KATE LAWSON

Lessons in Love

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Kate Lawson 2008

Kate Lawson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560926

Ebook Edition © 2008 ISBN: 9780007328963

Version: 2018-06-12

Dedication

To the men in my life—Phil, Ben, James, Joseph, Sam and Oliver, who between them continue to give me all the lessons in love a girl could ever need.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Dear Ms J. Mills, we are delighted to inform you…’ Jane Mills read the letter again. Apparently she had won an all-expenses-paid trip-of-a-lifetime for two to a destination of her choice from one of the following…

Or at least she would have done if the letter had been delivered to the right Ms J. Mills at the correct address. It had arrived, along with a new cheque book and card, three store-card bills—the other J. Mills appeared to have a penchant for shoes and handbags, so they did also have that in common—and a dental appointment for two fifteen, Thursday week.

Jane hadn’t meant to open them. The post had arrived first thing Saturday morning, while Milo and Boris, her cats, had been mugging her with a mixture of impatience, persistence and some very overdone fawning, and she had been caught in the no man’s land between a can of Felix, the kettle and tea bag dunking, and most certainly not within striking distance of her glasses. So, while the kettle was boiling she’d opened the letters with a paper knife. Someone else’s letters. All of them.

The paper knife, with its plump little kissy Cupid for a handle, and a blade meant to represent his bow and arrow, had been a Christmas present from Steve and still had a phoney evidence tag tied to it with white string. It read:

Steve Burney, in the library with the dagger.

Merry Christmas, Sweetie.

I will love you for ever. S. xxx

Which he had to have given to her at around the same time he had been sleeping with Lucy Stroud and Carol what’s-her-face from Requisitions, and very possibly Anna, although nobody was quite sure if that was just Steve’s wishful thinking, and as Anna had now moved to Shrewsbury they might never find out. It had occurred to Jane that he had probably bought the knives as a job lot and had the evidence tags photocopied to save time.

She glanced down at the paper knife on the kitchen table. Damned shame she hadn’t stabbed him in the library.

She had found out about Steve a couple of weeks ago, actually 11 days, 18 hours and 51 minutes ago, when Lucy had taken her to one side at work, and said, ‘Actually, Jane, there is something I think that you ought to know,’ in a way that Jane knew wasn’t about paperclip allocation. Apparently everyone already knew about Steve, from the man on the mop in Janitorial Services, right through to the heads of departments. Humiliating didn’t even come close.

Steve had probably been rolling around on the natural cream wool carpet in front of his bloody woodburner with one of them while Jane’s perfectly wrapped present sat there, all innocent and unaware, under Steve’s delightfully decked, colour-coordinated, non-shedding lodge-pole pine. The bastard.

Steven James Burney—Jane let the name roll around her mouth even though the sound of it made her feel sick. They had been together almost a year and in quiet moments she had got to the point of trying out her name with his: ‘Mrs Jane Burney, Mr and Mrs Burney Mills, Mr and Mrs Mills Burney. Mrs Jane Burney-Mills’—although she had drawn the line at actually practising her signature, at least in public where anyone might see her. There was still a photo of them on a weekend break in Rome tucked under a magnet on the fridge door. Side by side at the Trevi Fountain. She couldn’t bring herself to take it down. Not yet.

Moving to Buckbourne had meant to be her bright new start. Her mother had suggested it a couple of years ago when Jane’s life had seemed to have lost direction.

‘Janey, what you need is a change, darling. Take a new job, rent your house out, sell your house—do something, anything. Go travelling, be feckless. You need to go wild, get drunk, let your hair down while it’s still your natural colour. You know what your trouble is, don’t you? You’ve always been too good, too steady, too bloody sensible. I really don’t know where I went wrong.’ At which point her mother had paused and looked at herself in the glass door of the kitchen dresser, turning to try to catch herself in profile. Then she said, ‘I’m thinking of getting my nose pierced, what do you think?’

‘Don’t,’ said Jane, not looking up from her lunch. ‘They look like you haven’t wiped your nose, and besides, you fainted when they gave the cat its injections.’

Her mother sniffed. ‘You should be living with someone by now, married even. I’d like to be a grandma some day.’ She’d paused. ‘Obviously not for a while yet but I’d like to at least have the chance. What is it with you and men? Give you a room full of men to choose from and you’ll pick the bastard every time. What about the one who was married with five kids? Will we ever forget Edward and that wife of his and those little ginger mop-tops chasing you through Debenhams, screaming, “That woman is sleeping with my daddy”?’

‘He told me he was separated,’ Jane had said, while attacking a big bowl of nachos, sour cream and guacamole.

‘Shame that he hadn’t mentioned it to his wife.’

‘Oh, right, and you’re so successful with men. What about André?’

Her mother had sniffed and topped up their wine glasses. ‘Which of us truly knows our own minds at twenty? And he was terribly sweet.’

‘His mum came round to help collect his things when he moved out.’

‘Charming woman. I’ve still got one of his Airfix kits somewhere.’

‘And Geno? The transvestite kleptomaniac?’

‘That’s the trouble with you, Jane, you’ve always been so damned judgemental; he was lovely—fabulous taste in shoes, and look at the sitting room. I’d never have put those colours together. He still sends me letters from San Francisco. He’s in an open prison now, which is so much nicer for him. They let them shop on the Internet and everything. He bought the most fabulous ball gown on eBay—although the UV is playing havoc with his skin, apparently. I’ve been sending him Nivea.’

‘We are talking successful relationships here, Mum, not skin care. You know, years of fidelity, Mrs and Mrs Right wandering off arm in arm, sharing their golden years, shuffling round garden centres, blocking the roads with touring caravans. Happy ever after.’

Jane’s mum had sniffed. ‘At least my relationships are colourful. If you’re going to have your heart broken at least do it with some panache, some élan. It’s time you got a life.’

‘Mum, I’m twenty-seven. I’ve got a few good years left in me yet.’

‘Um, that’s what we all say,’ said her mum, topping up her wine glass again.

And so, for once Jane had taken her advice, sold her house, got a new job in a half-decent town, had a makeover at Curl Up and Dye, and voilà here she was, back to square one with a good haircut.

Within three months of moving to Buckbourne, billed as an up-and-coming market town on the edge of the fen by the estate agents, Steve Burney—six foot something, with broad shoulders and a big crinkly smile—had dropped into the library. He worked at County Hall in Human Resources and had come to check up on how she was settling in. Fifteen minutes later he asked her out for coffee and the rest was history.

She glanced up at the clock, trying to ignore the great raw pain in her chest: 11 days, 18 hours and 56 minutes of history. Apparently he was notorious, Lucy said.

‘Look, I’m really sorry to be the one who tells you this, Jane, but everybody knows about Steve,’ she’d explained, handing Jane a tissue. ‘Really.’

Today Jane and Steve had planned to have lunch at the pub in Holkham and then walk his Labrador, Sandy, on the beach to Wells. That was a proper relationship. Lunch, long walks, Labradors.

Jane sniffed back another volley of tears. Bastard. And then she turned the letter over and took another look at the address on the prize offer. It read: ‘Ms J. Mills, 9 Creswell Close.’

It was an easy mistake to make. Jane lived at 9 Creswell Road, which was about two miles away from Creswell Close, a new exclusive executive housing development being built right on the edge of town, in the mature park-lands surrounding Creswell House, and about two million miles away in terms of income and aspiration.

Creswell Close boasted elegant, architect-designed town houses, integral garages and individually landscaped gardens, solid granite worktops and en suite everything, while Creswell Road boasted about how hard it was and how it could burp the national anthem after eight pints of Stella, and had a man who slept in the end terrace, the burned-out one with boarded-up windows, who could be found most mornings eating out of wheelie bins.

Jane, totally house-detailed out, having gone round and round looking for somewhere to live on endless cold wet days the previous year, had bought number 9 after the man at the estate agents had bandied about words like ‘undiscovered treasure’, ‘colourful’, ‘bohemian’, ‘urban renewal’ and ‘ripe for gentrification’. Which her mum pointed out, after she’d exchanged contracts, meant shabby as hell and dirt cheap.

Even so, it all fitted in with her plan for a bright sparkly new life, although despite numerous attempts and an Arts Council grant to paint a mural on the bus shelter Creswell Road remained resolutely feral.

As had her life.

The house in Creswell Road and the job as community project development manager in the new regional library were meant to mark a brave bold new beginning, not another dead end.

Jane glanced out of the kitchen window across the towpath that backed on to Creswell Road. On the far side of the river, out beyond the galvanised iron railings topped with razor wire, and the skip full of brick rubble and shopping trolleys, lay the municipal playing fields, mature trees, the cricket pavilion—almost the open uninterrupted views promised on the estate agent’s brochure. The one notable interruption was Gladstone, the tramp who was currently sitting on her garden wall, humming a medley from Cats while unwrapping the ham roll Jane had left in tinfoil on the top of her wheelie bin for him. OK, so one could reason it only encouraged him to be feckless but it was so much less stressful than seeing him sift through the detritus of her life to find a square meal.

He’d already told her she ought to eat more fruit and vegetables. ‘Those ready meals, they’re all additives and E-numbers, you know. Tartrazine, monosodium glutamate,’ Gladstone lingered lovingly over the words like jewels in a box, ‘and Lord only knows what else they put in there. And you realise that that isn’t real meat, don’t you? They shape it out of all the stuff they scrape and blast off the carcasses with a power washer,’ he’d said cheerily one morning, as she passed him on the way to catch the bus to work. ‘Meat slurry.’

It had come to something when tramps commented on your dietary habits. Especially when they spent the rest of their time talking to God and any number of imaginary friends.

Jane glanced down at Ms J. Mills’ post. She could hardly just put it back in the post box now it had been opened, could she? How did that look? Maybe she ought to nip down to the post office and explain.

‘So, you’ve opened them all, have you?’ asked an imaginary clerk suspiciously. ‘Would you care to explain exactly why you did that? Make a habit of opening other people’s post, do you?’ Jane turned the letters over; opening someone else’s mail was probably illegal as well.

Who was going to believe she had opened Ms J. Mills’ post by accident? There had to be—she counted—eight letters here. They’d take one look at the new credit card and assume Jane had already booked a holiday, bought a sofa and had her legs waxed.

The other Ms J. Mills was ex-directory, which really left only one option: Jane would have to drive over to Creswell Close to deliver the post herself. She would explain, and then grovel and laugh and make light of it—possibly.

‘You see, it was all just a silly mistake,’ she’d twitter in a gushy falsetto to a woman who looked uncannily like the clerk in her previous fantasy encounter. Jane paused; even her imagination was cutting corners. What hope was there?

She went upstairs, peeled off her jarmies, had a quick shower and slipped on jeans and a shirt. From the landing window Jane could see that Gladstone had already moved on to number 5. (The people at number 7 were away, possibly on holiday, possibly on remand. Jane had heard a lot of banging and shouting a few nights earlier but hadn’t liked to look.) Number 5 usually put out a couple of slices of fruit cake and an apple. Why Gladstone wasn’t the size of a barrage balloon God alone knew.

Balanced on top of the bin behind number 3 were a large carton of orange juice, an overripe banana and a bag of crisps. Beyond that, down past number 1 where Creswell Road turned abruptly into Lower East Row, it was hard to tell. Jane screwed up her eyes. It crossed her mind that what she really needed was a pair of binoculars. The leafy suburbs had badger watch, while out here on the towpath behind Creswell Road they had tramp watch. Right on cue Gladstone shuffled slowly downstream on his dining foray. He appeared to be singing and grooming his whiskers. Bill Oddie would have been so proud.

Jane picked up her handbag and the letters, and then as an afterthought clipped her library security pass to her top pocket. At the very least it would help prove she was who she said she was.

As Jane drove across town, Buckbourne basked under a cerulean sky. The tightly packed Victorian and Edwardian terraces corralling the town centre rapidly gave way on the far side of the inner ring road to smarter semis and then 1930s detacheds trimmed with trees, then seventies estates and finally nineties and new millennium neo-quaint, with their double-glazed leaded lights, gingerbread-house-style dormers and matching fibreglass chimneys. They in turn opened out on to the new bypass, a series of interlinked mini roundabouts and the out-of-town retail park. Another mile or so round the bypass and Jane was skirting the walled edge of the Creswell Gardens Estate.

She took a left off the next roundabout, down through lush woodland to an impressive set of gates, where a sign printed in swooping copperplate print advertised the development, along with an artist’s impression of the finished area.

Creswell Gardens Elegant Homes, sympathetically created to reflect the Gracious Living of a Bygone Era. Viewing by Appointment only.

Jane drove into the estate. Beyond the sales boards and a row of mature lime trees that scented the morning air with their heady perfume, stood the old manor house. It was a great rambling mongrel pile built from red brick, over-egged with towers and turrets, castellations, crenulations and fabulous Georgian windows, clashing deliciously with Elizabethan chimneys and gothic Victoriana, and had been converted into half a dozen elegant apartments. There was a corporate flag fluttering in the morning breeze from a pole on one of the turrets.

Beyond the main house, the stable block and various outbuildings had also been converted, whilst the rest of the estate was further away, along a tree-lined avenue. The first phase had been completed, show houses and a dozen or so other homes laid out around a wide sweeping crescent, their well-manicured gardens set with planters and wrought-iron railings, and other houses already under construction beyond them, carefully screened by boards. Number 9 was easy to find, an elegant detached town house with a large garage and neatly clipped front lawn, which, even though it was brand new, fitted discreetly into the landscape like a well-cut jigsaw piece, its large windows and carefully chosen brickwork echoing the main house and the stables across the way.

Jane sat for a minute and wondered what it must be like to live somewhere so beautiful. The other J. Mills, whoever she was, couldn’t have chosen a more perfect spot. Beyond the crescent, acres of ancient parkland rolled away to a stream, crossed by a little bridge, trout lake and established woodland. A herd of deer grazed on the far side of the glittering water. The board on the building site offered twenty-five prestige homes for sale, sharing a hundred acres of mature parkland and landscape of a far grander time, all for a small annual service charge.

