There’s no hurry,’ she replied easily, getting to her feet and taking his empty plate from him. ‘Maybe Josh and Ella will show them to me whilst you’re away.’

And then it was all spoiled. By the time she returned from the kitchen Guy was standing by the sofa with his back to her. When he turned around, she saw the crumpled photograph in his hand and the look of disdain on his face.

‘Why did you lie?’ he said coldly. ‘I wouldn’t have minded if you’d told me you’d already seen them. But why the bloody hell did you have to lie?’

The photograph of Véronique must have slipped down the side of the sofa when she had lifted the sleeping Ella and taken her upstairs. Since then, she had been sitting on it.

‘I’m sorry ...’ began Maxine. To her horror, she saw that it was not only crumpled, but torn.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Guy replied, his tone curt. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. These pictures might not mean much to you, but they do to us. They’re all we have left.’

Chapter 10

Never at her best at the ludicrously early hour of seven in the morning, Maxine propped herself up on her elbows at the breakfast table and wondered how on earth Janey managed to get up at five in order to visit the flower market. It simply wasn’t natural.

And as for having to cope at the same time with two starving children and their picky, irritable father, she thought as she battled to stay awake, it was downright unfair.

‘There’s a pink elephant in my Sugar Puffs,’ squealed Ella, waving the plastic toy in Maxine’s face and sprinkling her with milk.

‘Eat it. It’s good for you.’

‘Don’t forget we’ve got to go and buy my batteries today,’ Josh reminded her, speaking through a mouthful of toast and blackberry jam and jingling the money in his shorts’ pocket for added emphasis. ‘Maxine, open your eyes. I said we’ve got to buy new batteries for my ‘

‘Gameboy,’ she supplied wearily. ‘I heard you. And don’t talk with your mouth full — you look like a cement mixer in overdrive.’

‘You shouldn’t have your elbows on the table,’ Josh retaliated, unperturbed. ‘Berenice says it’s rude. Doesn’t she, Dad?’ He turned to his father for confirmation. ‘Berenice says elbows on the table are rude.’

Having to get up at six-thirty evidently didn’t bother Guy Cassidy. Fresh from the shower and wearing a white linen shirt and faded Levi’s, he was looking unfairly good for the time of day. Although it was all right for him, thought Maxine mutinously; he was zipping off to Paris.

Whilst she spent the week looking after his monsters, he would be surrounded by beautiful semi-naked models only too eager to show him their version of a really good time.

He was standing by the dresser painstakingly checking the cameras he would be taking with him and piling rolls of film into the small case which would accompany him on to the plane.

Ignoring Josh, he turned that unnervingly direct dark blue gaze upon Maxine.

‘Now, are you sure you’re going to be able to cope whilst I’m away?’

She wished she’d had time to brush her hair before stumbling downstairs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage,’ she replied evenly, thinking that he’d be stuffed if she said no. ‘And you’ll have Paula’s mother coming in to keep an eagle eye on me in case I’m tempted to do anything drastic, like tape their mouths up and lock them in the cellar.’

‘We haven’t got a cellar.’ Ella, dive-bombing the elephant into her cereal bowl, looked triumphant.

‘In that case, it’ll just have to be the attic.’ Maxine confiscated the elephant. For the first time that morning, a glimmer of a smile crossed Guy’s face.

‘There you go then,’ he warned. ‘You’d better behave yourselves. A week in an attic wouldn’t be much fun, would it?’

Ella, who was devoted to Coronation Street, said, ‘I wouldn’t mind if I could have a television up there.’

‘Oh, you could have a TV set,’ Maxine exclaimed, cheering up and buttering herself a slice of toast. ‘But no plug.’

The next week, despite Maxine’s misgivings, was a greater success than either she or Guy had anticipated. After one or two inevitable power struggles as the children tested the limits of her patience and she in turn exerted her own particular brand of authority, they settled into a routine of sorts and began to enjoy each other’s company. Josh and Ella could be noisy, argumentative, boisterous and infuriating but Maxine, retaliating in kind, found she didn’t hate them after all. In some ways, she realized with amusement, they reminded her quite a lot of herself.

‘Yuk, I don’t like cauliflower,’ declared Ella, her tone fractious.

To the child’s astonishment Maxine replied, ‘Neither do I,’ and promptly lobbed the offending vegetable out through the kitchen window. ‘Let’s have frozen peas instead.’

‘We like Big Macs,’ said Josh hopefully the following evening.

Maxine, who had been burrowing through the contents of the freezer in search of fish fingers, because she knew how to cook them, closed the door with relief. ‘OK,’ she said to Josh’s amazement and delight.

Berenice had always been a stickler for proper, home-cooked meals. ‘But don’t tell your father.’

Guy phoned every evening. Maxine, hovering unseen in the doorway, eavesdropped shamelessly whilst his children sung her praises. Nannying wasn’t so bad once you got the hang of it, she decided, priding herself on her success. And letting the children stay up until midnight had been a stroke of genius; no more horrendous six-thirty starts. She couldn’t imagine why more households hadn’t cottoned on to such a perfect scheme.

‘Everything all right?’ Guy would enquire, when she was summoned to the phone for interrogation. ‘Perfect!’ Determined to impress the hell out of him to pay him back for ever having doubted her, she boasted, ‘They’ve been absolute angels.’

Josh and Ella, sitting on the stairs, collapsed in giggles. said Guy, not believing her for a second. ‘In that case you’ve got the wrong children. Return them to the spaceship and make sure the real ones are home by the time I get back.’

‘You didn’t tell Dad you’d reversed his car into the gatepost,’ Josh reminded her when she had replaced the receiver.

Maxine’s smile was angelic. ‘Don’t you remember, darling? That stupid man in the Reliant Robin drove into the back of the car whilst we were parked on the seafront.’

‘No he didn’t. You reversed into the gatepost.’

‘Fine.’ She picked up the phone once more. ‘I’ll call and tell your father now. Oh, and maybe you’d like to explain to him how you managed to smash the kitchen window with your sister’s Sindy doll ...’

Josh’s shoulders sagged and he waved his hands in a gesture of defeat. He might have known he didn’t stand a chance against an expert like Maxine. ‘OK, OK. Put the phone down.

You win.’

But whilst being with the children was fun, it had its restrictions. Maxine found herself yearning for adult company. By Thursday she realized she was even looking forward to Guy’s phone call from Paris, and felt absurdly put out when he spoke to Josh and Ella, then hung up.

‘He was in a hurry,’ Josh explained. ‘He said some people were waiting for him and he had to go out.’

‘How nice for him,’ said Maxine sourly. It was five o’clock and the evening stretched ahead interminably. All she had to look forward to was beating Josh and Ella at Monopoly and maybe the added thrill of washing her hair.

Janey, who enjoyed washing her hair, was in the bath when the phone shrilled at six o’clock. Inwardly cursing but unable to leave it to ring – there was always that infinitesimal chance that it might be Alan, after all – she climbed out of the bath and made her way, naked and dripping bubbles, into the sitting room.

‘Big favour,’ Maxine beseeched, on the other end of the line. ‘Big, big favour. How would you like to save your poor demented sister’s life?’

‘Not very much.’ If Maxine was planning a moonlight flit from Trezale House, Janey didn’t want her flitting back to the flat. With a trace of suspicion she said, ‘I thought Guy was away this week.’

‘Exactly,’ declared Maxine, then giggled. ‘What a strange thing to say. I wasn’t asking you to play hired assassin.’

That was a relief, Janey supposed. Shifting from one foot to the other, she watched the bath bubbles melt into the carpet. ‘So what do you want?’

‘I’m suffering from cabin fever,’ cried Maxine with suitable drama. ‘If I don’t get out of here for a couple of hours I won’t be responsible for my actions. And Colin’s just phoned, inviting me to have a drink with him.’

‘I’m in the bath,’ complained Janey.

‘No you aren’t, you’re in the sitting room. Sweetie, it’s not too much to ask, is it?’ Maxine switched into wheedling mode. Josh and Ella would absolutely love to see you again. And you know how brilliant you are at Monopoly ...’

It really was a gorgeous house. Janey, kicking off her shoes and stretching out across the long sofa, gazed around appreciatively at the beamed ceiling, matte burgundy walls and glossy, rug-strewn parquet floor. Maxine and her incurable mania for clutter had reduced her own small flat to chaos but Trezale House was evidently large enough to handle it. The style of the sitting room was elegant but at the same time relaxed. The paintings hanging on the walls vied for space with a selection of framed photographs, expertly lit. Thanks to Jessica Newman, Paula’s mother, the antique furniture was lovingly polished, the indoor plants immaculately tended. Janey was pleased to see that her own flower arrangements were still looking as fresh as they had the previous Saturday.