Jane sighed. All right for some.

‘Hello?’ Someone rapped on her car window. Jane jumped. A slim blonde woman dressed in a smartly tailored navy suit smiled at her, although the smile wasn’t so much a greeting as a barely veiled threat. ‘May I help you?’ the woman mouthed through the glass.

Jane lowered her window. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I wondered if I might be able to help, only we don’t encourage parking on the roadways. Viewing is strictly by appointment, and I’m afraid these properties have already gone. All these properties along here.’ She gestured at the other houses along the crescent as if selling them was a personal triumph.

‘Ms J. Mills,’ said Jane, picking up the bundle of letters.

The woman stared at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘Number nine. I’ve come to—’

The woman looked at her and then at the badge clipped to her shirt. ‘Jane Mills,’ she said, the smile suddenly warming a degree or two. ‘Jane? Oh, I’m so sorry. Gosh. Well, how very nice to meet you at long last. How are you settling in? Presumably the showerhead in the guest bathroom is OK now? I had Barry pop over and take a look. He’s naturally terribly versatile and, let’s be honest, even in properties of this calibre there are always going to be a few little snags, but anything you need, anything at all…Oh, apologies,’ she said, in response to Jane’s bemused expression, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Miranda Hallsworth. We’ve spoken on the phone a couple of times. I’m only in the show house at weekends—’

Jane took a breath. ‘Actually,’ she began, ‘I’m not J—’ but before she could explain who she wasn’t, a souped-up low-slung Ford Escort, with flames custom-painted onto the metallic blue bodywork, growled to a halt alongside them, bass beat pounding away inside.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Miranda. ‘You know we applied to make this a gated community? Why do these people insist on coming in? I mean, honestly, do they look as if they belong in Creswell Close?’

Jane turned to look. A large man with a belly like a well-upholstered fireside chair eased himself slowly out of the driver’s seat. He was very tall, and wearing a spotless white singlet, a pair of very shiny navy-blue tracksuit bottoms, and white trainers—all immaculate. His companion was tiny, a pocket Venus, with breasts like ripe melons and a waist that couldn’t have been more than twenty-two inches, above an impressively pert bottom. She had an unmoving burgundy-coloured bob, a tight peach-coloured top, cropped spray-on denims, raffia-heeled espadrilles and an ankle bracelet strung with tiny silver bells. Both of them were tanned the colour of Caramac and both were a long way the other side of fifty

They were tasteless to perfection. Miranda Hallsworth’s outrage was tangible.

‘Number seven, Tone and Lil,’ said the man, extending hand as Miranda glared at them.

‘What?’ snapped Miranda.

‘Number seven.’ He peered myopically at her name badge. ‘Miranda? Oh, right. You’re the bird in the brochure; you don’t look nuffin’ like yer photo,’ he said, catching hold of her fingers in his great hairy paw. ‘“Our well-trained staff will be only too happy to answer any questions.” Pleased to meet you, darling.’

Alongside him Lil nodded. ‘Likewise. It’s lovely, isn’t it? We saw this place on the Internet. And I says to Tone, I says, “you know I’d love a little place like that,” I says. Little place in the country—nothing flash, so’s we can pop over from España. Didn’t I, Tony? I says—’

‘Number seven,’ Miranda managed as Tony continued to pump her hand.

He nodded affably. ‘That’s right. Six beds, three baths, master bedroom, with spa-pool bath en suite. We’ve come to pick up the keys, but there weren’t nobody over in the show house. We wanted to have a little butchers before the furniture van gets here tomorrow. We’re staying at a hotel in town tonight. The Metropole, booked the honeymoon suite, didn’t we, Lil?’ He winked salaciously and when Miranda didn’t instantly react continued, ‘Tony and Lily Butler. Pleased to meet you.’

Miranda almost choked.

‘Seven’s Lil’s lucky number.’

But not apparently Miranda’s. ‘Anthony and Elizabeth Butler?’ Miranda said slowly, her face a picture.

‘That’s right. See, there y’are, you’ve got us now,’ said Tony.

‘We’ve got a lovely place in Spain,’ said Lil, to no one in particular, while pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag and from it, with impossibly long acrylic French-manicured nails, produced a cigarette that had to be six inches long. ‘Great big pool, Jacuzzi, loads of land. I says to Tone, I says, “I reckon there’s room round the back for a pool and a hot tub here.” What do you reckon?’ She lit up, then, looking at Miranda through a rolling boil of cigarette smoke, said, ‘Oh my God, sorry—what am I like?’ And offered her the packet. ‘What must you think?’

Jane didn’t hang around to hear what Miranda thought. Instead she turned the key in the ignition and pulled away, heading through the open front gates up the drive to number 9, her spirits lifted by the encounter.

Number 9 had a dark green wooden door under the lee of an elegant little portico, with brass door furniture and a bell push like a big white chocolate button, set on one side of the wall in a silver and ceramic bowl. Jane rang and waited. She couldn’t hear the bell ring but then maybe the bell was quiet, or the walls were thick, or—she thought about Barry’s natural versatility—maybe it didn’t work at all. She waited a minute more and then pressed the button again. She couldn’t just post the letters and leave them—after all, they were all open. She needed the chance to explain. Across the road Miranda was heading back towards the show house, flanked by Tony and Lil.

Lil was telling Miranda about her plastic surgeon, and asking Miranda if she’d ever thought about having a little lift.

Jane looked away. Maybe she should just write Ms Mills a note and pop the post through the letter box.

Jane glanced at the door again and wondered if she might have more luck round the back, or maybe knocking. She lifted the brass knocker and, as she did, the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

Jane took a step back in surprise. This wasn’t meant to happen. This was the sort of thing that happened in horror films. People who lived in houses like number 9 Creswell Close most certainly did not leave their doors open. Actually, looking back over her shoulder it struck her as odd that the gates were open too.

The front door opened directly into a large hallway with a wooden floor, a long cream runner emphasising the elegant proportions. A curved staircase rose from the centre of the room to a galleried landing above. There were half-glazed double doors each side of the hall and a corridor heading towards the back of the house. The huge hall was panelled to waist height and, above, the off-white walls were hung with modern abstracts, which looked as if they might be originals. Jane felt her pulse flutter. No, this wasn’t right at all. This kind of house should have alarms and locks and CCTV, not open front doors.

Jane glanced back over her shoulder again, this time to see if she was being watched. Miranda had vanished into the show house.

‘Hello?’ she called self-consciously. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Jane leaned inside. ‘Hello. Is there anybody in? Hellooooo?’

Zilch. Zip. Nada.

The long hellooooo echoed down past the handsome hall table and the perfectly arranged white lilies, flowing unheard over the floor-length cream drapes and the beautifully designed lighting.

Jane bit her lip. How bad did it look to be standing by the open door of a house that didn’t belong to you, with a handful of opened post that didn’t belong to you either? What the hell was she supposed to do now? Jane looked round and considered her options.

Across the road Tone and Lily were respectively ambling and teetering out of the show house brandishing their keys. Any minute now they would drive up to number 7 and see her standing there on the threshold, maybe Miranda too. Should she get in her car and go? Come back another time? Shut the door behind her and head home?

Jane hesitated. Then again, what if Ms J. Mills was in trouble? What if she had fallen over, slipped while checking the showerhead in the guest room and knocked herself out cold? What if…Before she had really thought about the repercussions Jane stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind her and called hello again as she walked deeper into the house.

The place was fabulous, a handsome modern reinterpretation of Georgian proportions, a mix of English oak, cream walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view from every one of them. The hallway opened up on the right into an airy sitting room with wooden floors and exquisite rugs, a long navy-blue sofa pulled up in front of a marble fireplace, flanked by matching chairs. French windows overlooked the park. To the left was a dining room with antique furniture and a handsome gilt-framed mirror above an open fireplace. There was a TV and music room, another sitting room and a garden room, again with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that was a state-of-the-art kitchen that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Homes and Gardens,-but there was one thing that was missing. There was no sense at all that this was anyone’s home. Everywhere looked and smelled brand new. Jane had no idea when Ms I. Mills had moved in but surely even after a week there ought to be a cushion or two out of place, or a jacket slung casually over the back of a kitchen chair, a mug on a table or a dirty plate in the sink. Surely there had to be something, anything, to suggest that real people lived real lives there.

Beyond the kitchen was a utility room that adjoined the garage. Inside was a black Mercedes convertible, a silver BMW and a nippy little black 4x4. Nervously, Jane peered inside the cars, half afraid she might come face to face with the other Ms J. Mills, cold and stiff and far from well. But, no—still nothing. The house was like the Marie Celeste with down-lighters and expensive furniture.

Even so, empty or not, with every passing moment Jane was getting more nervous about being discovered exploring, and anxious to find out what the hell was going on—but also aware that the longer she stayed in the house the more suspicious she looked.

In her head an imaginary police officer, with the face of the imaginary Post Office clerk, was saying, ‘So, Ms Mills, you spent ten minutes in the property. Did it never occur to you at any time that you had unlawfully entered the premises and that you were in fact trespassing?

Grimly Jane went on, ignoring her inner policeman. Through the windows she could see the garden rolling gently down towards the lake, the way marked by a gravel path edged with flowerbeds, shrubs and a trail of lights. As Jane looked again she saw that there was a little pagoda, a white wooden summerhouse affair tucked into the lee of the hedge—and the doors were open. Maybe she had finally found Ms J. Mills.

Jane pushed open the door and headed out across the lawn towards the summerhouse, and as she did she could hear someone talking.

‘This is ridiculous,’ a woman snapped. ‘Totally bloody ridiculous. I’ve had enough, Augustus—or maybe that’s it, maybe I haven’t had enough at all. I’m not sure that I can go…’

But before Jane could find out where it was the woman couldn’t go, she rounded the corner and found a handsome woman in her late forties, long hair caught up in a clip, sitting on the edge of the deck, barefoot. She was wearing white silk pyjamas and was talking to an elegant oriental cat, who watched Jane’s arrival with all the distain of an archetypal English butler. The woman looked pale and was cradling a glass of water in which something was fizzing unpleasantly.

She stared at Jane in surprise. ‘Who on earth are you? And how the hell did you get into my garden?’

‘Your front door is open,’ said Jane lamely, glancing back towards the house

‘Oh, and that’s an invitation to just stroll right in, is it?’ growled the woman, and then winced.

‘Well, no, obviously but—’

‘So did you close it?’ the woman snapped, and as she did the wince hardened up into a grimace, as she made every effort to sound angry. ‘God, my head hurts. I really didn’t ought to drink,’ she said, rubbing her temples. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well, nothing actually, I just brought your post over,’ Jane said, holding the letters out in front of her like an offering.

Gingerly the woman glanced up and then took them. ‘Thanks.’ And then: ‘But they’re all open,’ she said, turning the envelopes over.

‘Well, yes,’ Jane began. This wasn’t going very well. ‘I know. That’s what I came over to talk to you about, to explain really. You see, they were delivered to my house by accident. My name is Jane Mills, I live in Creswell Road, at number nine, and these are addressed to J. Mills, nine Creswell Close—and I hadn’t got my glasses on—and, and, well, I opened them…’

There was an odd little silence as the woman looked first at the post and then up at Jane.

‘By accident, obviously,’ Jane added in case there was any doubt.

The woman turned the letters over again.

‘But that was all,’ Jane continued hastily. ‘I mean, once I realised they were yours, I didn’t read them, or anything.’

‘Really?’ said her inner policeman. ‘Then how do you explain the fingerprints on the credit card bills and the grudging admiration you have for your victim’s choice in shoes?’

On the deck Ms J. Mills was still turning the letters over. ‘You opened all of them?’ she said.

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, by accident. We’ve got the same name,’ she pulled the badge off her shirt and showed it to her.

The older woman stared blankly at the little square of laminated plastic.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jane continued brightly. ‘It was just a mistake. I thought I’d just pop over and explain…’

‘And my front door was open so you thought you’d just pop in, did you?’

Jane shifted her weight. ‘Well, yes. When I saw that the door was open I worried. It didn’t seem right, the door being open, and I…and I thought something might have happened to you.’ It sounded lame but it was also true.

The woman looked her up and down and then nodded. ‘Oh, something happened all right. Carlo threw a hissy fit and stormed off. Again. He is so tiring, to be perfectly honest I really can’t be bothered any more.’

‘Right,’ said Jane, not quite sure what else to say. She was still trying very hard to keep the lid on her feelings about Steve Burney. ‘Well, I know how much that kind of thing hurts. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be, he was thirty-four, sunbed tan, beautifully capped teeth, body to die for—vainer than any woman I’ve ever met. He used to watch himself performing in the mirrors on the wardrobe doors. I caught him once tilting the dressing-table mirror so he could see his arse in a better light.’ She paused and took a sip from the glass. ‘Nice arse, though.’

Jane looked at her. ‘OK.’ After all what else was there to say?

The other woman nodded awkwardly. ‘Thank you,’ she held out the letters, ‘for bringing these. By the way, my name is Jayne, Jayne Mills,’ she said, and extended her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jane smiled. ‘And it’s fine. About the letters, I mean. I just wanted to bring them over, you know. I couldn’t just pop them back into the post really.’

Jane looked at Jayne Mills, who sighed. Then, as if Jane hadn’t spoken, got up and wandered barefoot over the lush grass down towards the lake. Jane wasn’t sure what to do, maybe this was her cue to leave. Although it struck her that maybe Jayne might just keep on walking.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Jane, hurrying after her.

The other J. Mills didn’t even look back. ‘Do you ever wonder what you do things for? I’m forty-seven, I’ve worked all my life to get to where I am now, I’ve got a great business, great cars, good holidays, a farmhouse in France, a pied-à-terre in London, and you know what?’