But it was midnight, the children were in bed and she was starving. ‘Help yourself to anything,’ Maxine had declared, the expansive sweep of her arm encompassing the contents of the entire kitchen. That had been at seven-thirty when Janey hadn’t been hungry. Now, checking her watch and marvelling at her own gullibility — Maxine had promised faithfully to be back by eleven at the very latest — she padded barefoot into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Josh, who was the most appalling cheat, had beaten her at Monopoly and a girl deserved some compensation, after all.

Abandoning her diet, she’d just finished piling a dinner plate with French bread, pâté and a hefty slice of Dolcelatte when a car snaked up the drive, its headlights dazzling her as she peered out through the kitchen window.

Maxine was back at last. Too hungry to stop now, Janey gave her a wave and picked up the already opened bottle of red wine which had been left balancing precariously on the edge of the windowsill. She wouldn’t have bothered if she’d been on her own, but now that Maxine was here they might as well finish it up between them.

By the time the front door opened, Janey was comfortably ensconced once more on the sofa. Through a mouthful of pâté she called out, ‘And about time too! Come in here this minute and tell me what you’ve been doing to that poor defenceless cricketer. I hope you haven’t been tampering with his middle wicket ..

‘Absolutely not,’ said a cool male voice behind her, and Janey turned pale.

‘Oh God, I’m s ... sorry,’ she stammered, hideously embarrassed at having been caught out.

The attempted witticism had been feeble enough anyway, but at least Maxine would have laughed.

Guy Cassidy, however, wasn’t looking the least bit amused. Janey’s complexion, unable to make up its mind, promptly reddened. The dinner plate clattered against the coffee table as she shoved it hurriedly away from her, like a shoplifter caught in the act. It was ridiculous, she told herself; she had a perfect right to be here. She just wished Guy wouldn’t look at her like that.

‘Well,’ he said finally, glancing at the two brimming glasses of wine on the table and at the almost empty bottle beside them. ‘You appear to have made yourself at home. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

Bastard, thought Janey. To add insult to injury, her hand shook like a leaf as she silently passed him the nearest glass.

‘And I suppose I don’t need to ask where Maxine is. Screwing some unfortunate cricketer, from the sound of it.’ Collapsing into one of the chairs opposite her, he consulted his watch. ‘It’s past midnight. Is this a regular occurrence?’

‘What?’

‘You, doing the babysitting. Has it been going on all week?’

‘Of course not!’ Janey retaliated. Outraged by the unfairness of the suggestion, she took a great slug of wine. There was really no need for him to take his irritation out on her. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to be flying back until tomorrow, anyway,’ she said in accusing tones, wishing she didn’t feel at such a disadvantage. He must have been travelling for hours, but in his olive-green cashmere sweater and white jeans he still looked as fresh as if he’d just got up, whereas she was only too conscious of the fact that she was wearing an ancient grey tee-shirt and leggings, and no make-up at all.

‘Maybe I wanted to check up on what happens when I’m away,’ he countered evenly, those unnerving dark eyes boring into her as she emptied her glass. ‘I hope you enjoyed that.’

By this time thoroughly fed up, Janey responded with a belligerent stare. ‘It was OK.’

He nodded ‘So it should be. That was a bottle of seventy-eight Châteauneuf du Pape. It cost two hundred and forty pounds.’

Chapter 11

Swarming tourists were all right in their place but unless they were prepared to put their money where their mouths were, Thea Vaughan was a lot happier when she had her beloved studio to herself.

All day long she’d smiled and silently suffered the endless stream of visitors who’d trooped in and out of the gallery. Most had temporarily tired of the beach and were simply seeking a diversion out of the sun. Some, treating Thea as if she didn’t exist, openly criticized her sculptures. Others, feigning interest, admired her work and engaged her in pointless, time-wasting conversation. Occasionally they fell in love with a particular piece and only balked when they saw the price tag.

So far this week she hadn’t sold a single sculpture. With the rent overdue, it was especially demoralizing. All those wasted smiles and dashed hopes. She was tempted to tell the next influx of ignorant, sunburnt visitors to get stuffed, just for the hell of it.

‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’

The visitor, a lone male in his early sixties, turned enquiringly inThea’s direction as she emerged from the back of the gallery where she had been making a fresh pot of coffee.

‘Not a word,’ Thea lied smoothly, having glanced down at his shoes. No holiday flip-flops these, but polished brown leather brogues of the very highest quality worn with traditional lighter brown trousers, a brown and cream checked shirt and a Harris tweed jacket. In these temperatures the man had to be on the verge of heatstroke. One simply didn’t tell the owner of such an outfit to get stuffed.

It was one of her better decisions.

The prospective customer was standing in a pool of sunlight beside the open window, thoughtfully stroking his moustache as he studied one of the sculptures of which Thea was particularly proud. The almost life-sized figure of a ballerina, sitting on the floor to tie the ribbons on her shoes, was priced at £3,000. Earlier in the day a skinny Welshman had elbowed his wife in the ribs and said loudly, ‘There now, Gwyneth, maybe I could put you in your slippers, dip you into a tank of concrete and flog you in some fancy gallery.’ The wife had cackled with laughter and Thea had gritted her teeth, longing to punch them both down the stairs.

To add insult to injury the sniggering couple had left Starburst wrappers strewn across the bleached wooden floorboards. Oh, the joys of cretinous bloody tourists .. .

But this man, even if he was a tourist, which she doubted, was in a different league altogether. Anxious not to put him off, Thea decided to wait for him to initiate any conversation.

Resuming her seat before the half-finished figure upon which she was currently working, she rinsed her fingers in the bowl of water next to it and continued moulding the clay over the wire base of the torso.

Within the space of a minute she became aware of the fact that the man was now watching her. Calmly ignoring him, she concentrated instead upon the job in hand. The naked female required breasts and she had to decide on an appropriate size for them. It was also tricky ensuring they didn’t end up looking like improbable silicone implants. The figure was of a middle-aged woman; they had to have the correct amount of droop.

Oliver Cassidy, in turn, was studying the interesting outline of Thea Vaughan’s breasts beneath her ivory cheesecloth blouse. She was wearing several heavy silver necklaces and no bra, and as far as he was concerned her figure was admirable.

He was drawn, too, to the strong facial features of the woman who seemed so absorbed in her work. With those heavy-lidded dark brown eyes and that long Roman nose, she looked almost like a bird of prey. The swirl of white hair, caught up in a loose bun, contrasted strongly with her deep tan, but although he estimated she must be in her late forties, the lines on her face were few.

Observing her clever, capable hands as they moulded the damp clay, he said, ‘Did you do all these?’

Thea glanced up and responded with a brief smile. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re very good.’

‘Thank you.’

Intrigued by her apparent lack of interest in engaging him in conversation, Oliver Cassidy thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and surveyed the ballerina once more.

‘I particularly like this one.’

‘So do I,’ said Thea easily. Leaning back and resting her wrists on her thighs, careful not to get clay on the full, navy blue cotton skirt, she added, ‘It’s for sale at three thousand pounds.’

She liked the fact that he didn’t even flinch. She liked it even better when he frowned and said, ‘What’s the matter, are you trying to put me oft? Don’t you want to sell it?’

‘I’m an artist, not a saleswoman.’ Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to one side in order to survey the figure currently in progress, she said, ‘And since three thousand pounds is a great deal of money, I doubt very much whether anything I say would have much impact either way. I couldn’t persuade you to buy something you didn’t want, so why on earth should I even try?’

Accustomed to the cut-throat machinations of the property business which had made him his fortune and rendered him impervious to the hardest of hard sells, Oliver Cassidy almost laughed aloud. Instead, however, and much to his own surprise, he heard himself saying, ‘But I do want it. So persuade me.’

Thea, enjoying herself immensely, replied, ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you might not be able to afford it. I couldn’t live with my conscience if I thought I’d inveigled you into buying something you couldn’t afford.’

In fifty-one supremely selfish years she had never yet been troubled by her conscience, but he didn’t need to know this. Her eyes alight with amusement, she shook her head.

‘Do I look,’ demanded Oliver Cassidy in pompous tones, ‘as if I can’t afford it?’

This time she gave him a slow, regretful smile. ‘I wouldn’t know. As I said, I’m not a saleswoman.’ He replied heavily, ‘I can tell.’