Jane shook her head even though Jayne couldn’t see her.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing it any more. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like I’ve woken up in someone else’s middle age. I’ve worked hard to get something and somehow I think I’ve missed it. Missed the point. I used to feel like every day was a clean sheet—a challenge—you know? Whatever happened to that feeling? I haven’t had a relationship that’s worked in twenty years. I’ve got no children, no family except for my little brother, and I haven’t seen him in God knows how long. There’s only Augustus.’ She looked back at the cat, who was now sunning himself on the deck and licking his crotch. ‘And let’s be honest, he really only wants me because he can’t undo the cans himself.’

This wasn’t quite the conversation Jane had been expecting at all. She had no idea what to say. ‘You’ve got a beautiful house,’ was the best she could come up with.

The woman looked at Jane as if she had only just realised she was still there.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you ever think that sometimes it would be nice to just step away from everything? Just walk away from what you’ve got and have another life? A different life—start over. Mind you, you’re young, you probably haven’t got that far.’

Jane, trying hard not to think about Steve and how much that hurt, said thickly, ‘Well, yes, sometimes. Doesn’t everybody? I don’t think it’s got anything to do with age. But then again we have to play the hand we’re dealt, don’t we?’

Jayne smiled. ‘If I believed that I would just keep walking straight into the lake. There has to be a way. There is always a way. What did you say your name was again?’

‘Jane Mills.’

Jayne Mills laughed. ‘Oh, yes, of course—sorry. It was good of you to bring the letters over. Thank you.’ She turned away, and Jane thought now really was the moment to leave.

‘Close the door on the way out, would you, please? It’s my housekeeper’s weekend off,’ said Jayne, her back turned.

Jane drove home thinking about her namesake. How could her life be that bad?

As she got to Creswell Road Jane slowed down, looking for somewhere to park. It seemed a terrible shame that all those wonderful things—lots of money, cars, a housekeeper and a fantastic home—didn’t really seem to help, although surely it had to be better to be unhappy and rich than unhappy and—

At which point Gladstone stepped out from behind a skip. He was wearing a grimy pink feather boa over his usual raincoat and multiple jumper ensemble and was clutching a Harrods carrier bag that looked as if it was crammed full of wire coat hangers. His face was a picture of contentment. Jane sighed. Maybe happiness was a simpler thing than everyone thought.

Chapter Two

‘Ah, Jane, there you are. Do come in. Thanks for coming down. Nice to see you. If you’d just like to take a seat.’ The first floor of the new library was dedicated to Human Resources. It said so on a shiny brass plaque as you stepped out of the lift.

Mrs Findlay waved Jane into her office. Just inside the door a large tank of tropical fish basked and bubbled under the glow of a daylight strip lamp.

Mrs Findlay was a plump woman in late middle age, who wore various pairs of spectacles on a tangle of chains around her lard-white neck, had an office full of begonias, and was something big in internal human resources, which always sounded a bit medical and slightly unsavoury to Jane.

‘Well, here we are then,’ said Mrs Findlay brightly, easing herself in behind the desk and settling herself down. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re aware recently we’ve been looking at ways to restructure and improve our current levels of service. And I think we are developing some exciting strategies to meet that challenge.’ She had a file with Jane’s name on it spread out across the desk. ‘I’ve been looking at the projects you’ve been involved in since you began working with us here at Buckbourne and some of the things you’ve initiated—and I have to say it’s all terribly impressive.’ Mrs Findlay smiled warmly. ‘A lot of very intriguing and innovative ideas, Jane, lots of outreach to take library services into the wider community, identifying and targeting groups with special needs, good use of resources, coming in under budget, as I said, this is very impressive, just the kind of thing we want to encourage, which is why…’

It was the following Monday morning and it felt to Jane as if she had just survived the longest weekend of her life. It was the second weekend since Steven Burney Day—13 days 19 hours and 11 minutes since Lucy had just popped in to her office to tell her all about Steve. The first weekend Jane had been so stunned she could barely remember it. Barely breathe. It felt like one great red raw emotional blur. But this one, the first one out of the fire and into reality, had been interminable, even given the trip over to Creswell Close to deliver the post. In quiet moments Jane reran the last conversation she had had with Steve, phrase by phrase, syllable by syllable.

He had turned up at her house after she rang him. He’d brought flowers and a balloon and some ridiculous card shop bear that had, ‘Pwease don’t be cross wiv lickle me,’ embroidered across its T-shirt.

Now, as Steve filled her mind Mrs Findlay’s voice faded to a distant drone.

‘Jane, I’m so sorry, the thing is, it really wasn’t my fault,’ Steve had said. ‘Please don’t look at me like that. We were both a little bit tipsy. I didn’t mean it to happen. Really. Lucy and I had been talking about the new strategic county policy document and I suggested a glass of wine. Neither of us had eaten. It could have happened to anyone. I know that is no excuse but I’d been on tablets as well—you remember, I’d had that nasty cold. And she was, well, you know Lucy—she’s a lovely girl but…We started talking about life and all that stuff and…and, well, it just happened. Let’s be adult about this. It was nothing. You have to believe me, Jane. We all make mistakes. It was a moment of madness. And I’m really sorry.’ Steve looked down at his nice shiny shoes, the very epitome of contrition. ‘Trust me, sweetie, it was an accident.’

‘So you’re telling me that your clothes accidentally fell off and by some miracle not seen since the days of the Old Testament, Lucy Stroud was instantly covered in Greek yogurt, chocolate sauce and strawberries?’

‘Ah…’

‘You know I’ve wondered for weeks what those stains were on your sofa.’

There was a very interesting pause and then Steve gathered himself together and said, ‘Well, the thing is—’

But Jane was ahead of him. ‘The thing is I could probably understand it happening once, Steve. It’s the regular Wednesday evenings ever since that are proving a little more problematic.’

‘Ah…’

And then Jane had trashed the flowers, popped the balloon and offered if he said pwease to insert the bear into the orifice of Steve’s choice. He said she was being unreasonable.

Being in a state of shock, Jane hadn’t thought to ask him about Carol and Anna. Maybe she should. Maybe she could send an email memo to her whole ‘at work’ mailing list asking for more details. Lucy said that she had pictures if Jane needed any further proof. The cow.

Meanwhile it was still Monday morning and despite thoughts of Steve, on the far side of the desk Mrs Findlay, big in internal human resources, was still talking.

‘…So I do hope you understand our position in this, Jane. I have to say we’ll all be awfully sad to see you go.’

Jane looked up at her in amazement. ‘What?’

‘I realise that it may come as a bit of shock but we’re all aware that you’re an extremely talented individual, Jane. I’m certain that it won’t take you long to find another position. Let’s look at this current situation positively—and rest reassured that we will be doing our very best to help you in your search to find another position while you’re working out your notice. There may very well be something coming up within your present department. Who knows? I’ve had Maureen in the front office run off a list of current County Council situations vacant for you and we have prepared a very useful pack for members of staff who find themselves in this situation.’ Mrs Findlay pulled a cheery yellow and navy-blue folder out from a box on the floor.

‘What?’ Jane said again, staring at her. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, I’ve got the sack? You were just telling me that I was the best thing since sliced bread. And then you follow that up by telling me I’m sacked? It’s ridiculous—I’m really good at my job so you’re going to get rid of me? How the hell do you expect me to look at that positively?’

Mrs Findlay’s contorted expression took professional concern to new and dizzying heights. ‘I have to say, Jane, that “sacked” is really not a term I’m very happy with. But, yes, I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.’ She held up her hands, in a ‘what can I do?’ gesture.

‘I’m not a seal being released back into the wild.’

Mrs Findlay looked pained. ‘There’s really no need to take that attitude, Jane. You must understand that I find this part of my job terribly stressful and very difficult.’

If she was going for the sympathy vote Mrs Findlay had picked the wrong moment. Jane stared at her; some sort of weird benign touchy-feely PC sacking on top of Steve Burney’s very public infidelity was just about the final straw.

‘My heart bleeds for you,’ snapped Jane. ‘So what happened to how impressed you were with what I’ve done for the department?’

Determinedly Mrs Findlay held her ground. ‘Sometimes, Jane, we need to prune a tree to ensure its continued healthy growth and when we prune a tree, some of the wood, sometimes even some of the new vigorous wood, has to be cut away. But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve decided to adopt some of your wonderfully innovative ideas, structure them into our working practice in a more permanent way.’ She paused while Jane took a moment to catch up. ‘We’ve asked Lucy to head the project up. You know Lucy.’

Jane stared at her. ‘Lucy? Lucy Stroud?’

‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. She holds you in very high esteem. Recently she’s expressed a real interest in developing community links. We all thought she was a natural choice. And she comes highly recommended.’

Somewhere in Jane’s head a pile of pennies dropped noisily. ‘By Steve Burney?’ she whispered, through clenched teeth.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on that,’ said Mrs Findlay, gathering Jane’s file together. No, of course she couldn’t; she didn’t need to, it was written all over her face. ‘Now with regards to passing the baton, we’ll need to discuss her shadowing you—’

‘Really?’ said Jane, standing up.

‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ said Mrs Findlay, obviously pleased with how well it had all gone.

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ said Jane.

The self-help pack was entitled ‘So You’ve Lost Your Job? What Next?’. Inside the front cover in a flowery font that was probably meant to look like it was handwritten from a favourite aunt, it read, ‘You know, it really helps to look at this as a positive step. We have to see this as a fresh start, a chance to explore our potential, rather than taking a negative attitude.’

‘Bollocks we do,’ said Jane darkly, stuffing the shiny plastic folder into the fish tank as she marched out.

By the lift Jane stopped to pick up three empty cardboard cartons from the janitor’s cupboard and then headed back up to the fourth floor. She didn’t cry, she couldn’t find the way into any more tears, adrenalin and shock holding everything tight inside her. In fact, Jane felt so numb that she wondered if she might be dreaming.

It took around fifteen minutes to clear her desk and sort the last year of her life into neat piles and a couple of rubbish bags. Jane looked at her pot plant and the boxes. There was no way she was going to get home on the bus with all this lot, so when she’d done, Jane stacked everything onto a book trolley, picked up the phone, pressed 9 for an outside line and called a cab on the library account, booking it down to Lucy Stroud.

Bad news travels fast. No one looked her in the eye as she walked back out through the office, no one spoke in the lift on the way down to the foyer, or offered to help her on the long walk through to the main front doors. It was almost as if she had the plague and they might catch it if they stood too close.

She was barely at the kerb when the cab rolled up. ‘Creswell Close?’ said the driver, leaning over towards the open passenger-side window.

‘Road,’ she said firmly.

‘Right you are.’ He nodded and got out to help load her possessions into the boot.

‘Jane?’

She swung round. Heading across the pedestrianised area in front of the library was Lizzie, who had worked with her, and Cal from the office next door, and two or three others, all looking slightly uncomfortable and—it had to be said—shifty, every few seconds gazing back over their shoulders in case there was some chance they were being watched.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lizzie, putting her arms around Jane. ‘I was in a meeting. We didn’t know, we had no idea. Are you OK?’

Jane nodded. ‘Bit shell-shocked but I’ll survive. And don’t look so worried. There’s nothing you could do, was there?’

Lizzie stared glumly at the boxes. ‘I thought it was going really well. I like working with you. I didn’t realise that we had to leave straight away.’

Jane looked at her; the ‘we’ sounded too prophetic for her liking. ‘We? Do you think you’ll be going too?’

Lizzie shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a bit like Russian roulette, isn’t it? I mean, how are they choosing who goes and who stays? One minute you’re busy planning what sandwich you’re going to have for lunch and then Bang. Out. Karen Marshall’s ended up on the mobile out at Fleetley on the sink estates. She’d been working in the library twenty-eight years. It’s too expensive to make her redundant so they’re hoping if they give her something horrible to do she’ll fall on her own sword. I feel like one of those baby penguins on an ice floe with the killer whales circling. I mean, if they can get rid of you just like that and move Karen…Christ, Karen was an institution.’ She let the implication hang between them. ‘And I didn’t think there was any chance they’d get rid of you—you were doing really well. I thought Findlay was considering promoting you, or giving you a big project, or at least congratulating you.’

Jane handed the taxi driver the pot plant. ‘Oh, she did congratulate me, about thirty seconds before she gave me the push.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘It’s crazy. People were talking about you.’

Jane sighed. ‘That may have been the problem. Keep your head down, don’t call attention to yourself-isn’t that the first rule of working in a big organisation? Don’t draw their fire. But then again, probably none of that counts as long as you’re not screwing Steve Burney Presumably you’re not on Lucy’s hit list of women who coveted her neighbour’s oxen?’

Lizzie stared at her. ‘Lucy? Not Lucy Stroud? Steve Burney? You are joking.’ But even as she said it Jane could see her colour rising. Surely not Lizzie as well? Had the man got no shame?

Jane sighed. ‘Not you?’

Lizzie’s colour deepened. ‘It was before you started going out with him. He always used to flirt—I mean, I just thought he flirted with everyone.’

Jane nodded. ‘He probably does. Fishing expedition.’

The cab driver sighed. ‘Meter’s running,’ he said bleakly.

‘Not a problem,’ said Jane. ‘It’s on the account. And don’t forget to add a decent tip. All this loading and unloading. I’d stick a tenner on if I were you.’

‘Did they say you had to get out straight away?’ asked Lizzie nervously.

‘No, that was my choice,’ Jane said, hugging her and then Cal, and then the others. ‘Watch your back,’ whispered Jane as she gave Lizzie one last hug. ‘Especially if you have to work with Lucy.’

‘I’ll phone you,’ called Lizzie as the cab pulled away.

Jane was home at Creswell Road by eleven o’clock.

In her absence Gladstone had found himself a deck chair from somewhere and was sitting—in his overcoat, boa, mittens and woolly hat—in the shade of the skip, eating a fruit pie. He waved graciously as she pulled up in front of the house. She got the cabby to help carry the boxes inside.