The ensuing silence lasted several seconds. Thea, determined not to be the one to break it, carried on working.

‘I’ll buy it,’ said Oliver Cassidy finally. ‘On one condition.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Mmm?’

‘That you have dinner with me tonight.’

Openly teasing him now, she said, ‘Are you sure you can afford both?’

For the first time, Oliver Cassidy smiled. ‘I think I can just about manage it.’

‘Oh well then, in that case it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you, Mr—’

‘Cassidy. Oliver Cassidy. Please, call me Oliver.’

For buying the ballerina I’d call you anything you damn well like, thought Thea, struggling to conceal her inner triumph. Rising to her feet, she wiped her hands on her skirt. What did a few clay stains matter, after all, when you’d just made a mega sale? The contract was sealed with a firm handshake.

‘Thank you! It’s a deal, then. Oliver.’

Chapter 12

‘He’s a pig,’ said Janey, who still hadn’t forgiven Guy for his snide comments of the previous night. Overcome with a sudden need for companionship she had arrived at Thea’s house at eight only to find her mother getting ready to go out.

Thea, wearing her favourite crimson silk shirt over a peasant-style white skirt, was doing her make-up in the mirror above the fireplace. With an ease borne of long practice, she swept black liner around her eyes, enlarging and elongating them just as she had done for the past thirty years.

‘You mean that photographer chap?’ she said vaguely, having been only half listening to her elder daughter’s grumbling. ‘I thought he was supposed to be rather gorgeous.’

‘That’s beside the point.’ Janey, immune to Guy Cassidy’s physical attractions, threw her a moody glance. ‘And that stupid bottle of wine was just about the last straw. It w-as Maxine’s fault, of course, but he automatically assumed I’d opened it.’

Thea completed her make-up with a dash of crimson lipstick and treated herself to an extra squirt of Mitsouko for luck. Chucking the bottle into her bag, she said briskly, ‘Well, he isn’t your problem. And I’m sure Maxine can deal with him. She’s always been good with difficult men.’

Luckily, Janey hadn’t expected motherly support and reassurances; they simply weren’t Thea Vaughan’s style. Now, listening to her airy dismissal of the problem which as far as her mother was concerned wasn’t even a problem, she managed a rueful smile.

‘Speaking of difficult men, who are you seeing tonight?’ Is all this really in aid of Philip?’

‘Thea froze with her bag halfway to her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted in resignation. ‘Oh, sod it.’

Philip Slattery wasn’t difficult at all. One of Thea’s long-standing and most devoted admirers, he was as gentle as a puppy. Janey liked him enormously, whereas her mother took him almost entirely for granted, seeing him when it suited her and ditching him unmercifully whenever somebody more interesting came along. As, presumably, somebody now had.

‘You mean, Oh sod it, you were supposed to be seeing Philip but you’d forgotten all about him,’ she said in admonishing tones. Then, because Thea was showing no sign of reaching for the phone, she added, ‘Mum, you’ll have to let him know. You can’t just stand him up.’

Thea pulled a face. ‘He’s going to be awfully cross with me. He’s holding a dinner party at his house. Now I suppose he’ll accuse me of lousing up the numbers.’

‘Mum!’ Janey protested, dismayed by this act of thoughtlessness. ‘How could you possibly forget a dinner party? Why don’t you just cancel your other date?’

‘Out of the question,’ declared Thea, picking up the phone and frowning as she tried to recall Philip’s number. Her own, it went without saying, was practically engraved on his heart. ‘I sold the ballerina this afternoon.’

‘So?’

‘He invited me to have dinner with him, on the strength of it. Darling, he’s seriously wealthy, not to mention attractive! This could be so important; I’d have to be a complete idiot to turn him down:

Poor, faithful Philip and cruel, mercenary Thea. Janey listened in silence to her mother’s side of the phone call as she blithely excused herself from the dinner party which he had undoubtedly spent the past fortnight planning to the nth degree.

Who is he, then?’ she said when Thea had replaced the receiver. .

Her mother, whose memory was notorious fickle, checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed an eyebrow into place. ‘Oliver. Kennedy, I think.’ With a vague gesture, she dismissed the problem in favour of more important details. ‘He wears extremely expensive shoes, darling.

And drives a Rolls Royce.’

‘You mean he’s a chauffeur.’

Thea gave her daughter a pitying look. Janey, don’t be such a miserable spoilsport. He’s rich, he’s interested, and I like him. I mean this is the kind of man I could even be persuaded to marry.’

It was the kind of lifestyle she could easily get used to, the kind she had always felt she deserved. Hopeless with money herself, however, Thea had got off to a poor start When, at the age of nineteen, she had met and fallen even more hopelessly in love with Patrick Vaughan. Big, blond and a dyed-in-the wool Bohemian, he was the mercurial star of his year at art college, adored by more women than even he knew what to do with and a dedicated pleasure-seeker.

Within six weeks of meeting him, Thea had moved into his incredibly untidy attic apartment in Chelsea, embracing with enthusiasm the chaotic lifestyle of her lover and encouraging him in his work.

But Patrick only embraced her in return when no other more interesting women were around. Incurably promiscuous, his wanderings caused Thea such grief that, looking back over those years, she wondered how she’d ever managed to stand it. At the time, however, she had loved him so desperately that leaving had been out of the question. When Patrick, laughing, had told her that fidelity was bourgeois, she’d believed him. When he’d told her that none of the others meant anything anyway, she’d believed him. And when — quite seriously — he’d told her that he was going to be the greatest British artist of the twentieth century she’d believed that too.

She was lucky to have him, and nobody had ever said that living with a genius would be easy.

It wasn’t. The never-ending supply of eager women continued to troop through their lives and turning a tolerant blind eye became increasingly difficult. Furthermore, Patrick Vaughan only painted when he felt like it, which wasn’t often enough to appease either the buyers or the bookmakers.

Gambling, always a passion with him, fulfilled yet another craving for excitement. And although it was fun when he won, the losses far outweighed the gains. As his addiction spiralled, Thea began to realize that maybe love wasn’t enough after all. The all-consuming intensity with which Patrick gambled might divert his attention from the numerous affairs but it scared her.

Patrick, still laughing, told her that worrying about money was even more bourgeois than fidelity but this time she had her doubts. Neither the promised luxurious lifestyle nor his glittering career were showing any signs of materializing and the novelty of being poor and perpetually cheated on was beginning to wear off.

Unable to find a market for her own work she had reluctantly taken a job in a Putney craft shop, but Patrick was spending everything she earned. Bailiffs were knocking on the door. She deserved more than this. It was, she decided, time to leave.

Fate, however, had other ideas. Discovering that she was pregnant threw Thea into a flat spin. She was only twenty-two, hopelessly unmaternal and deeply aware of her own inability to cope alone. All of a sudden Patrick and-all-his-faults was better than no Patrick at all.

To everyone’s astonishment Patrick himself was delighted by the news of the impending arrival. Never having given much thought to the matter before, he was bowled over by the prospect of becoming a father and didn’t — as all his friends had secretly imagined — do one of his famous runners. He had created a son who would inherit his artistic genius, good looks and charisma, he told everyone who would listen. This was his link with immortality. What could be more important than a child? At Patrick’s insistence, and to his friends’ further amazement —

they had assumed he would think it far too bourgeois — he and Thea were married at once. The wedding was funded by a timely win on the Derby. Fascinated and inspired by his new wife’s condition, he resumed painting with a vengeance, insisting that she sit for him whilst he captured her voluptuous nakedness in oils. The paintings, among the best he’d ever done, sold easily through a West London gallery. Gradually the creditors were paid off. And if Patrick was still seeing other women, for once in his life he exercised discretion. For Thea, the months before the birth were some of the happiest she had ever known.

Janey, when she arrived, was a monumental disappointment to both of them. Squashed and ugly, not only did she bear no resemblance whatsoever to either parent, she was entirely the wrong sex.

With all his visions of Madonna and child shattered and the reality of fatherhood failing abysmally to live up to fond expectations, Patrick promptly reverted to type. The painting ground to an abrupt halt, the gambling and womanizing escalated to new and dizzy heights, and in order to escape both the noisy wails of his daughter and the silent tears of his wife, he spent less and less time at home.

Maxine, born twenty-two months later as a result of a last-ditch attempt at reconciliation, failed to do the trick. Another daughter, another shattering disappointment. Knowing that it was hopeless to go on trying and by this time so miserable that it was hardly even a wrench, Thea packed her things, gathered up the two girls and left.