The cats were in the sitting room on the sofa, both a little miffed at being disturbed mid-morning. Some people had no consideration.

While the driver struggled in with the plant, Jane picked up the post, went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. The minute the front door was closed and there was no one there to see, Jane burst into tears.

Bastards, now what the hell was she going to do? Her emotions swung backwards and forwards like a pendulum, ranging from gutted, hurt, horrified and scared, through fury to despair and back again, she sobbed and swore until the kettle boiled.

How could they do this to her? Lucy bloody Stroud. Christ, if Jane had known the trouble it would cause she would have gift-wrapped Steve Burney and sent him Special Delivery. He wasn’t that special, was he? Was he? She sobbed again. Yes, he was. A bastard maybe, but charming, and tall and presentable and—and bloody man—she loved him. Bastard. Jane grabbed a handful of tissues out of the box on the counter top and blew her nose.

She had worked so hard to get this far. Steve had seemed like the icing on the cake. This was supposed to be her fresh new start. And how come bloody Lucy had ended up with her man and her job? It wasn’t fair.

The cats, Boris and Milo, ambled in, obviously hoping to pick up a little something for their trouble. They knew there was tuna in the cupboard, they’d seen her unpacking the tins, but as soon as they saw crying they backed out. No good in a crisis, cats.

Jane, meanwhile, picked up the paper knife. God, what the hell had happened to her life? She needed to get a grip and now she needed to get a job. Still sniffing, Jane opened the letters one by one. The kettle reboiled, she made tea and sat down to read them.

‘Dear Ms J. Mills, we are delighted to inform you…’ Bugger. Jane Mills read the letter and groaned. Oh, no, not again. Apparently she had won an all-expenses-paid trip-of-a-lifetime for two to a destination of her choice from one of the following…

Or at least she would have done if the letter had been delivered to the right Ms J. Mills at the right address. If there was one Ms Mills who needed a free holiday it was her; the other Ms Mills looked as if she could afford to go exactly where she liked when she liked.

Double bugger. Jane was very tempted to throw the letters and the paper knife across the room but she couldn’t really throw someone else’s mail away. They were all for Ms J. Mills, 9 Creswell Close. Again. All six of them. There was nothing for it, she would ring the Post Office to complain and then drive over to Creswell Close and take Ms J. Mills her post. Again. But then maybe it was just the thing she needed to distract her from the chaos raging in her head.

Jane blew her nose, washed her face and headed back out towards the car.

Gladstone waved. He was eating something bright purple and lumpy out of a jam jar with a spoon.

When Jane got to Creswell Close, there was a large van parked outside number 7, delivering what looked like life-size statues of Greek gods. They were being lowered on a tail lift by men in brown cotton shop coats and then manoeuvred around on a large trolley. Some were being set on plinths in the front garden, some taken round to the back. There were stacks of boxes and cartons and crates in the driveway and large indefinable things wrapped up under acres of tarpaulin.

Tony and Lil were out in the front garden, having cigarettes and watching progress. They waved as Jane slowed and drew up to the front gates of number 9. Today they were firmly closed. Jane wound her window down and pressed the call button on the security system.

‘Hello?’

Something somewhere in the house crackled into life. ‘Hello,’ said a distant voice. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Jane Mills—we met on Saturday. I’ve got some more post for you.’

There was a short pause and then a whirr and a click, the gates jerked, and then very slowly swung open. Jane pulled up outside the front door, which this time was fully open and framing a small foreign man, dressed in a black Nehru-collared shirt and black jeans, who looked as if he was from the East, possibly the Philippines or Thailand.

‘Jane Mills?’ he asked suspiciously as Jane climbed out of the car. ‘You said you were Jane Mills?’

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve brought the other Jayne Mills her post. The postman delivered it to my house by accident again today.’ She held out the letters. ‘They did the same thing at the weekend.’

The man didn’t move. ‘She isn’t feeling so well today.’

That makes two of us, thought Jane ruefully. All the way over in the car Jane had been thinking about revenge, something spectacular and biblical. It wasn’t her normal style at all but surely, surely, if there was any justice in the world Steve Burney and Lucy Stroud had to pay for working her over so very thoroughly. What the hell had she done to either of them other than fall in love with Steve and be nice to Lucy? It just wasn’t right.

The man was still waiting in the doorway.

‘In that case maybe you’d like to take these in for her,’ said Jane, proffering the post.

‘She spends too much time on her own. She could do with some company. It’s not right.’ The man’s voice was disapproving. ‘I said that she should go out. Have some fun, for goodness’ sake. It’s not as if money is the problem. Buy something lovely—meet nice people, fly off somewhere—dump that freeloader Carlo. I keep telling her, she needs to find herself a good man. I mean, it works for me—’

‘All right, all right, that’s enough, Gary,’ said a voice from somewhere deep inside the house. ‘If you’re telling my life story to the fish man again I’ll—’

Jayne Mills appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing ginger-coloured linen trousers, a fitted cream shirt, brown leather belt and matching high-heeled sandals, and looked wonderful—or at least she would have done if she hadn’t had that look in her eyes. It was the same look Jane had seen in the mirror earlier that morning. It was a look that said Jayne Mills was tired and sad and hurt, a little bit lost and lonely, and very much in need of a hug.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Jayne, her expression unchanging. ‘The letter opener.’

‘Yes, sorry, I’m here again.’ Jane indicated the bundle of post currently being carried by Gary.

‘And?’

‘And they’re all open.’

‘Again?’ Jayne looked her up and down and then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it saves me the trouble. What’s your excuse this time?’

‘Emotional trauma.’

‘Really.’ Her tone was as dry as the Sahara.

‘I got the sack today.’

‘For opening other people’s mail?’

Jane shook her head ruefully. ‘No, unfortunately not. I’d be guilty as charged of that. No, for working hard, coming up with lots of good ideas and generally being liked, as far as I can make out.’

‘Ah,’ said Jayne, ‘that’ll do it every time. In my experience it’s the quickest way to get yourself sacked. Refusing to change and being a complete bastard, on the other hand, means you’re never out of work.’

‘And thirteen days, twenty-one hours and—’ Jane glanced down at her watch—‘nineteen minutes ago, I found out the guy who I thought was my happy-ever-after was sleeping with someone else. Well, actually, it was possibly more than one someone else, but you get the picture.’

Gary rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.

‘Rough couple of weeks,’ said Jayne.

‘And the woman who got my boyfriend? She’s got my job now, too.’

‘Really? Do you fancy a coffee?’ said Jayne, taking the post from Gary and heading down towards the kitchen. For a moment Jane didn’t know whether she was talking to Gary, but when she looked at her diminutive companion, the man was making an exaggerated head gesture that indicated Jane should follow.

Jane considered for an instant and then sighed. Why not? After all, what was there to go home to? She followed Jayne into the house.

They sat out on the terrace under a white canvas sail stretched over the wooden deck. Gary brought them coffee and a tray of biscuits and then made himself scarce, except at lunchtime, when he reappeared with a tray with fresh-baked bread, creamy Brie and homemade hoummos, tomatoes and sharp green grapes, and a bottle of wine, and when Jane protested, Jayne said she could always take a taxi home or that Gary would drive her.

‘Seems an odd name for him…’ Jane began thoughtfully, watching Gary make his way back into the kitchen.

‘Gary?’ said Jayne.

Jane nodded.

‘Not if you come from Chingford. Apparently his mum was obsessed with Gary Cooper. It could have been worse,’ said Jayne, filling their glasses.

‘Yes,’ said Gary, reappearing with a bowl of olives. ‘She was a big Elvis fan too.’

So they sat in the soft shade, out of the warm summer sunshine, and talked and talked and talked, and Augustus curled around their legs and allowed himself to be fussed and adored, then curled up under the table and went to sleep.

Afterwards Jane couldn’t remember all the details of how the conversation had gone, nor quite how they got round to the idea of Jane working for Jayne, but they did.

Some things she did remember.

‘This is such a beautiful house. I’d love to live somewhere like this,’ she had said.

And Jayne had looked out over the lawn towards the lake and said, ‘I used to think that too. I’d see things and think if I had them then life would be just perfect, but it’s cost me more than you can possibly imagine. Somewhere along the way I’ve lost sight of the reason why I was doing it in the first place. I used to feel that I was building for my future and now I realise that that future was in the past and I’ve got this horrible feeling I’ve missed it.’

‘I’m sorry, but surely it’s not that bad,’ Jane had said, picking up a biscuit and snapping it in two.

‘Maybe I need a fresh start.’

‘Maybe you don’t,’ Jane laughed, and had told her all about her fresh new start and about Steve and the library.

‘I’m sorry. How old did you say you were again?’ asked Jayne.

‘I’m coming up for thirty—well, twenty-eight actually—but I want to be settled, sorted, be in love, plan. I’ve got to the point where I really don’t want to invest in something, anything, that isn’t going somewhere either in my love life or my career really.’ Jane picked up the wine glass and turned it in her fingertips; the bowl and stem looked as fine as cobweb. ‘What I really want is nice things and no worries about money.’ She sighed. ‘It sounds naïve, but I suppose I want everything and at the moment it feels like I’ve got nothing. I’ve just lost my bright shiny new future. Sorry, you don’t want to hear this. It’s self-pity and the wine talking.’

Jayne had looked wistful. ‘No, no, not at all. I remember thinking almost exactly the same thing at the same age. And I promised myself I’d never say, “When I was your age,” but when I was around your age I’d just broken up with someone I really loved and I thought, damn it, it’s now or never—I need to do something with my life. There’s no reason why I can’t have it all. I’ll have a fantastic job, a great house, all that stuff and I’ll find someone along the way who feels the same and we’ll live happily ever after.’

‘From where I’m sitting it looks like you’ve got most of it.’

Jayne sighed. ‘I know. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a great life so far. It’s just I suppose that this is one of those moments when I’m looking back at all the things I’ve done and thinking about the choices I’ve made and what might have been and what wasn’t to be.’

‘Maybe we should swap?’ said Jane jokily They were almost at the end of the bottle, all the bread had gone, the grapes reduced to a street map of stalks, and it sounded so easy. ‘You could start all over again and I could have all this.’

Jayne looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’

Jane laughed ‘Hardly Look, I have to get going. Thank you for the food and the wine, and a lovely afternoon. I’ve got to go and find another job.’

‘You’re going to start today?’

‘Why not?’

‘OK, I’ll get Gary to drive you home.’ Jayne looked at her. ‘You know, maybe you were right, maybe you should come and work for me. In some ways we’re a lot alike. I remember so clearly being you.’ She smiled. ‘And I like you, and it feels right—like fate, you showing up. Over the years I’ve always done best when I’ve followed my hunches. So how about it?’

Jane looked at her. ‘How about what?’

Jayne drained her glass. ‘Borrow my life for a while, see how it feels. All you would have to do is be Jayne Mills—simple. I run a dot com business from here—just me and my money and my bright ideas, and we already know you have a lot of those. You could just move in—be Jayne Mills.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Well, I could go and try being someone else for a change, find the old me and see how she’s getting on—explore some of my might-have-beens.’

Jane had smiled, guessing it was the wine that was talking. ‘Thanks, but I think I’d better be getting home.’

‘I’m serious. The offer’s open. Let me give you my number in case you change your mind. Have you got a pen?’

Jane nodded and pulled a biro and notepad out of her handbag.

‘And while you’re at it, give me yours,’ said Jayne. ‘Who knows when I might need someone to open my post.’

Jane smiled. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

‘At least think about it,’ said Jayne, writing down her phone number.

Around fifteen minutes later Jane opened her front door and eased off her shoes.

She closed her eyes, wriggling her toes on the cool wooden floor, very aware of how drunk she felt. She groaned. Drinking during the day really wasn’t a good idea. Although this wasn’t just any day. This was the day she had lost her job, and it was—er…Jane tried very hard to count it up on her fingers but couldn’t quite work how many hours it was since Lucy had come into her office looking all anxious and conspiratorial.

‘Jane, I wonder if we could have a quiet word? I really don’t know where to start but…’

It occurred to Jane now that amongst other things Lucy was probably casing the joint, sussing out her office, working out where her stuff could go, her collection of bears, her plants, her framed picture of Mummy and Daddy. Lucy had probably got one of Steve on her desk by now.

‘It’s about Steve. God, this is so hard. The thing is, Jane, everyone in the office knows what sort of guy Steve Burney is—he’s notorious—and I thought someone ought to say something to you before you get in any deeper, tell you exactly what’s going on. I heard you mention to Lizzie about going on holiday with him, making plans for the future. There really are some things you need to know. He’s not the kind of guy who is playing for keeps, Jane. What I’m saying is that you’re making a fool of yourself. Steve Burney is a serial philander—he’s a dog—and I should know. We’ve been seeing each other for months.’

Jane shuddered as the words thumped home into her heart like arrows into a target. There had to be some way to pull the plug on the replay button in her head.

She opened her eyes. In her absence one of the cats had been sick on the kitchen floor, and on the sitting-room rugs, and on the stairs—on every other tread, to be more precise. Surely all that couldn’t have come out of one cat? Or even two. God, what on earth had they been eating? The smell threaded its way across the hallway.

Unsteadily, with strange volcanic things going on in her stomach, Jane went off to find a bucket, sponge, disinfectant, bags and kitchen roll. Halfway through her dealing with patch one the phone rang.

Jane, still drunk, giddy, nauseous and on her hands and knees dealing with a puddle of cat vomit, stared miserably at the hall table. The machine would get the call, and besides, realistically, what could she possibly say if anyone asked how she was? The machine began to record.

‘Hi, Janey, it’s Mum here. So, how are you?’ said an instantly recognisable voice.

Jane groaned.