Not wanting to stay in London, she moved to Cornwall in order to start a new and happier life. From now on, she vowed, she would learn by her mistakes and Patrick’s example. Being a doormat was no fun; selfishness ruled. Never again would she let herself be emotionally intimidated by a man. She was going to make damn sure she kept her self-respect and enjoyed the rest of her life.

For twenty-five years she had kept her promise to herself. Bringing up two young daughters single-handed wasn’t easy, but she’d managed. And whilst it would have been easy to let herself go, she deliberately didn’t allow this to happen.

Janey and Maxine learned to fend for themselves from an early age, which Thea felt was all to the good and the only sensible way to ensure that they would grow up with a sense of independence. She wanted them to realize that the only person one could truly rely on was oneself.

She had been divorced, now, for over twenty years and never been tempted to remarry.

Patrick had disappeared to America, leaving her with nothing but his surname, and although alimony would have been nice, it wasn’t something she’d ever expected from him. Managing on her own and struggling to balance her meagre finances had become a matter of pride.

And, on the surface, she was content with her modest lifestyle. Now that her children were grown up, the struggle had eased. Her home was small but comfortable. The studio where she created and sold her sculptures was rented. She made just enough money, as a rule, to enjoy herself, and when business was slow there was always Philip, happy to help out in whichever way he could. Not a wealthy man himself, he was nevertheless heartbreakingly willing to dig into his own pockets when the need arose. He really was a very nice man, as devoted to Thea as she had once been to Patrick. Sadly for him, she was unable to prevent herself treating him as badly as Patrick had once treated her.

But Oliver Cassidy was in a different league altogether. After years of struggling and making do, Thea was ready to be spoiled by a man who wasn’t afraid to wave his wallet. And although she’d only just met him, she knew instinctively that here was a man who wasn’t afraid of anything at all.

It had been a dazzling evening. Arriving in the Rolls less than five minutes after Janey had left, Oliver had picked her up and taken her to the five-star Grand Rock Hotel where he was staying. The hotel restaurant, one of the best in Cornwall, was as impressive as she had hoped.

And her dinner companion, Thea decided as she sipped her cognac, had definitely exceeded all expectations.

‘How long are you staying down here?’ she asked, having already learned that he lived in Bristol.

Oliver Cassidy shrugged, adjusting snowy shirt cuffs. ‘A week, maybe two. I’ve been looking at properties in the area, thinking of moving down here.’

Better and better, thought Thea happily, admiring his discreet gold cufflinks and breathing in the scent of Penhaligon cologne. ‘Well, I’m pretty familiar with the area. Perhaps I could help you there.’ Pausing, she broke into a smile. ‘Helping other people to spend their money is a great hobby of mine.’

As far as Oliver Cassidy was concerned, her bluntness made a refreshing change. Over the years he had become something of an expert on the subject of gold-digging females and what he’d discovered was that, to a woman, they would tear out their own professionally manicured fingernails rather than admit that his money held any interest for them or that it could make any difference to their attraction towards him. It was all so tiresome, so bloody predictable.

Thea Vaughan, on the other hand, was making no secret whatsoever of her interest in both him and his money, and he found her honesty quite disarming. He wanted to get to know this charming, teasing woman; she interested him more than anyone else had done for years. He also, quite urgently, wanted to take her up to his suite and make love to her. Ever the perfect English gentleman, however, he felt he should allow her to finish her cognac first.

It wasn’t difficult to read his mind. Thea was looking forward to the hours ahead just as much as he was. Beneath the immaculate, dark blue suit and white shirt she could only too easily imagine the contours of his body. Oliver Kennedy — no, Cassidy — had the erect stance of a guardsman and he’d kept himself in remarkably good shape. His chest was broad, his stomach flat and he sported an impressive tan. Going to bed with him, she thought as her fingers idly caressed the stem of her brandy glass, would be fun.

But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.

‘Go on then,’ she said with a provocative smile. ‘I’ve told you all about my miserable marriage. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Which particular miserable marriage did you have in mind?’ Oliver, after puffing meditatively on his cigar, leaned back in his chair and signalled for the waiter to replenish their drinks. If she could wait, so could he. ‘there are three to choose from.’

‘All of them,’ said Thea cheerfully. ‘In chronological order. And I want to hear the gory details ...’

Since picking wives had never been one of his strong points, there were plenty of those, too. Over the next half hour he regaled her with hair-raising tales of his three scheming, volatile wives. If Thea suspected that he was bending the facts in order to present himself in a blameless light, she didn’t voice such thoughts aloud. And it was riveting stuff anyway, better than any soap opera, According to Oliver – trusting, innocent Oliver – he had been bamboozled in turn into matrimony by Liza, Milly and Fay. All three, it appeared, had been blonde, beautiful and absolute hell to live with. They made Macbeth’s witches look cute.

None of the marriages had lasted longer than three years. Each wife had departed in a flurry of recriminations and alimony. Following the third divorce, Oliver had vowed that he would stick to mistresses. They might be expensive but they were a damn sight less expensive than greedy, vengeful wives.

‘And there were no children?’ said Thea, totally engrossed and not in the least put out by the declaration. She couldn’t imagine anything more thrilling than being an expensive mistress.

This kind of scenario was right up her street.

Oliver looked momentarily uncomfortable. ‘I have a son by my first wife,’ he replied, after taking another puff of his cigar. ‘But we had ... er... a disagreement some years ago. I’m afraid we haven’t been on speaking terms since then.’

With a directness which so often made her elder daughter cringe, Thea rested her chin on her clasped hands and said, ‘Really? What happened?’

‘I tried to stop him making the same mistake ‘I had.’ Oliver Cassidy didn’t make a habit of admitting that he could have been wrong. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that in the matter of Véronique he might have been, but her untimely death had come as a great shock to him nevertheless. ‘I’d been through three disastrous marriages and realized too late that my wives were only interested in my money. My son was living in London, doing very well for himself in his own career. Then, when he was twenty-three, he met a young French girl. She was eighteen years old and penniless. He was besotted with her. Within a few weeks of meeting her, he brought her down to Bristol and informed me that they were planning to get married.’ He paused, remembering the ensuing argument as plainly as if it had happened yesterday. ‘Well. To cut a long story short, I told him he was a bloody fool, and he went ahead and married her anyway. They had two children, and a few years later she died. I attempted to contact my son afterwards, but I’m afraid he wasn’t able to forgive me for disapproving of the marriage in the first place.’

‘But that’s terrible!’ cried Thea, suffused with indignation on his behalf. ‘You only had his best interests at heart. You were trying to help him!’

‘I know, I know. But my son had ideas of his own. You know how stubborn children can be.’

‘So you’ve never ever seen your grandchildren?’ Thea persisted, her dark eyes sympathetic.

Oliver shook his head. There was no need to mention that fateful afternoon when Véronique had brought them to his house. The encounter wasn’t something of which he was particularly proud.

‘Never.’

‘It’s a tragedy,’ she declared expansively. ‘And those poor children ...’

Smiling, he leaned closer. ‘Between ourselves, that’s one of the reasons I’m thinking of buying a house down here. They moved to Trezale a year ago. I’m not getting any younger.’ He spread his hands and added sorrowfully, ‘I’d like the chance to get to know them.’

Her emotions heightened by Chablis and champagne, Thea was on the verge of tears. She took his hand in hers. ‘You know, you really are a very nice man.’

Oliver Cassidy’s plush suite was decorated in peacock blues and greens, and subtly lit.

Unashamed of her body, Thea removed her clothes with neither coyness nor ceremony, then crossed the bedroom to stand naked before him.

‘Who’s seducing who?’ he said, appreciating her lack of artifice.

Thea, loosening his tie, looked amused. ‘Does it really matter? We’re adults. I think we both know why we’re here ...’

He removed his jacket and watched her capable fingers unfastening the buttons of his white shirt. She was still smiling, evidently enjoying herself. And she was right, of course; any further games were unnecessary.

Aroused by her straightforward attitude, as well as by the proximity of her unclothed body, Oliver realized that it was years since he had wanted a woman this badly. He put his arms around her, drawing her against him. He was sixty-one years old and his life wasn’t over yet.

‘Yes,’ he said, inhaling her warm scent and pressing a kiss to her temple, where white hair met tanned, enticingly perfumed skin. ‘And I think you are a very nice woman.’

‘You’re so right.’ Closing her eyes, Thea slid her hands inside his unbuttoned shirt. ‘I am.’

Chapter 13

‘If you don’t eat your Weetabix,’ said Maxine, hating the sound of her own voice and frantically casting about for an appropriate threat,

‘What?’ Josh challenged her, his eyes narrowing. In the two days since his father had been back from France, Maxine had definitely changed for the worse. No longer any fun, she had taken to bossing them around, ruthlessly rationing their television time and insisting they do boring school work even though it was still the middle of the summer holidays. If she hadn’t demanded to see his exercise books he would never even have found the squashed Mars bar in the side pocket of his satchel, so the fact that he wasn’t hungry was all her fault anyway. ‘HI don’t eat my Weetabix,’ he repeated mutinously, ‘you’ll what?’

Hell, thought Maxine, who couldn’t have cared less whether or not he ate his stupid breakfast. All she was trying to do was prove to Guy Cassidy that she could do the job he so obviously didn’t think her capable of, and all she was doing was making everyone miserable, including herself.

And Guy, damn him, wasn’t even paying attention. Buried behind his paper, apparently engrossed in the racing pages, he was drinking strong black coffee and ignoring his young son’s act of rebellion. Maxine, who had been so determined to impress him, wondered why she even bothered.

‘I shall begin by shaving your head,’ she replied sweetly, because Josh was inordinately proud of his spiky blond hair. She had also observed the first furtive flickerings of interest in ten-year-old Tanya Trevelyan, whose parents ran the local post office. ‘And then ‘I shall paint red spots all over your face with indelible felt pen. Then I’ll tell Tanya that you’re madly in love with her!’

Ella screamed with laughter. Josh, turning purple, shot Maxine a look of fury.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Oh yes, I would.’

Grabbing Guy’s arm, he wailed, ‘Dad, tell her she can’t do that! She can’t tell Tanya I love her ...’

But Guy, who appeared to have other matters on his mind, wasn’t interested. ‘Of course she won’t.’ His tone brusque, he glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘Damn, I’m going to be late. I’ll be back this evening at around nine.’

‘Make her promise not to say anything to Tanya,’ Josh begged, still mortified by the prospect of hideous humiliation.

‘Make him promise to eat his Weetabix,’ said Maxine, imitating his nine-year-old whine.

Guy merely looked exasperated. ‘For heaven’s sake!’

‘Thanks for your support,’ muttered Maxine, seizing the bowl of beige mush and clattering it into the sink. ‘You’re a great help.’

Ella, who detested having her hair washed, tugged at her sleeve. Her eyes shining, she said hopefully, ‘Maxine? If I’m naughty, will you shave my head?’

Since attempting to instil discipline and show Guy what a treasure she was had been such a dismal failure, Maxine left the children to their own devices for the rest of the morning. If non-stop TV cartoons were all they wanted to watch, why should she care?

Having washed up the breakfast things and gazed morosely out at the rain sweeping in from the sea, she sat down at eleven o’clock with a big gin and tonic and the portable phone. To cheer herself up and get her own back on Guy for being so stroppy, she was going to phone all her London friends for a good gossip. The fact that it was peak time and would cost him an absolute fortune only made the prospect more enjoyable.

‘You make him sound like an ogre,’ exclaimed Cindy, from the opulent comfort of her four-poster bed in Chelsea. Recently married to a rich-but-ugly industrialist, some twenty-five years older than herself, whose vast stomach, thankfully, was a serious impediment to their sex life, she couldn’t imagine what Maxine had to moan about. ‘I met Guy Cassidy at a party last year and he was absolutely charming. All the women were drooling like dogs! Maxi, you have to admit he’s sensationally attractive...’

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ Maxine drawled, jiggling the ice cubes in her glass and tucking her bare feet beneath her on the sofa. Then, relenting slightly, she added casually, ‘Well, he’s not bad I suppose.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ crowed Cindy, who knew her too well. ‘What are you trying to tell me, that you’ve had your hormones surgically removed? You must fancy him rotten!’

Maxine grinned. Cindy, in London, was a safe enough confidante.

‘OK,’ she admitted, taking a slug of gin. ‘So maybe I do, a bit. But I’d fancy him a lot more if only he’d show a smidgeon of interest in return. You have no idea how demoralizing it is, slapping on the old make-up and making myself generally irresistible when he takes about as much interest in me as he does in the bloody milkman.’

‘Sometimes make-up isn’t enough,’ replied Cindy, ever practical. ‘Sometimes you just have to rip off your pinny and get naked.’

‘You mean I should seduce him?’ At such an awesome prospect, even Maxine blanched.

‘Works every time,’ Cindy said happily. Maxine doubted whether Cindy would even recognise a pinafore if it leapt up and strangled her. She’d certainly never worn one in her life.

‘It wouldn’t work with Guy.’ Gloomily contemplating her almost empty glass, she imagined the scenario. She had a horrid feeling he would laugh his handsome head off. Before firing her, naturally.

‘Why?’ countered Cindy. ‘Have you got fat?’

‘I’ve got Guy Cassidy as a boss,’ Maxine sighed. ‘So far, he’s seen through everything I’ve tried, and all he does is sneer. He’s too smart to fall for an old trick like that.’

‘You’re losing your nerve, girl. Living out in the sticks is doing something to your brain.

Isn’t he worth taking a chance on?’

‘It’s all right for you.’ As Maxine spoke, the doorbell rang. ‘All you did was meet him at a party. You want to try living with him.’

‘Darling, I’d be there like a shot!’ Cindy, her interest aroused, sounded excited. ‘Now there’s an idea. You could invite me down for a weekend. If you’re too chicken, I’ll have a crack at him myself!’

‘I’ll have to go.’ Maxine, uncurling herself, realized that her left leg had been seized by pins and needles and was now completely numb. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Oh pleeease,’ Cindy urged. ‘I’m your friend, aren’t I? Go on, invite me!’

‘No,’ said Maxine bluntly. ‘You’re married.’

‘Don’t be so boring,’ protested Cindy. ‘At least I’m not chicken!’

Cindy didn’t understand, thought Maxine as she made her way awkwardly to the front door, clinging to furniture as she went. She wasn’t chicken either, she just wasn’t prepared to make a complete prat of herself and lose both home and job into the bargain. And she would have her wicked way with Guy Cassidy eventually, she was quite determined on that score. It was simply a matter of timing and technique. And pouncing on him buck-naked, Maxine decided with a small, wry smile, didn’t exactly rate highly in terms of finesse.

She needn’t have bothered to stop en route and grab a handful of fivers from the tin in the kitchen, because it wasn’t the milkman after all.

‘Yes?’ said Maxine, staring at the woman on the doorstep and mentally noting the style and quality of the clothes she wore. She’d bet her last Jaffa cake it wasn’t the Avon lady either.

‘Is Guy here?’ The visitor eyed Maxine in turn, instantly homing in on the blackcurrant jam stain which, courtesy of Ella, adorned her yellow tee-shirt.

The rain was still bucketing down, driven in from the sea by a ferocious wind and hammering against the windows like gravel. Anyone else, caught out in such a storm, would have looked like a scarecrow.

But this woman, wrapped in a long, lean leather coat the colour of toffee apples, worn over a cream and toffee-apple striped silk shirt and cream trousers, seemed impervious to the weather.

Screamingly elegant from her short, sleek black hair to her beige Ferragamo shoes, she simply wasn’t the kind of female whose mascara ever ran. Maxine couldn’t bear people like that. Most ominous of all, however, was the fact that in her elegant hand she carried an elegant suitcase.

Naturally, it matched the outfit.

Feeling very down-at-heel by comparison, Maxine replied with a trace of belligerence.

‘He’s away on a shoot in Wiltshire. We aren’t expecting him back until late this evening. He may even decide to stay there overnight.’

The woman, however, simply shrugged and smiled. Even her teeth were elegant. ‘So much for surprises.’

Deeply engrossed in her telephone conversation with Cindy, Maxine hadn’t heard an approaching car. Now she realized there wasn’t one.

‘I came by taxi,’ said the woman, intercepting her glance in the direction of the drive.

‘Don’t worry.’ Maxine stepped aside and gestured her to step inside. ‘I’ll phone for another one. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, but if you’d like to leave a message for Guy I’ll make sure he gets it. As I said, he probably won’t be back tonight ...’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said the woman easily, making her way past Maxine into the hall and dismissing her offer with a nonchalant wave of her wrist. Indicating the suitcase in her other hand, she added, ‘This isn’t a fleeting visit. I’m down here for a week at least.’

Bugger, thought Maxine. It hadn’t worked. ‘Really? How nice,’ she said aloud.