‘I know you are at work, darling, but I can’t find your mobile number so I thought I’d just give you a ring and leave a quick message. I was wondering if I could come over and stay for a few days. It seems like ages since I’ve seen you for any length of time so I thought I’d come and stay, see what you’ve done to the house, see how you’re getting on, hear all your news, hear about work, meet Steve—he sounds just perfect. You see, I knew a fresh start was a good idea. And I can tell you all about Simon—my new man. Have I mentioned Simon? I’m sure I must have. God, he is wonderful. Anyway, do you know what Tantric sex is?’

Jane groaned again, this time with more feeling.

No sooner had the machine finished recording than the phone rang again. Maybe her mother had forgotten something. She had to be told and it struck Jane that maybe drunk was probably the only way to do it. Jane scrambled to her feet and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello? Look, this is really not a good time.’

‘No, I know,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Jayne?’

‘Yes. I just rang to see if you were OK.’

‘The job offer, were you serious?’

‘Absolutely Why? Have you changed your mind?’

Jane looked at the light flashing like a single red eye on the answer machine. ‘Yes, I think I have.’

Chapter Three

The following morning Jane was woken by the sound of the phone ringing. And ringing, and ringing and then ringing some more. Had she switched her answer machine off? And if so why? For some reason Jane couldn’t quite remember.

Being woken by the phone is a horrible way to be dragged out of sleep. And her head ached. The phone rang again, more insistently this time. Jane groaned and then, rolling over, fumbled the receiver off the hook, struggling to remember the dream that she had had. It was very vivid. Something to do with Steve Burney, and then she had lost her job, and got horribly drunk and her mother said she was coming to stay—and so Jane had opened another bottle of red, and then she froze, while the voice at the far end of the line whispered, ‘Hello? Hello? Are you there?’

Not that Jane was listening. Oh, bugger. Realisation and total recall hit her like a bucket of cold water. It wasn’t a dream at all. All those things were for real. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

‘Hello?’ hissed the voice again. ‘Is that you?’

Jane glared at the phone and then tried to focus on the bedside clock. Had people got no consideration? Jesus, it was only—only—eleven. Eleven? Sweet Jesus, how the hell had that happened? Jane sat bolt upright and instantly regretted it as her brain ricocheted off the inside of her skull like a wrecking ball.

Four hours past getting-up time on a weekday, and well past Gladstone’s breakfast time. She was supposed to be in work by eight today, working up a project for local schools with a horribly tight deadline. She’d be in really big trouble if she hadn’t already been sacked. The phone and the sounds of her stirring summoned the cats from downstairs, who thundered across the landing and sprung onto the duvet with the vigour of trained ninja assassins.

‘Hello?’ said the voice again, still low, still barely audible over the mewling and purring and general feline complaining. ‘Are you there?’

‘Who is this?’ snapped Jane. The voice was husky and low, and for one moment Jane wondered if she’d been woken up by an obscene phone call.

‘It’s me. Are you all right? You sound awful.’

‘Who is this? You’ll have to speak up.’

‘I can’t, I’m phoning from work. I’m not supposed to have my mobile on.’

Comprehension dawned. ‘Lizzie? Are you all right? What on earth is the matter? You sound awful.’

‘We’ve all just come out of a staff meeting. It’s like the week before Christmas on a turkey farm here this morning. I’m out on the fire escape.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Lizzie, don’t jump. A job in the library isn’t worth killing yourself for.’

Lizzie laughed. ‘I’m not sure I want the bloody job anyway. They’ve asked me to work with Lucy on the schools thing. She was already in when I got here this morning, moving her stuff into your office. She’s been going through everything.’

‘What do you mean, everything? There isn’t anything to go through unless she’s fished the bin bags out of the skip.’

‘The way she was going, I wouldn’t put it past her. She wanted to know where all your stuff was.’

‘My stuff? There’s nothing left there that belongs to me. I brought it all home yesterday. Everything else I’ve left is library stuff.’

‘Everything?’

Jane grimaced. ‘Yes, I think so. Well, everything except for a dead fern, a lot of old envelopes and advertising circulars for the recycling bin, some milk and a toffee yoghurt in the fridge.’

‘She’s been on the computer looking for your personal email folder.’

Jane laughed. ‘Lizzie, when the hell did you turn into Secret Squirrel. How do you know?’

‘Because she told me. She said she needed to get up to speed on what you’ve been doing and that she’d sent you loads of ideas and things since you’d started there, and that as she was doing the job now she wanted them back, that they weren’t on file anywhere else so they must be in your personal files. Which, as she’s pointed out several times, is completely against office policy.’ Lizzie mimicked Lucy’s clipped high-pitched Home Counties accent with pointed accuracy.

A hangover and blind fury were not a happy combination. ‘Bloody cow, that’s not true. She didn’t send me any ideas. All she ever sent me were snippy little notes about photocopying. Anyway, I deleted all the personal stuff.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. You’re making me paranoid, Liz. I forwarded all my personal email to my home email address and then binned everything that was on the office machine.’

‘But you’ve still got it?’

‘I just told you. Yes, I’ve still got it. It’s just not on the library computer any more.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go but I’d have a look through it if I were you and see if you can work out what Lucy is really after. She is desperate to get her hands on something. She asked me if I knew your password.’

Jane laughed. ‘That’s nuts.’

‘I know, that’s what I said and I think she tried it, along with “no way” and “bugger off”—but she’s definitely up to something. Look, I’ve got to go before someone misses me. I’m busy tonight but I’ll pop round tomorrow or ring from home. See you soon. Bye.’

Jane sat and stared at the phone. What the hell was Lucy up to now?

But before she could give it too much thought the phone rang again. Looked like it was going to be one of those mornings. At least this time she was awake. Ignoring the cats, Jane picked up the receiver.

‘Hi,’ said a bright warm voice. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Jayne?’

‘Uh-huh. Well spotted. I was just wondering how you were fixed for lunch today?’

‘Today?’ Jane glanced at the clock and tried to avoid catching sight of herself in the mirror.

‘Yes. If it’s inconvenient it’s not a problem. We can do it another day.’

‘Inconvenient?’

Jayne laughed. ‘And there was me hoping to employ you for your razor-sharp mind; a brain like forked lightning. These are not the cryptic clues.’

This time Jane laughed. ‘Sorry It’s all right, I’m fine. I just overslept and I’m still feeling a little fragile from yesterday. Would you like me to come to your house?’

‘No, I thought we could meet at Lorenzo’s. Do you know it?’

‘The restaurant in Brewer Street?’

‘That’s it. Is one o’clock OK?’

‘Sure.’

‘Great,’ said Jayne. ‘In that case I’ll see you there. Oh, and you can bring my post over, if I’ve got any. I know it sounds like I’m rushing you but I’d really like to sort everything out as soon as possible. And I need to introduce you to my business manager. His name is Ray Jacobson. He’s my second in command; handles all the nitty-gritty for me. You’ll like him. He’s a great guy. See you at one, if that’s OK?’

‘Fine,’ Jane said, as brightly as she could manage, then hung up, groaned and pulled the duvet back up over her head.

Ray Jacobson refilled Jayne’s champagne glass and then lifted his in salute.

‘You know, I think this is such a great idea, a kind of pilgrimage to your past. I’m almost envious. And you don’t have to worry, everything here will be in safe hands.’

‘I know that,’ said Jayne. ‘Just one thing. I’ve asked someone to help mind the store while I’m away.’

‘Really?’ He watched her face for a moment or two to see if she was joking and then laughed. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes, yes, I am. I met someone recently.’

‘Really?’ he purred. ‘How recently? I thought you were still seeing Carlo.’

She waved the words away. ‘No, not like that. Her name is Jane Mills, and I met her a few days ago. She’s looking for a job.’

‘Jane Mills?’

‘Exactly; it felt like some sort of omen. In fact, it’s because of her that I’ve finally decided it was time for me to take a sabbatical.’

Ray set his glass down and sighed. ‘Jayne, darling, how long have we known each other? How many years have we worked together? “All I need are the bright ideas and a man with an abacus and an eye for detail and I’m set”—isn’t that what you used to say? I don’t want to tell you how to run your business or your life, Jaynie, but do you really think—’

‘Don’t lecture me,’ Jayne said lightly. ‘I’m not stupid. I haven’t just picked someone at random off the street. She’s in her late twenties, working as a manager in the public sector, a very bright girl, funny, clever—in lots of ways she reminds me of me at that age. She seemed—no, she felt like—the last piece in the jigsaw. She’s been working in community outreach development for the library services.’

‘How terribly worthy.’

‘Stop it, Ray. She’s joining us for lunch. I’d really like you to show her the ropes, guide her through the business. I know it’ll take some time but my gut feeling is that she could turn out to be a real asset.’

‘You could have mentioned it earlier,’ Ray said grumpily.

Jayne stroked his arm. ‘I know, but the idea only really came to me yesterday, and you know what I’m like.’

‘An unpredictable pain in the arse.’

‘Ouch, that is so cruel. I prefer spirited.’

He snorted and refilled her glass.

Lunch at Lorenzo’s. Faultless service, fabulous food, wonderful wine and a hum of conversation that implied intrigue, intimacy and money. It had been Ray’s idea that they should use it for their regular out-of-office business meetings. It was a good choice.

‘And what is your protégée’s role supposed to be exactly?

‘I’m not sure. How about management trainee?’

‘Trainee? I thought you said—’

‘OK, OK, not trainee. Maybe assistant manager—managerial assistant—assistant development manager. Come on, this is not a bolt out of the blue, Ray. We’ve both talked about taking someone on before.’

‘Hypothetically. A hypothetical assistant. And to be honest I had rather assumed I would be involved in the selection process.’ He looked round. ‘Can you still smoke in here?’

‘Ray, you know very well you can’t smoke anywhere.’

‘Bloody nanny state. The thing is, we’ve got several good people on the staff who could just step into the role—people who already know the ropes.’

‘Please don’t sulk, Ray. If she doesn’t work out then that’s fine, but it seemed like an omen.’

‘Because her name is Jane Mills?’

‘It’s an instinct, a hunch.’

‘It’s a whim.’

Jayne picked up the menu and avoided meeting his eyes. ‘I thought she could start off by helping with the product selection, buying, as well as some of the day-to-day stuff. It just felt right. We need to find the right title for her.’

‘How about lucky mascot?’

‘Don’t be spiteful.’

Ray, unable to light up a cigarette, grunted and took a canapé from the tray proffered by a passing waitress. ‘So where is your lucky managerial rabbit’s foot now then?’

‘I told her to meet us here at one so that you and I could have a chance to talk first. I’d really like to get everything organised and leave as soon as possible. We need to go through my diary. To be honest I don’t think there’s that much on for the next few weeks.’

She pulled her organiser out from her bag and ran a finger down the entries.

‘Damn, I’m supposed to be giving a speech at the Cassar’s dinner. I’d forgotten all about that…’

Ray waved her anxiety away. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out,’ he said between mouthfuls of shrimp. ‘When is it? I’ll make sure it’s covered.’

‘So you’ll do it for me?’

Ray just stared at her.

‘OK, OK,’ she said, ‘I know, I can’t delegate—and I also know everything will be fine and you can manage perfectly well without me. Speeches and all.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘I’ve also arranged to see several new suppliers—’

‘Your new managerial puppy can do that. It’ll give her something to cut her teeth on. Don’t worry, I’ll walk her through it. Just relax. Have you got any idea where you’re going yet?’

Jayne shook her head. ‘Nope, I thought I might just turn up at an airport and see what they’ve got on offer.’ She looked up from the diary.

‘Seriously?’

‘That was how I did it last time. I just need to get going before it’s too late.’

Ray smiled. ‘I understand that, but trust me, it’s not too late. And, Jayne?’ There was a little pause as their eyes met, and then he leaned across the table and caught hold of her hand. ‘It’s going to be fine. This thing you’ve been looking for—I truly hope that you find it.’

Jayne touched her glass to his. ‘Me too.’

Out in the High Street, and still around five minutes’ walk away from Lorenzo’s, Jane took a quick look in the window of a bookshop, which was the only one on the street with a window display dark enough to let her see her reflection. What the hell did you wear to a potential dot com job with a self-made woman and her right-hand man?

The suit Jane had bought in Next was great for the library but for Lorenzo’s? Nope. After Jayne’s phone call she’d spent what remained of the morning soaking away her hangover in a warm bath, plucking her eyebrows, rootling through her wardrobe, pressing things, lifting cat hairs off other things with masking tape, trying on endless combinations, knowing full well that whatever she chose it would feel wrong the minute she stepped out of the door.

And Gladstone—having missed his breakfast—was nowhere in sight, which also felt like a bad omen. And despite Lizzie’s phone call there was no time to go through the folder of email she had forwarded from the library—not that Jane thought there was anything in there, whatever Lucy or Lizzie thought.

As the day was warm and sunny, the sky Wedgwood blue with not a hint of a cloud, Jane had settled on a blue and cream linen skirt, T-shirt, short fitted cardigan, straw bag, and ballet pumps as her final choice. It had looked perfect when she left the house. She stared into the shop window and tried to get a real sense of whether it worked or not. Did it make her look ditsy? Too Doris Day, too Amelie? Too young? Too casual? Maybe she should have worn heels. Did heels say sexy and confident, or did flats say sensible and reliable? Horribly aware that she was running late, Jane tried standing on tiptoe to gauge the effect—maybe there was still time to nip into Stead and Simpson and buy a pair of high-heeled sandals—while forcing herself to calm down as she reminded herself for the umpteenth time that Jayne had already offered her a job.

She didn’t have to impress anyone, except she felt she had to make Jayne feel she had made a good choice and make Ray feel…feel…what was it she had to make Ray feel? Jane grimaced. God, this was awful.

Jane turned left and then right to check her profile, and her bum, then sucked in her stomach and fluffed up her hair. Behind her two Chinese people watched intently—presumably they thought she was some kind of provincial street theatre. It was nearly one o’clock already.