Her name was Serena Charlton and in confined spaces the reek of her scent was positively overpowering. One of Guy’s ruthlessly slender model ‘friends’, she was showing every sign of making herself at home.

‘We’re extremely good friends, she told Maxine as she slithered out of the leather coat and handed it to her. ‘I expect Guy’s told you all about me.’

Not so much as a syllable, thought Maxine, taking comfort from the fact. It was going to be interesting seeing Guy’s reaction when he returned and found an uninvited guest comfortably installed in his home. What fun if he booted her out .. .

‘Then again,’ said Serena, observing her deliberately blank expression, ‘he always did like to keep his private life to himself. And gossiping with the household staff isn’t quite the done thing, after all.’

‘Of course not.’ No m’lady, sorry m’lady, Maxine silently mocked, only just resisting the urge to tug her forelock and bob a fetching little curtsey. She was expected, it seemed, to hang the coat up. To amuse herself, she dumped it instead over the back of the nearest chair.

But Serena appeared genuinely unaware of the fact that her words might have given offence. Making herself comfortable on the sofa, she smiled across at Maxine and said, ‘A cup of tea would be nice. White with two Hermesetas, please.’

Having heaped at least a hundred calories’ worth of brown sugar into the cup, Maxine felt a little better. When she carried it through to Serena in the sitting room she said, ‘Josh and Ella are playing upstairs. Shall ‘I tell them you’re here?’

Serena was undoubtedly beautiful but she hadn’t featured in Josh’s list of favourite females, which was another bonus. Maxine soon found out why.

‘The children are here?’ Serena’s face fell. Her tone of voice registered distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Why aren’t they at school?’

‘Summer holidays.’ Maxine had to work hard to suppress a grin. Serena Charlton, presumably, was childless.

‘Oh. No, don’t worry about getting them down here. No need to disturb them. You carry on with your work, um ... Maxine. I’ll just sit here and enjoy my tea in peace.’

And get fat into the bargain, thought Maxine smugly, remembering the amount of sugar she’d put in. Dying to get the low-down on Serena, she raced upstairs to interrogate Josh. The lack of enthusiasm, it transpired, was entirely mutual.

‘She’s staying for a whole week?’

Reaching for the remote control, Maxine reduced the volume on the television.

‘She thinks she is. Why, don’t you like her?’

‘Her face is quite pretty,’ said Ella helpfully. ‘And she’s got really short hair.’

‘She’s OK I suppose.’ Josh was making an effort to be fair. ‘She brought us some sweets once. But she’d rather be with Dad than us. We’ve only met her a few times and she always thinks we should go outside and play.’ He pulled a face. ‘Even when it’s raining.’

Their earlier row forgotten, Maxine retorted indignantly. ‘And what does your father have to say about that?’

Sometimes Josh seemed wiser than his years. His gaze drifting back towards the television screen, where Tom was beating hell out of Jerry, he replied absently, ‘Most of Dad’s girlfriends make too much of a fuss over us because they think it’ll make him like them more, and then maybe he’ll marry them. I think Dad likes Serena because she doesn’t do that. He says at least she’s honest.’

Nifty reasoning, though Maxine appreciatively. On both sides.

‘If I go and get the scissors,’ said Ella, ‘will you cut my hair off now?’

Chapter 14

Thanks to the appalling weather, business in the shop was slow. Few people, it seemed, were interested in buying flowers when it was pouring with rain. Janey and Paula, guiltily eating cream cakes from the bakery next door, passed the time by doing the crossword in the local paper and taking it in turn to make endless mugs of tea.

‘What’s a nice chap like me doing in an advertisement like this?’ Paula read aloud as Janey emerged from the back of the shop with yet more tea.

‘How many letters?’ Janey asked, easing herself back onto her stool and peering across at the paper. ‘Could it be Jeremy Beadle?’

‘God forbid!’ Paula grinned and pointed to the next page. ‘I’m on to the Personal column.

Don’t you ever read it?’

‘No.’ Pulling a face, Janey followed Paula’s index finger and read the rest of the advert. ‘ "I am a good-looking male, thirty-four, with a whacky sense of humour." Hmm, probably means he’s into serious spanking. "Fun-loving partner required, five feet three or under." Ah, so he’s an extremely short spanker. "Age, looks and marital status unimportant." That means he’s totally desperate.’

‘OK,’ said Paula, conceding the point. ‘He doesn’t sound great, I’ll admit.’

‘Great? He sounds like a nerd.’

‘But they aren’t all like that. How about this one? "Divorced male, forty, own home and car, new to the area. Likes dining out, theatre, tennis, long walks ..." What’s wrong with him?’

Janey said unforgivingly, ‘BO I expect.’

‘Don’t be mean! Why are you so suspicious?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘If he’s so terrific, why does he need to advertise in the Lonely Hearts?’

‘He’s new to the area and he doesn’t want to cruise the bars picking up girls,’ said Paula, springing to his defence. ‘Because the type of girl he likes doesn’t hang around bars waiting to be picked up. There’s nothing weird or sinister about advertising in the Personals,’ she added firmly. ‘Sometimes it’s just the most sensible thing to do.’

Janey had never thought of it like that. Neither would she ever have imagined that Paula would argue the case so strongly. Her curiosity aroused, she said, ‘Have you done this kind of thing yourself?’

‘No, but a friend of mine tried it once. And it worked for her.’

‘What happened?’

The younger girl broke into a grin. ‘She met a tall blond airline pilot. Within six weeks, they were married. And they’re amazingly happy.’ Paula, who could give Maxine a run for her money where bluntness was concerned, added, ‘You should try it.’

Startled, Janey laughed aloud. ‘Me?’

‘It’s been two years now since Alan ... disappeared.’ Paula fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘I know it’s been hard for you, but you really should be starting to think about the rest of your life.

You’re only twenty-eight, Janey. You need to start going out, meeting new people ... having fun...’

‘And you seriously think this is the answer?’ Deeply sceptical, Janey said, ‘That by answering a few crazy adverts in the local paper I’ll change my life?’

‘I don’t know.’ Paula, having made her point, crossed her fingers beneath the counter and prayed that Janey would never find out she’d made up the fairytale romance between her friend and the pilot. Reaching for the paper and returning her attention to the crossword, she added casually, ‘But if you don’t try it, you’ll never know. Now, have a look at fourteen across. Do you think it could be pfennig?’

Paula had a way of saying things which stuck in the mind. As she tackled a pile of ironing that evening, Janey found herself recalling their earlier conversation and beginning to wonder if she had a point after all. Having overcome her initial misgivings, she now conceded that for some people, circumstances beyond their control made it hard for them to socialize in the traditional manner. When she’d pressed Paula for further details about her friend, for example, she’d explained that as an airline pilot, Alistair had been so busy flying all over the world, he simply hadn’t had time to meet any girls in his own country. Not interested in the air hostesses with whom he worked, he had placed an advert instead, in Time Out, and received sixty-seven replies. The first date hadn’t worked out and Geraldine, Paula’s friend, had been the second.

True love had blossomed almost instantaneously and the remaining sixty-five females hadn’t had a look-in.

Janey hadn’t believed this story for a moment. Even if Paula hadn’t own-goaled herself, calling the pilot Alistair one minute and Alexander the next, she would have seen through the enormous fib, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Janey herself had read magazine articles detailing such meetings and subsequent marriages. Paula had undoubtedly been right when she’d declared that sometimes it was simply the most sensible thing to do.

Abandoning the ironing before she wrecked something she was particularly fond of, Janey switched on the kettle. Her stomach was rumbling and she could have murdered a bowl of spaghetti but the cream cakes that afternoon had probably used up her calorie quota for the next three weeks.

Gloomily surveying the contents of the fridge, she set about making herself a boring salad sandwich instead.

‘Widower, 62, seeks the company of a lively lady 4560, for friendship and old-time dancing. Resilient toes an absolute must.’

He sounded lovely. Janey was only sorry she wasn’t old enough for him. Wondering if maybe she couldn’t get away with lying about her age, she read on.

‘Lonely vegan (Sagittarius) wishes to meet soulmate,’ pleaded the next ad. ‘Non-smoking, teetotal young lady required. Capricorn preferred.’

Aaargh, thought Janey. Oh well, it took all sorts. And who knew, maybe there was a soulmate out there somewhere, reading this advert and experiencing a leap of joyous recognition.

‘Gentleman required for plumpish but well-preserved divorcee, 55. Fond of walking, gardening, cooking and dancing.’