Lorenzo’s was set halfway along Brewer Street, up a flight of well-scrubbed steps, the front door flanked by two cone-shaped bay trees in terracotta pots, which made Jane wonder if the chef popped out first thing to pick a few leaves for the fish. Unlikely.

Inside the restaurant the walls were palest yellow, the black-and-white-tiled lobby giving way to plush duck-egg-blue carpets and an air of expensive tranquillity.

‘How can I help you?’ said a woman on the desk, whose expression suggested she could spot a Primark T-shirt and the wrong shoes in her sleep.

‘I’m meeting someone.’ The woman glanced down at her bookings list. ‘Jane Mills?’ Jane said

Like open sesame or shazam the name had the most amazing effect. ‘Certainly, Miss Mills is already here,’ she said. As she spoke the woman’s smile warmed and she waved a boy in uniform over. ‘Could you take—I’m so sorry I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Mills, Jane Mills,’ Jane said quietly.

The smile faltered. ‘Oh, so sorry, I thought you were here to see Jayne Mills.’

Jane nodded and blushed although she wasn’t quite sure why. ‘I am. Same name, it’s all a bit confusing, sorry.’

The smile snapped back. ‘Not at all. If you’d like to follow Terry, he’ll take you through. Miss Mills is in the bar.’ Jane did as she was told.

‘There you are,’ said a voice Jane recognised. Jayne Mills was on her feet before Jane was halfway across the room. She and a man in a suit were sitting at a table in a little bar area adjacent to the main dining room.

‘I thought you might have had second thoughts,’ Jayne said smiling broadly, catching firm hold of Jane’s hand. ‘Come and join us. Ray’s already broken out the champagne to celebrate me finally buggering off and leaving him in peace.’

A waiter appeared with a third glass as Jayne made the introductions. ‘Jane, this is Ray Jacobson, my right-hand man. Ray, this is Jane—’

Before anyone could come up with a definition of what Jane was, Ray clasped her hand in a firm presidential handshake. ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said warmly. ‘Nice to meet you. Welcome aboard. I hope you’ll be very happy with us. Jayne has just been telling me about you. We go back a long way, Jayne and I.’

‘Let’s not bother working out how long exactly,’ Jayne joked. Jane smiled and nodded as the waiter filled up her champagne glass.

Ray was small—no more than five foot five or six, his broad shoulders giving the impression he was almost square. He looked as if he was in his fifties, hair thick and grey, combed back off strong features and a deeply tanned face. He wore a tight professional smile.

‘I thought we’d break you in gently. I’m not sure how much Jayne has told you about her organisation but I do most of the hands-on administration, turning Jayne’s bright ideas into reality and generally oiling the wheels of the corporate machine. We’ve never had anyone with us on the front line before but I’m sure we’ll both rise to the occasion. Jayne suggested you might be able to start Monday morning. Maybe you’d like to spend a few days in the office to get the feel of the place before you hit the road.’

‘Hit the road? But I thought it was Jayne who was hitting the road?’ said Jane, looking from face to face, panicking, realising that the champagne was already rippling through her bloodstream like quicksilver, rehydrating the previous day’s wrinkly dried-up alcohol molecules and that she hadn’t had any breakfast and that she had no idea at all exactly what it was she had signed up for.

‘True, but you’re off to see new suppliers,’ Ray was saying.

‘I am?’ Jane hissed.

Jayne grinned and patted her arm. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’ll be fine. Come round to mine tomorrow morning. I’ll talk you through my diary and explain what I do.’ She giggled; obviously Jane wasn’t the only one affected by the champagne. ‘Actually, I suppose that as of now it’s what you do.’

Ray smiled wolfishly ‘And then you can come and see me first thing on Monday morning and I’ll show you how we make order out of madam’s high-octane chaos.’

Jayne laughed, Jane didn’t.

When Jane got back home at around three thirty the house was quiet, the cats sound asleep in the sunny garden. She put her bag on the kitchen counter and plugged in the kettle. Lunch hadn’t been all that bad. And at least working for Jayne would give her something to tide her over until she worked out exactly what she wanted to do next.

Picking up the local paper Jane turned to the situations vacant column, slipped off her shoes, padded through to the sitting room and settled down on the sofa. Sunlight filled the room. She thought she might just close her eyes for a few minutes, not long…

When she opened them again it was almost nine. She yawned. No phone calls, no Lizzie, no Lucy, no Steve, no Mother. Maybe there was a God after all.

‘So, what do I have to do exactly?’ asked Jane the following morning, staring at the exquisite Apple G5 perched wirelessly on a slab of toning grey slate in Jayne’s office, upstairs in the house in the Close. There was a picture of a tropical beach hut on the edge of an azure sea as a screensaver…and a date from a digital camera on the bottom right-hand corner.

Jayne slipped into the seat alongside her. ‘First of all, try not to look so worried. It will give you wrinkles. The company is like a cross between being a landlord, owning a farm and running a department store. I collect rent from people whose websites I host.’ Jayne clicked the mouse and the screensaver and straw huts dissolved into something altogether more work-ish. ‘At least my company does. I employ a posse of geeks to keep that up and running. Then there is the purchasing department, various call centres to handle the ordering, and then I have a few sites of my own.’ She clicked again. ‘Here we are.’ A pale cream page rolled across the computer screen with links to various companies. ‘We sell all kinds of things—last-minute trips, organic produce, meat, wine and cheese delivered to your door. There’s a catering company, kind of dial-a-decadent-dinner.com—your dinner party is just a mouse click away. Then there are flowers and plants. Animal sitting,’ she looked across at Augustus, who was currently curled up on the windowsill, sound asleep, ‘oh, and housekeeping. That’s how I first met Gary. He applied for a job. Two or three guys showed up, all with great references. I took Gary at face value, working out the mileage in having an inscrutable oriental housekeeper for hire. I hadn’t thought about him working for me. Anyway, as part of the interview I asked them all to cook me something. Comfort food after a long day, I said. Something that reminded them of home. I can’t remember what the others did, but they missed the point completely. And then Gary whipped up a plate of pie and mash.’ Jayne laughed. ‘He said, “Ever been to Southend?” as he slid this tray in front of me.’

Jayne’s smile held. ‘And then he said, “And you want to get those shoes off, girl. I can see from here they’re killing you.” I hired him on the spot on a month’s trial; we’ve never looked back.’ Jayne paused and sighed. ‘All seems a long time ago now,’ she said. Jayne turned her attention back at the screen.

‘OK, right, well, there are a couple of property sites, mostly executive houses and apartments, dealing with people who’ve been relocated by their companies and don’t want the hassle of finding somewhere suitable either to rent or buy. We have a company that sorts out everything including the move, redirecting their post, setting up their utilities, the whole nine yards. Then there is an online furniture store and one that does really nice rugs, bed linen, and towels. Think of it as problem-solving for strangers.’

Jane stared at her. ‘I thought you said this was simple.’

‘It is when it’s going all right. All the companies are more or less self-contained. Over the years it occurred to me that everything I have ever struggled with, everything that has been a total pain in the arse, is probably just as big a pain in the arse for other people, and so I set a company to sort it out, make life simpler and see how it worked. Some flew, some crashed and burned, some made money, some scraped by. Some were ahead of their time, some past their best-before date.’ Jayne grinned as she scrolled down the screen. ‘Oh, one thing you might be interested in…’ She clicked the mouse. ‘Here we are.’

Jane read over her shoulder. ‘A dating agency?’

Jayne nodded. ‘Uh-huh, men on tap.’

‘If you’ve got access to all this how come you’re still on your own?’

Jayne winced. ‘To tell you the truth it’s a bit like working in a chocolate factory. You stuff yourself silly for the first few weeks but after that the last thing you want is to pick anything off the conveyor belt, however tasty it looks.’

‘You did to begin with, though?’ asked Jane, running her eyes down the rows of thumbnail profile photos staring back at her from the computer screen.

Jayne nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I completely pigged out.’

‘Is that where you met Carlo?’

Jayne sighed. ‘No. We met at a gallery owned by a friend of mine. It was only once I got Carlo out in public that I realised that he wasn’t quite what he appeared—nice to look at but, my God, the running costs.’ She laughed. ‘Enough of that. Have you got any questions?’

Jane felt a wave of panic as she sat back. ‘Only, are you stark staring mad? Are you seriously expecting me to run all this? I mean, it all sounds fantastic, it looks great—and I’m impressed—but I’ve had no real commercial experience.’

‘It’s not as complicated as it looks. Most of the companies are headed up by people who’ve worked for me for years. People I trust. Every six months we get together for a strategy meeting. I’ve just finished doing the rounds. Ray keeps his hand on the tiller—and a lot of my income comes from the servers, which are no trouble at all, and property, and there’s an estate manager to deal with all that, so unless there is a huge crisis most of the work is really simple—and fun.’

‘And if there is a crisis?’

‘I’ll be a phone call away.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’ Jayne nodded.

‘How will I know if it is a crisis?’

Jayne laughed. ‘Trust me, you’ll know. But it’ll be fine. For the last few years I’ve spent most of my time sourcing new suppliers, looking at new products, talking to producers and manufacturers—and most of them don’t know me from Adam anyway, except by reputation, so you can do that. Use your initiative, pick things you like, things that you’d like to use or eat or wear, and don’t be afraid to say no, or to ask if they can change it. I just need life to tick over till I get back. Ray will help until you get into the swing of things. He can give you some idea of how many of anything we’re likely to shift, and what to pay and if they fit into the product range we’ve already got. All the business stuff. Just use your nose.’

Jane wasn’t convinced her nose was that hot. ‘And you’re going to let everyone know you’re away?’

Jayne paused. ‘Actually I’d prefer not to. I was hoping to just slip away without a lot of fuss. They won’t know—most of the time they barely see me as it is. We have an office locally. Ray runs the business on a day-to-day basis. Now, about your salary. I thought if initially we match the one at the library, plus say fifteen per cent and then review it after—’

Jane didn’t move. ‘You changed the subject.’

‘I did?’

Jane nodded. ‘You did.’

‘OK, well, that’s because I think that if everyone in the company thinks everything is running as normal then it will. If they know I’ve bunked off then they’ll panic, think there is something going on, wobble, and then things will go wrong, things that are working just fine as they are at the moment.’

‘I can see that, but what if they find out?’

‘I can’t see how they will, but if push comes to shove you can say I’m away on business if you want to. Oh, one other thing I was going to ask you. Most of the time I work from home so I wondered if would you consider moving in here while I’m away? You said you loved the house.’

‘Really? Wow, I hadn’t thought about it—I’m not sure, I’ve got the cats—’

‘They could come here too. I’m sure Augustus wouldn’t mind. And it would do me a colossal favour. Gary can look after you, which will keep him out of mischief, and it means I haven’t got to worry about the place. You can use the cars. I’ll make sure we insure them for you to drive. And it makes all kinds of other stuff straightforward. After all, J. Mills already lives here. I’ll have Ray and the bank sort out cards and contracts and signatures. You’ll need passwords to access the sites—have you got a pen?’

Jane stared at her. ‘Are you completely barking mad?’

‘Possibly, but you’ll need all those things and don’t worry, I’ll have all the right people investigate you, take up references, check your credit history. Besides which, you won’t be able to do anything critical without Ray’s consent and probably his signature. And you won’t have access to everything, just a housekeeping fund to keep the house running till I get back.’

Jane blanched. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘And when will that be?’

Jayne hesitated. ‘I don’t know, but don’t worry. Ray is a good guy, but in some ways what I really need—and don’t take this the wrong way—is a figurehead, a lucky penny. You’re OK about taking this on? If not, say so. I’ve waited this long, another few months won’t kill me…’ Her voice faded.

Jane considered for a few seconds; the library had already emailed her a list of vacancies. Mrs Findlay had sent a sugary little message saying that she was there if Jane needed to talk and she could completely understand her distress and pain. Perhaps she might like to come in and discuss her feelings with someone in Human Resources?

Jane glanced at Jayne’s computer screen, now back on the image of the tropical beach. What had she got to lose? Even if Jayne’s job lasted only a couple of months it would be way cosier thumbing through the job ads here, with a regular pay cheque, than sitting at home without one. And wasn’t this the kind of lifestyle she had always dreamed of? A fabulous house, wonderful furniture, great cars, a housekeeper—why on earth was she hesitating?

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine about it. Just a bit nervous.’

‘Well, don’t be. When did your mother say she was coming?’

‘As soon as she can pull herself out from under Simon, by the sounds of it.’

Jayne lifted an eyebrow but didn’t comment. ‘Well, when you’ve got it sorted out, ask Gary to get the guest room ready. He adores company.’

Jane looked round the elegant office with its view out over the garden, the lake, the deer. ‘No. No, actually I think I’ll tell her I’m too busy at the moment. I’ve never been a lucky penny before. And, to be frank, I’m not sure I’m ready for Simon, my mother and the whole Tantric sex conversation.’

Jayne laughed. ‘Fair enough, but please, use the place as if it was your own. If you want her to come and stay, well, it’s up to you. Meanwhile, what I suggest you do is go through the sites while I go and get us some coffee; they’re all bookmarked. Get a feel for what the companies do and sell and handle. Ray can help you with anything you don’t understand, and he knows which fork to use, even under pressure.’

Jane looked at the screen. ‘If you’ve already got Ray why do you need me?’

Jayne paused thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. In theory you’re absolutely right, I could have stepped away from all this months ago—but I had this feeling that the time wasn’t right, that it wasn’t the moment but that I would know when to go. The other day when you turned up, it felt like some sort of sign. You having the same name—oh, I don’t know, I just had a feeling, and like I said, over the years I’ve learned to trust my instincts, at least where business is concerned, so I feel like now is just perfect.’

‘And while I’m busy trying not to ruin all this for you what are you going to be doing?’ asked Jane.

‘I want to make sense of what I missed first time around.’

‘And what was that?’

‘How would I know if I missed it?’ Jayne laughed. ‘OK, I suppose I was about your age; I’d done all kinds of dead-end jobs, saving furiously, saving up to travel. And then…’ She paused.