That was nice, she could pair up with the foxtrotting widower.

‘Discreet businessman seeks ditto lady, 30-50, for mutually pleasurable meetings, afternoons only.’

A typographical error, surely, thought Janey with a grin. Didn’t he mean ‘matings’?

‘Tall, presentable, divorced male, 35, would like to meet normal female.’

She paused and re-read the words, attracted by their simplicity and intrigued to know more.

Had his wife been spectacularly abnormal? How tall was tall? And did ‘presentable’ mean a bank-managerish grey suit with accompanying dandruff, or clean jeans and a tee-shirt that had actually been ironed?

Twenty minutes later, after having absently flipped through the rest of the paper and finished her sandwich, Janey found herself back once more at the Personal column. With a guilty start, she realized she was studying the advertisement placed by Mr Presentable. Even more alarming she was actually giving it serious consideration.

‘You should try it,’ Paula had said in her uncompromising way. ‘You need to meet new people. If you don’t try it, you’ll never know what you might be missing.’

If the Sagittarian vegan was anything to go by, Janey suspected she did. But maybe ... just maybe Paula had a point. Mr Presentable didn’t sound weird and there was always the chance that he might turn out to be genuinely nice. There was, after all, an undeniable gap in her life, and a cautious toe in the water – nothing too alarming, perhaps a brief meeting in a wine bar for a lunchtime drink – would satisfy her own curiosity and at the same time show Paula that she had at least been willing to make some kind of effort on the man-front.

Or more aptly, the unmanned front.

Although there was Bruno, of course, whom Paula didn’t know about. Janey wasn’t sure whether he really counted. In addition, knowing how she would have felt if Alan had cheated on her, she hated the thought of getting involved and upsetting Nina. Bruno had assured her that theirs was an open relationship but she was, after all, only hearing his side of the story.

If she was being honest, her attraction towards Bruno was yet another good reason why she should consider replying to the advert. Any real involvement with someone like him could only eventually end in tears. What she really needed to do, Janey decided, was to diversify.

‘I don’t believe it!’ cried Maxine, who had only phoned up in order to relieve her own boredom and have a good moan about Serena. Riveted by the news of Janey’s decision, she quite forgot her own irritations. ‘Darling, what an absolute scream! I know, we could both answer a few ads and compare notes afterwards. Marks out of ten for looks, brains and bonkability!’

‘It isn’t a joke.’ With great firmness, Janey interrupted her. Her sister, of course, was about the last person in the world in whom she should have confided. Maxine simply couldn’t comprehend the idea that meeting new men wasn’t always easy. She could scarcely take five paces without tripping over likely contenders in nightclubs, on the street, at supermarket checkouts, even on one occasion in Asprey’s. The man in question had been in the company of his girlfriend at the time, choosing from a selection of wildly expensive engagement rings.

Maxine, broke as usual and shamelessly trying on jewellery for the hell of it, had fallen into conversation with the two of them and came away with the bridegroom-to-be’s phone number in her jacket pocket. When you were Maxine, Janey remembered, men were there for the taking.

They practically queued up to be taken, in fact. Usually for everything they had.

‘What do you mean, it isn’t a joke?’ Maxine demanded. ‘Of course it’s a joke. You can’t seriously be serious!’

Janey had known she was making a big mistake. Patiently, she said, ‘Why not? If I was looking for a new car, I’d see what was being advertised in the paper. If I wanted to move house I’d find out what the estate agents had on their books. Why should looking for a new man be any different?’

I sound like Paula, she thought with amusement. Maybe we should forget selling flowers and set up a dating agency instead.

‘I don’t believe it,’ repeated Maxine, as close to being struck dumb as it was possible for Maxine to get. ‘You are serious!’

Having made up her mind, Janey had no intention of allowing herself to be bulldozed out of it now. Before Maxine had a chance to get her teeth into a really below the-belt argument on the subject, she said, ‘OK, OK. You’re right, it was a bad idea.’

‘About the worst you’ve had since you decided I should come and work at the Hotel Cassidy,’ declared Maxine, remembering why she had decided to phone her sister in the first place. ‘As if I wasn’t enough of a skivvy already, some ghastly tarty girlfriend of Guy’s rolled up earlier today with wagonloads of cases and announced that she was here for the week. All she’s done is sit on her fat bum watching television and demanding endless cups of tea.’

‘Funny, that’s what you do when you visit me.’ Janey grinned to herself. ‘Has she really got a fat bum?’

‘She soon will have, by the time I’ve finished with her.’ Maxine spoke in self-satisfied tones.

‘And she’s tarty? I wouldn’t have thought that was Guy’s style at all.’

This time she was almost able to hear Maxine’s shoulders slump in defeat.

‘OK, so maybe she isn’t tarty. If she were, I might not hate her so much.’

‘Ah, so she’s a threat,’ Janey teased. ‘You had your designs on Guy and now she’s put your nose out of joint.’

Gloomily, Maxine said, ‘She even has a designer nose.’

It was cheering to discover that even Maxine could feel inadequate when the odds were stacked against her. Janey, who knew only too well how it felt, said, ‘Is she really stunning?’

‘Hmm.’ Maxine sounded resigned. ‘Come up and see us sometime, then you might understand what I’m up against.’

‘Isn’t your sparkling personality enough?’

‘Don’t be stupid, of course it isn’t. Men like Guy aren’t interested in personalities.’ Maxine paused, then added, ‘I mean it, Janey. Come over tomorrow morning, then you can see for yourself.’

‘I can’t just turn up,’ protested Janey. ‘That really would look stupid.’

‘Florists deliver flowers, don’t they?’ Maxine spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘So, if you’re going to be boring about it I’ll place an order. How about a nice bouquet of deadly nightshade?’

‘Oh dear.’ Janey grinned. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a wreath?’

It was eleven-thirty by the time Guy returned home, and to Maxine’s disappointment he didn’t boot Serena unceremoniously out into the night.

Staying put in her armchair, she eavesdropped like mad on the reunion out in the hall. If she twisted round and craned her neck all the way over to the left she could have watched them through the crack in the door, but that would have been too tacky. Besides, Guy would probably catch her at it.

He sounded surprised, though not unhappy, to find Serena waiting for him at the front door.

Maxine heard her say, Darling, Thailand was cancelled so I found myself with a free week. I’ve been here since about midday.’

Maxine was only too easily able to envisage the accompanying embrace; Serena was the lithe, wraparound type. The kiss that went with it, thankfully, wasn’t audible.

‘You should have phoned,’ said Guy, eventually.

‘It doesn’t matter now. I’m just glad you decided not to stay away overnight after all.’

Maxine winced. Guy didn’t miss a trick.

‘Has Maxine been looking after you?’ she heard him say. There was a faint edge to his voice She winced again, this time in anticipation.

‘Mmm,’ Serena replied vaguely. ‘Well, in her own way I suppose. She served up the most extraordinary supper, a kind of fish pie made with instant mashed potato.’

She made ‘instant’ sound like maggot-infested. Maxine heard Guy say, ‘The children like it.’

‘And it was positively teeming with garlic.’

All the better to repel you with, my dear, thought Maxine happily. With six whole cloves of the stuff to contend with, she doubted whether Guy had much enjoyed his welcome-home kiss.

‘Yes, well. Maxine’s culinary techniques are ... interesting,’ he replied dryly. ‘Where is she now, in bed?’

‘In the sitting room.’ Serena didn’t bother to lower her voice. ‘Darling, is it wise to allow the nanny the run of the entire house? She’s been there all evening, hogging the most comfortable chair and the remote control. And she’s been helping herself to your gin.’

Maxine turned and smiled at Guy as he entered the room. Since there wasn’t much point in pretending not to have overheard, she said brightly, ‘Only one gin. Oh, and a splash of tonic and two ice cubes. You can deduct them from my wages.’

‘Don’t be silly. Are the children all right?’

‘Bound, gagged and manacled to their beds.’ She beamed. ‘Don’t worry, they can’t escape.’

‘Good.’ He gave her a brief smile. Serena, as she had anticipated, clung lovingly to his arm.

‘Well, we’re off to bed now. Don’t forget to turn everything off before you go up.’

With any luck, thought Maxine, I did that when I mashed six cloves of garlic into the fish pie.

Chapter 15

Janey saw what Maxine meant when she turned up at Trezale House the following morning.