‘And then?’

‘Well, I was backpacking with a guy named Andy Turner. I suppose it was in the early eighties. Anyway, we were sitting on a beach in Kos, sharing a couple of bottles of beer. Andy had built a fire out of driftwood and there was the sound of waves washing against the shore, night sounds, but otherwise we could have been the only two people on the planet. It was getting cold and I remember leaning back against him to keep warm and he put his jacket around me and then his arms. And as we watched the sun set over the ocean, as the light faded into this soft peach and purple glow he said, “Jayne, I want to ask you something.”

‘I knew what he was going to say. He held me closer. I can still remember looking over my shoulder and seeing the reflection of the fire in his eyes, and then he asked me to marry him.’

Jayne sighed. ‘It has to have been the most romantic moment in my whole life, and then all of a sudden that wasn’t what it felt like at all. Suddenly I could see this path stretching out in front of me. Andy’s mum knew my mum—we’d grown up within a few miles of each other, been to the same school, had the same friends. And you know what? I panicked. I couldn’t breathe. I just thought that there had got to be more to life than this—more than getting married and living a mile away from my mum and dad, taking turns to go round for Sunday lunch, and having kids and—and the sun set in the ocean. And he said, “So what do you think?” And I said, “No.”’

‘Wow.’ Jane stared at her. ‘And is that what you want to go back to, to that moment?’

‘Good God, no,’ said Jayne, heading towards the door, the moment broken. ‘I’ll go and get the coffee.’

‘Oh,’ Jane said, ‘but it sounds so romantic. I thought you meant that you loved him and you wished you had married him and lived happily ever after, raising small Andy Turners a few miles from your mum and dad.’

Jayne shook her head wistfully. ‘No—no, but there is a part of me that wishes I had been strong enough to say, yes I love you but I’m not ready to settle down yet and I need to explore some more—maybe we both do and how about we do it together? But things were different back then, or at least they were where I came from. I grew up in a little village near Ely, where, if you weren’t engaged by the time you were sixteen they thought there was something wrong with you. My mum was convinced that I was on the shelf by the time I was twenty. And Andy wouldn’t have seen it as a positive thing at all. He would have thought I was rejecting him, fobbing him off.’

‘And were you?’

‘No, looking back I don’t think so. I just wanted more than what my mum and dad had settled for. It’s so much easier now but then it was still a struggle for someone like me: a working-class woman, trying to build a business. And the other thing was, if I’m honest, I wasn’t sure then that Andy was the one. I thought I’d be able to find just as much love somewhere else. And you know what?’ She paused, her smile faltering just a fraction. ‘I never did.’

‘Oh, Jayne.’

Jayne waved the words away. ‘Don’t. It was entirely my own fault. I had it, I knew it, and I threw it away.’

‘So what happened to Andy?’

‘We carried on travelling together till the end of the trip and then when we got back he went off to a job in Manchester. We vaguely agreed that we’d travel together again sometime but I think we both knew we wouldn’t. Last time I saw him was when I was waving him off at Euston. Ten minutes later I headed across London to Liverpool Street, went home and started my first business. Monday, the eighteenth of April 1983.’

‘As?’

‘Owner, only employee and chief cyclist of Sandwich City. Firms would ring their orders in before eleven thirty everyday and I’d pedal like hell round Cambridge to all kinds of offices and shops, with rolls and homemade soup in the winter, salads and stuff in the summer. With the profit I put a down payment on a house and converted it into flats for students.’ Jayne grinned. ‘My mum and dad thought I was totally mad but I just knew that it would work—and I wanted to be free and thought if I worked hard and got rich it would give me my freedom, give me choices, let me buy nice things.’

‘And did it?’

‘Most certainly it did. I built up the sandwich business, franchised it, sold that on. Met Ray—bought more houses. For the first few years it felt like Monopoly for real. I still get a buzz out of watching when it goes right.’

‘And Andy?’

Jayne sighed. ‘You know, I don’t know. I suppose without meaning to, he got lost in the rush. At first we spoke a few times on the phone. He’s still in Manchester somewhere, an accountant. Happily married, probably, two point four children. God, he might even be a granddad by now. Lots of times I’ve thought about looking him up, contacting him. I mean, how hard would it be? And yet I can’t quite bring myself to do it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve moved on, years have gone by. In my head he is still tall, blond, tanned and gorgeous. What if he’s bald now—or fat? What if I made a terrible mistake back then? What if he never got over me? Worse still, what if he did?’

Chapter Four

Later that evening, 15 days, 4 hours and who gave a stuff exactly how many minutes it was since Lucy had detonated the bombshell under her life, Jane was back at home, sitting at her computer in Creswell Road, flicking through the list of eligible men on Jayne’s personals site with Lizzie from the library for company. It was called Natural-Born_Romantics and Jayne was right, it was just like being let loose in a chocolate factory. It was just such a terrible shame that there were so many misshapes.

‘So, you’re going to be in charge of all this?’ asked Lizzie in amazement, looking at the screen over Jane’s shoulder while helping herself to one of the all-butter biscuits Jane kept on standby for emotional emergencies. ‘Isn’t it a bit like letting the lunatics run the asylum?’

‘Always seemed to work OK in the library,’ Jane said, clicking onto another web page.’ Actually, I think I’m more of a figurehead—being groomed for greatness.’

‘Right…But is it kosher? I’m mean, you will be paid and things?’

‘Oh, yes, it is most definitely a real job with real money, and I really start on Monday morning. Oh my God, will you just look at the state of him?’

‘And you can get on to all the sites?’

‘I’ve got one password that just lets me browse and then I’ve got two others that let me tinker.’

‘I’m impressed. Tinkering is good.’

‘Tinker and order.’

Lizzie grinned. ‘Can we order a selection?’

Lizzie had dropped in on her way home from work, the plan being to commiserate with Jane and get her up to speed on all the latest intrigue at the library. Apparently Jane’s folder-and-fish-tank trick had impressed everyone in Janitorial Services, which meant—even in her absence—she was likely to come top in the employee-of-the-month poll. Lucy Stroud was a paranoid power-crazed two-faced cow who liked to keep a posse of novelty bears on her desk, and thought most of the community weren’t worth outreaching to, her preferred solution being culling, and she’d made Lizzie go out and buy the lunchtime sandwiches two days running. Janitorial Services already had a lavatory seat laurel wreath hanging up in their tea room with Lucy’s name painted on it. On a less personal front, all the staff were terrified that they were going to lose their jobs, despite a meeting meant to allay fears, which had actually made everyone more paranoid. And there were so many rumours going around about who would be next in the firing line that normal work—other than stamping dates in the in-and-out sections downstairs—had all but ceased. There were so many people watching their backs it was a miracle people weren’t falling downstairs, and nobody was taking decisions at all about anything, just in case. So, no change there really.

‘So, from where I’m standing it looks like you’ve actually fallen on your feet,’ said Lizzie, picking a troublesome crumb out of her cleavage.

‘Got to be better than falling on him,’ said Jane, staring at the screen. ‘Golly, it says here that he’s only thirty-five.’

Lizzie peered at the image and winced. ‘Maybe that’s in dog years or maybe in a universe far, far away. You’d think he’d get something done about his teeth.’

‘Possibly get some? Whichever way you look at it, gummy is not a hot look, is it?’

‘How long are you going to spend checking the stock?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Long as it takes. It’s dirty work but someone’s got to do it. Why? Oh, look, he’s not bad.’

‘I’m hungry. I was going to suggest we rang for a takeaway.’ Lizzie picked up a menu from the desk. ‘Oh, have you had a chance to look through the email that Lucy was so worried about?’

Jane nodded. ‘I’ve had a quick flick through the file before you got here, but I can’t see anything she would want, or worry about. Although there were several veiled threats regarding the amount of coloured copier paper we were using.’

Lizzie shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, she is weird. Oh, he’s nice—there, the one in the middle without a squint.’

‘I’m supposed to be going through all this lot so I’m up to speed on the kind of things Jayne is involved in.’ Jane nodded towards a pile of box files and two ring binders on the sofa. ‘I’ve got those to plough through and then the websites. I’m just hoping that there isn’t going to be a test at the end.’

‘So what else have you looked at so far?’

Jane grinned. ‘Younger men, older men. I haven’t got as far as the rugs and curtains, and dinners delivered in dry ice yet.’

‘And are you really going to move into her house then?’

‘Jayne’s? I’m not sure. It makes sense. All the business stuff is over there in her office, but it feels odd moving into a house full of someone else’s things. Like camping out. Mind you, you should see it—it’s like something off Grand Designs-low lighting, good furniture, acres of bare boards and wonderful rugs—the odd sculpture here, original painting there—lots of natural fibres. I don’t think I’d be able to relax in case I spilled something. Or one of the cats threw up on the Berber kelims. Although I have to say cruising around in a soft-top Mercedes has a certain appeal.’

Lizzie considered the idea for a few minutes. ‘You get someone to clean, cook and all that stuff too?’

Jane nodded. ‘Uh-huh. He’s small, oriental, sort of dangerous-looking in an underplayed kung fu way, and called Gary. Did you ever see that film with Peter Sellers—Inspector Clouseau?’

‘I think you should give it a try. I’m sharing a house at the moment and it’s driving me mad. The idea of someone else clearing up behind me and the animals I live with sounds like heaven. And I could always come and live here while you’re away if you wanted. Mind the fort for you.’

Jane looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Why not? Why risk Boris or Milo hocking up a fur ball on a priceless rug? It would be brilliant. I could feed the cats, water the plants. And I’d pay you rent.’ Lizzie was warming to the idea.

‘And you could always do a little window-shopping on Natural-Born_Romantics if you got bored.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t see why not. Feel free to take the tour—oh, and you could feed Gladstone.’

Lizzie sniffed. ‘Oh God, do I have to? He was fishing something out of the skip when I got here.’

‘I know—such activities are part of his natural charm. Besides, if you don’t he just grazes through the leftovers in your dustbin, which is far worse, trust me.’

Lizzie pulled a face. ‘That is just so gross. Which reminds me, did I mention Mrs Findlay is planning to get in touch? She said she was hoping that you’d still be coming back and letting Lucy shadow you for a few weeks.’

‘Don’t you mean stalk?’ said Jane, helping herself to a biscuit.

Meanwhile, in her flat in Buckbourne Lucy Stroud was in the bath, in a face pack, shaving her legs, waiting for Steve Burney to pop by for his regular Wednesday evening visit. She’d got a big pot of Greek yoghurt, a punnet of raspberries and a pair of handcuffs on standby. She would have liked to talk to him about Jane Mills but decided she might wait until after the main event.

In Creswell Close Jayne Mills, accompanied by Augustus, had been up in the loft looking for her old rucksack. She knew that she’d seen it somewhere; whenever she moved house it came with her like a touchstone. The night was as black as ink through the dormer windows, the stars like fishscales in a dark ocean. Jayne opened the floor-to-ceiling cupboards, eyes wandering along the rails of clothes, across the shelves, past winter coats, boxes of books, her record collection, lampshades and things stored and saved just in case. In one cupboard was a pile of cartons stuck down with brown tape and carefully labelled ‘Store/Sentimental’. Each label was topped with a big red stick-on heart.

Jayne smiled and lifted the top one down. Inside the box was a photo album covered in battered fawn leatherette, labelled ‘1980-83’. Tucked inside the cover were all sorts of letters and cards and tickets and things she had completely forgotten about. Very carefully Jayne carried everything downstairs to the sitting room, poured herself a large gin and tonic, and settled down on the sofa. Augustus took his cue, curled up in the box lid, and went to sleep, purring softly.

On the first page, sitting on a rucksack almost as big as she was, was a younger, leaner, far skinnier Jayne Mills wearing cut-off jeans, hiking boots, a long-sleeved paisley T-shirt and a toothy grin that stretched from one ear to the other. The caption, written in big bold rounded handwriting, read, ‘Finally—we’re off!!’

Jayne felt a lump in her throat and turned the page. It was going to be a long night.

Bright and early the following Monday morning Jane Mills pressed the call button on the security panel below an elegant brass plaque that read, ‘Waterside House. J. Mills Enterprises’.

‘Hi, it’s Jane Mills here,’ she said into the speaker. Looking up into the single unblinking eye of the CCTV camera Jane smiled brightly to hide a flicker of nerves. She had spent Wednesday, Thursday and Friday reading and taking notes from the websites and box files and Googling up on Jayne Mills’ business style and practice. Intuitive, perceptive, hands-on, and robust with a good management philosophy seemed to be the general consensus. Saturday and Sunday she had pined for Steve Burney, his cooking, his company and his bloody Labrador.

Jane squared her shoulders. Intuitive, perceptive, hands-on—she could do that. Jane had decided on her suit today—it seemed right.

There was a little whirr and then the heavy plate-glass door silently glided open. Jane stepped into the elegant flag-stoned foyer of the converted granary, with its view out over the canal. It was only a few minutes’ walk from Buckbourne town centre and full of original features, soft red brick and oak beams mellow with age. It was hard not to be impressed.

Seconds later, Ray Jacobson, dressed in a white polo shirt, penny loafers and faded blue jeans, jogged down the steps to meet her, looking as if he was fresh out of the shower. ‘Hi, morning. Did you find us OK?’ he said. He looked younger out of his suit, and today was all smiles and warm handshakes. ‘Come on up, great to see you, coffee’s on.’

‘I can smell it. I’ve never noticed this place before.’

‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Tucked out of the way but still really central.’ Ray, guided Jane inside. ‘One of Jayne’s bright ideas. She bought it as a shell a few years ago. The ground floor we rent out to a whole range of alternative practitioners. The first floor is mostly offices for Jayne’s business interests, and then I use the top-floor flat when I’m in town. Takes working from home to a whole new level. Come on through.’ He smiled, opening the inner door into the stairwell and stood to one side to let Jane pass. Through tall thin windows that ran from the floor right up to the pitched roof, the warm morning sunlight reflected and shimmied across the water in the canal, filling the well with glittering golden ripples.