The storms had cleared, Cornwall was bathed in glorious sunshine once more and Serena Charlton was sunning herself topless in the garden. Observing the sheer flawlessness of her long, lean body and deeply envious of such perfect breasts — the pert kind, which wouldn’t dream of sliding down to nestle in each armpit as her own unruly pair invariably did — Janey was glad she didn’t share her sister’s need to compete. When the opposition was this stunning, it was a daunting prospect to say the least.

‘For me?’ said Guy, coming into the kitchen behind her and spotting the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of lemon-yellow roses in her arms. ‘How kind. Nobody’s given me flowers for years.’

He seemed to be in a good mood. Janey, moving out of the way as he reached into the fridge for a bottle of milk, tried not to stare at his naked torso. All he wore was a pair of Levi’s and delicious aftershave. Yet another faultless body, she thought enviously. Such dazzling perfection was almost too much to bear.

‘Maxine ordered them. She’s gone to track down a vase.’

‘Who?’ Rubbing his wet hair with a green towel slung around his neck, he said cryptically,

‘Ah, you mean our in-house saboteur.’

Janey’s heart sank. ‘What’s she done now?’

But Guy merely grinned. ‘I’m sure she’ll tell you. When she does, perhaps you would let her know that it didn’t work.’ When Janey continued to look blank, he added enigmatically, ‘Tell her that for lunch yesterday I had chicken Kiev.’

‘Found one,’ said Maxine, coming into the kitchen with a slender, very elongated smoked-glass vase. ‘It looks like Serena, don’t you think? Except that the vase has a higher IQ. Oh ...

sorry!’ Spotting Guy and not looking the least bit apologetic, she stood the vase on the table. ‘I thought you were still in the shower.’

Guy raised his eyebrows in good-humoured disbelief. Turning to Janey, he said, ‘Do me a favour, will you? Take her out somewhere tonight.’

‘Can’t afford it,’ said Maxine promptly. ‘I’ve got to get the clunking noise in my car sorted out before the wheels fall off. I thought I’d stay in and save my pennies.’

Serena, taking a break from sunbathing, appeared in the kitchen doorway. The gauzy white blouse she had thrown on over her bikini was virtually transparent. Up close, Janey thought with a twinge of envy, she looked even more stunning than she had at a distance. -

‘I’d like a cup of tea,’ she announced with a brief, pointed glance in Maxine’s direction.

‘And this time, maybe I could have Hermesetas in it instead of sugar.’

‘Of course you could,’ Maxine replied smoothly, filling the lookalike vase at the sink and busying herself with the task of flower arranging. ‘The kettle is that round metal object next to the toaster. The teabags are in the cupboard.’

Exchanging yet another glance with Janey, Guy said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Take her away with you now.’

Maxine, thrilled at the prospect of almost a whole day off, protested, ‘But I can’t afford to go anywhere ...’

‘Here.’ With a look of resignation he reached for his wallet. Peeling off eighty pounds, he handed the notes to Janey. ‘Have fun. On one condition.’

Janey, who didn’t trust conditions, looked wary. ‘What’s that?’

‘You have to promise not to send her back before midnight.’

‘It’s a deal.’ Maxine, cheered by her success, promptly abandoned the flowers in the sink.

Serena, frowning as Janey pocketed the money, said, ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ riposted Maxine, her smile angelic. ‘I’m worth every penny. Just ask Guy ...’

‘Down here on holiday then, girls? Come on, don’t be shy, we’ll buy you a drink. Come and sit down with us.’

At Maxine’s insistence, because ‘you said you wanted to meet some men’, they had set out at seven in the evening on a seafront bar crawl. And there was no doubt about it, thought Janey with a suppressed shudder: they were certainly meeting some men.

‘Don’t let them do it,’ she whispered frantically in Maxine’s ear, at the same time tugging her in the direction of the door. But Maxine, for someone so lacking in bulk, was surprisingly untuggable. She was also flashing the kind of smile that meant they were staying put.

Within seconds, two glasses of house white had materialized and the short one with the beer belly stretching a salmon-pink Lacoste shirt to its limits was leading Janey to the table.

Maxine, brown eyes gleaming as she settled herself into one of the vacant chairs, was already nose to nose with his far better-looking friend.

‘I’m Phil and he’s Ricky,’ said the little fat one, before diving enthusiastically into his pint and downing it in seconds. Having wiped the moustache of froth from his upper lip, he returned his attention to Janey. ‘So how long are you down here for? Where d’you come from? What kind of work d’you do and what’s your name?’

Janey stared at him. Fat Phil roared with laughter. ‘Hey, it’s a joke! Time is money, babe, and why waste time getting to know each other when we could be having fun? That’s what I say!’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’ Janey, suppressing a shudder, handed him her untouched glass of wine. ‘And ‘I hope you have lots and lots of fun, I really do. But I’m afraid I have to go now. The babysitter’s expecting me back at nine and she’ll kill me if I’m late—’

‘What is the matter with you?’ Maxine cried indignantly, catching up with her thirty seconds later. ‘You wanted men, ‘I got you men. Janey, you didn’t even give him a chance!’

‘Are you sure he was a man?’ Janey countered, stung by her sister’s insensitivity. ‘He looked seven months pregnant to me. And he had breasts.’

‘But he had a kind face.’

Maxine’s ability to point out redeeming features in the most hopeless of cases never failed to amaze Janey. Provided, of course, that they were somebody else’s hopeless cases and not her own.

‘Maybe.’ It was no good, she wasn’t going to feel guilty. ‘But I can’t pretend to be interested in people. It just isn’t me. Besides, he was a pillock.’

‘You don’t have to fall in love with him.’ Maxine was trying hard to understand but it was an uphill struggle. ‘You aren’t supposed to take men like that seriously. They’re just good to practise on, until the real ones turn up.’

This time Janey laughed because nobody would ever change Maxine. She had her own strategy in life and it would never even occur to her to question it. And why should she want to, anyway? As far as Maxine was concerned, it worked.

‘OK, I’m sorry. What shall we do now?’

Maxine, straight-faced, said, ‘I know. Back to your place, into our woolly dressing gowns and slippers. We’ll watch that nice cookery programme on the telly and take it in turns to make the cocoa. If you’re really good, I’ll teach you how to crochet a tea cosy that looks like a thatched cottage.’

‘Or?’

‘Blow the money on a stupendous meal,’ Maxine replied promptly. ‘I’m starving.’

Janey threw her a look of disbelief. Whilst she’d been working in the shop all afternoon, Maxine had been out on the patio, sunbathing and stuffing herself with food. An entire tub of Häagen Dazs rum and raisin had vanished from the freezer and when she’d gone out to clear up at six o’clock, empty crisp packets and Coke cans had littered the wrought-iron table.

But since it didn’t even occur to Maxine that she shouldn’t be hungry now, she misinterpreted the expression on Janey’s face.

‘Oh, all right! I absolutely promise not to talk to any strange men for the rest of the night.’

Janey doubted whether she was physically capable of such a feat, but it was a noble offer.

Beginning to relax, she said, ‘OK. How about La Campagnola?’

‘Boring,’ declared Maxine. ‘The cricketer took me there last week and it was practically empty. No, I asked Guy about restaurants. He said the best one was in Amory Street. I think it’s called Bruno’s.’

Janey, my gorgeous girl!’ shouted Bruno when he saw her coming through the door, and Maxine’s eyebrows shot up in amazement.

Janey, praying she hadn’t turned red, explained hurriedly, ‘He says that to all the girls.’

‘Hasn’t said it to me,’ murmured Maxine as Bruno made his way across the restaurant to greet them. ‘Hmm, and very nice too. Is he gay?’

‘Is the Pope Jewish?’ countered Bruno, who possessed 20-20 hearing. Embracing Janey and at the same time studying Maxine over her shoulder he murmured, ‘Darling, what have you been telling this poor girl?’

‘She isn’t a poor girl, she’s my sister.’ As if Bruno hadn’t already guessed, Janey thought morosely. Hadn’t she, after all, been complaining to him about Maxine for the past fortnight?

‘Maxine Vaughan,’ said Maxine, gazing with interest at possibly the only man on the planet capable of making Janey blush. He wasn’t what you’d call startlingly good-looking but the eyes were the greenest she’d ever seen and the grin was irrepressible. He was, she decided, one of those men with an indefinable aura of attractiveness about them ... a wonderfully wicked, tantalizing aura of attractiveness.

Janey, in turn watching Maxine survey Bruno, prayed she hadn’t made a hideous mistake in agreeing to come here. On the one hand, Bruno’s attentions were always guaranteed to boost her morale, and whenever Maxine was around, God knows, it needed boosting.