‘I’ll make sure you’ve got the security code for next time you’re in. Did you take a look at the files and the websites?’ Ray asked as they made their way upstairs.

‘I did, every last one of them. I’m still not altogether sure why Jayne wants me here.’

Ray’s smile broadened out a notch or two. ‘Ours is not to reason why. Jayne’s got a nose for talent. I think we should just both relax and just get on with it. This is the office.’

As they reached the landing he pushed open a door into a warm sunlit room. Inside the walls were unfinished brick, the floor gorgeous old, time-mellowed oak floorboards, and on two long wooden trestle tables stood a row of flat screens, a couple of wireless keyboards and matching mice, with an office chair at each. On the opposite wall in a deep alcove with a view out over the canal, were two cream linen sofas with brown suede cushions and a long low table, on which stood a bowl of pebbles and a vase of lilies. Behind it was a wooden cupboard in the same style with a coffee machine on top.

Jane smiled appreciatively. ‘Wow. This is amazing. How on earth do you keep it looking so tidy? Where do you keep everything else? You know—all the chaos. The muck and bullets?’

Ray laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of those—they’re all in the back room. If you’d like to help yourself to coffee and pull up a chair, I’ll just be going through a couple of things that I thought you might do over the course of the next couple of weeks and then my plan is leave you to it. You can work here or at Jayne’s home office—either is fine by me, although to be honest I’m not used to having someone about the place. We outsource all our services, and I don’t usually see Jayne from one week to the next. We lunch a couple of times a month if she’s in the area but we usually communicate by phone or email. We talk most days.’ Ray shifted his weight as if he was slightly uncomfortable with what he was telling her.

‘So what you’re saying is that you would prefer me to work from home?’ Nothing like being wanted. Jane managed to hold on to her smile. Just.

He pulled a face. ‘Her home, actually. Jayne’s office is all set up with everything you’ll need. It would be far easier than coming into town every day. Anyway—your call. Maybe if you wanted to come in until you get the hang of things…’ He moved the mouse alongside the nearest computer and the screen flickered into life.

‘Anyway, here we are. We’ve got new web pages and catalogues going live at the end of the month on all the current sites. Most of the donkey work has been done by our design team, graphic artist and the geeks, but I thought you could go through them—see what you think, any suggestions, you know, any little tweaks and see if there are any errors. I’d value your input.’

Jane stared at him, trying to work out if he was telling her what she thought he was saying. ‘You want me to proofread the web pages? I’ve just spent all weekend going through the existing websites.’

‘I know, bit of a pain in the arse but these are the new shop fronts and I really do need someone with a bit of savvy to check them over. Feel free to make any suggestions. Might seem like the bottom rung, but actually I think it will give you a really good feel for what’s current and up and coming.’ He smiled brightly.

Jane nodded. It wasn’t that she minded doing it, but she couldn’t work out why he or Jayne hadn’t told her that the websites she’d spent hours going through were about to be taken down—nor whether he was being serious or taking the mickey—so she smiled back and then turned her attention to the images.

‘And then,’ Ray said, biting his bottom lip as he stared at the screen, then clicking on a button, ‘we’re also currently in the process of updating all of our current customer records and product codes. There’s all kinds of information on the data base that needs sifting through. We’ve outsourced most of the data entry but it’s really important we go through all the customer details as well as the list of products we sell, and check nothing vital has been missed off. It would be really useful to cross-reference the information to see if people are buying from more than one site and, if so, what. There’s a little bit of software here for that. Oh, here we are…’

Ray looked back over his shoulder at her and smiled again, all big blue eyes and bonhomie. Jane still couldn’t quite call it one way or the other.

‘Let’s just sort out that coffee and then we can get you started. Oh, by the way, I’ve had our guys draw up your contract and there are a few other things for you to sign. There are different levels of access online. Jayne’s got most clearance obviously—presumably she set you up with a username and password?’

Jane nodded.

Ray paused. ‘Good. How are you fixed for supper?’

She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I thought we might pop out after work today for an early supper. I booked us a table at Carters—thought it would be nice to celebrate your launch.’

‘Well…’ Jane began.

‘Nothing too late—say six thirty?’

Jane didn’t know quite how to respond. Which Ray took as a yes.

‘Good. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of food, Jayne is supposed to be going to a dinner later in the week—Thursday, I think. You don’t mind going, do you? I think she’s expected to do a little presentation. I’ve got the script here somewhere. It’s just a trade thing.’

Jane hesitated but was determined not to look rattled or outgunned. ‘Oh—OK…I’ve done presentations before at the library. But I’m not sure that I can…’

‘It’ll be fine. I’ll email the speech over to you with the details. I wouldn’t labour the point about Jayne not being there.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure she’s already told you that she’s a little wary about letting people know she’s taking a sabbatical so unless someone asks directly…’ He smiled. ‘Although I suppose technically you are Jane Mills.’

‘Will you be there?’ asked Jane.

‘If I can, but it looks like I’m probably double-booked. It’ll be fine though. They’ll send a car for you.’ He smiled again. ‘So here we are—your first day with us.’

Jane nodded; her first day as a junior officer, she thought ruefully looking at the screen Ray had opened up on the computer. Data input, checking names and addresses was a bit like stuffing envelopes, and that, along with the proofreading, was the kind of thing you’d give someone on work experience from the local comprehensive. She felt she couldn’t say anything, however. After all, how would it look if she moaned about the first job he gave her?

Something didn’t feel right but she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was that she was feeling overwhelmed. Or maybe it was just first-day nerves; maybe she was up herself; maybe Ray was being genuinely kind—maybe. He poured her a coffee from the machine.

‘There we go. Milk’s in the fridge. That’s the thing that looks like a cupboard under the coffee machine, and sugar is in the drawer there. Do you mind if I smoke?’ As he passed her the cup his hand seemed to linger for just an instant too long on hers. Had she imagined it? Jane suppressed a shiver.

‘No, you’re fine,’ she said.

Ray’s smile held. ‘Not cold are you, m’dear?’

‘No, just a bit nervous, that’s all. First-day nerves—you know.’

‘Well, don’t be nervous. We run a very happy ship here. Jayne’s always seen to that. I don’t know how well you know her but she is the most amazing woman.’

Jane added a little milk to her coffee, not quite sure what he was expecting her to say.

As if reading her mind he continued, ‘I know what I’ve asked you to do looks like pretty menial stuff but as far as I’m concerned your being hired has come out of the blue—not that I mind; oh, no, with Jayne I’ve had to learn to be flexible—but if I’d known Jayne was bringing someone in we could have devised a more coherent strategy. So, this will out Jayne’s business until we work out exactly what to do with you. To be perfectly honest I don’t really know how she fills her time on a day-to-day basis, so if you start with something that really needs doing, we’re both going to have to make the rest of it up as we go along.’

He lifted his coffee cup in salute. ‘To the new Jane Mills.’

Jane tried out another smile and Ray beamed back.

Maybe she was being oversensitive, worried that the job was too good to be true. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.

‘To the other Jayne Mills,’ she said.

Meanwhile, the other Jayne Mills set her handbag down on one of the unforgiving airport seats and stared up at the departure board to check the flight times. She felt strangely nervous. Although she’d been flying round the world for the best part of twenty-five years, this flight felt special. She smiled. Twenty-five years—it seemed impossible. Then she had never imagined herself ever being this old.

The airport clock rolled over another minute. Another fifteen minutes and they would start boarding. Jane tucked the boarding pass into her jacket pocket and then glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Andy loping towards her through the crowd, in his famous baggy blue shorts, a rucksack slung casually across broad shoulders, long blond hair flapping like unruly wings. Catching herself, Jayne smiled and let the ghost fade away. There was no Andy, no long blond hair, just an appraising and appreciative look from a good-looking guy in a suit from behind a copy of the Telegraph.

She smiled back while reminding herself that this wasn’t about the past, it was about the future. Her future. A bright shiny new future. This was about looking at where she had been to try to make sense of where she wanted to go next, and where better place to start than in Kos?

Kos—Jayne let the word linger in her mind and then very slowly roll over her tongue. It was a word heavy with memories of newly baked bread, and honey and olives and creamy feta cheese. Kos, so very ordinary now, but so unfamiliar then. Hardly a great adventure, hardly exotic in the twenty-first century, but all those years ago it had seemed so very far away, and so very foreign. Now it was just another short-haul flight, barely a hop across a globe that she had crossed and recrossed God knew how many times since. But then it had seemed a million miles away for a hick from the sticks.

So, while Greece might not appear the bravest of starts to an outsider, it had been the first step on her journey all those years ago, so what better place to start again now?

In a homage to travels past she had booked into economy class, and having toyed with the idea of taking pot luck on arrival, in the end had succumbed and booked into a little hotel in Kefalos old town, at the far end of the island of Kos, a steep climb away from the night life and the bars.

The taxi dropped her off at her hotel in late afternoon, and once she had booked in Jayne dropped her things in her room, and made her way back down the hill, down steep flights of steps to the beach, past the little church with its white walls, pale blue dome and roof, surrounded by trees and a field of what looked like cotton. Everywhere was remarkably green, despite the heat, the steep hillsides covered in low bushes and shrubs that followed the sharp rocky contours of the bay. She had forgotten how breathtaking the view was.

Below the old town of Kefalos, new bars and tourist restaurants lined the beach like a string of bright beads, colourful flotsam and jetsam stranded at the high-water mark, and windsurfers and sailing dinghies cut back and forth across the glittering water on the edges of the sun-warmed wind.

Once she got onto the coarse gritty sand Jayne slipped off her sandals and walked along the water’s edge, down past the sleeping cafés and shady restaurants, down past the boat-hire shops towards a little island caught in the curled arm of the bay. Although the sun was well past its zenith it was still wonderfully warm, the waves reflecting the sunlight like the shards of a broken mirror.

The beach was completely empty except for a handful of locals swimming and windsurfing on the wind-ruffled sea where the harbour met the beach.

Jayne stretched, relishing the sensation of the warm breeze on her face, dropped her towel onto the sand and, slipping off her sandals and thin cotton dress, stepped naked into the welcoming water. Not that anyone saw or cared.

It felt like a cool caress over her body and was the perfect antidote to the long wait at the airport, the flight and the taxi ride from Kos town to her hotel. Jayne sighed and shimmied beneath the waves, the chill making her shiver, and then very slowly she rolled over onto her back, looking up into the cloudless azure blue sky. Kos. Still here after all these years. It felt as if her soul was slowly uncurling. She smiled, with an odd sense of coming home. It had been a good choice.

* * *

In Buckbourne, Ray helped himself to another olive from the little dish on the table and smiled. The restaurant was quiet.

‘So, why don’t you tell me some more about yourself?’ he asked. ‘What sort of things do you enjoy?’

Jane blinked as he carried on topping up her wine glass. She didn’t make a habit of drinking straight after work and this was her second, but after a day spent crosschecking names and addresses and postcodes for customers with special interests, unusual delivery instructions and various complaints, she hadn’t refused when Ray suggested they share a bottle and a toast to her first day with the company. The first glass had slipped down nicely, and—with Jane having had only a sandwich for lunch—had gone straight to her head.

‘Jayne tells me that you worked in the library before joining us. What brought you to the area? Is your partner local?’

The glasses seemed big and Jane was almost certain Ray hadn’t topped his up.

‘No, actually I don’t have one,’ Jane heard herself saying. It felt like he was asking way too many questions anyway. ‘Not at the moment.’

‘Really? I find that very hard to believe,’ said Ray, beckoning the waiter over. Since they had arrived the menus had sat unopened between them on the table.

‘Actually I’ve just come out of a relationship,’ Jane said, not meeting his eye.

‘Really? Ah, well, may I offer my condolences. But you know what they say about getting back in the saddle. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a replacement,’ Ray said brightly.

Jane stared at him. He made Steve sound like a washing machine.

‘Now, what do you fancy? The seafood here is absolutely superb.’ He barely paused for breath. The waiter stood by the table, with his pen hovering over a pad, and Ray’s next remarks were aimed squarely at him.

‘How about we start with the goat’s cheese soufflé—for two—and then we’ll have the paella. And I think we’ll have another bottle of white with that—the Chenin Blanc and salad, maybe the green salad with poached nectarines that sounds rather nice, don’t you think?’

It was entirely a rhetorical question. Jane stared across the table at him; she hadn’t even had a chance to look at the menu, let alone choose. Meanwhile, the waiter was busy scribbling down the order, and far from feeling flattered or protected or in safe hands, Jane felt annoyed—or at least she would have been if it hadn’t been for the wine. Before she could protest the waiter had vanished off towards the kitchen.

‘Now,’ said Ray leaning a little closer, ‘where were we? Oh, I know, you were going to tell me all about what brought you to Buckbourne.’

‘Was I?’ snapped Jane.

Ray laughed. ‘I can see why Jayne thought you’d fit in,’ he said.

Jane stared at him, wondering what the hell he was going on about.

The meal was delicious but he seemed odd. For a start Ray appeared to be totally enthralled by her every word. He insisted she have a liqueur after dinner, and although Jane declined she had a strange feeling that there was booze in the coffee. This was hardly the nice shiny start she had anticipated. Looked like getting drunk during the day was getting to be a habit.

‘How about I call you a cab?’ Ray said while he was settling the bill. ‘Unless of course you’d prefer to come back to the office and have some coffee? You look like you could use some.’

Jane hesitated for a moment or two as Ray waved the waiter over to take his card.

Chapter Five

Jane very, very slowly opened her eyes, struggling to get her bearings. It was almost dark and she had the most terrible hangover. Even her eyelashes ached. Although as she looked around the room it occurred to her that that might very well be the least of her worries. Oh my God, moaned a voice in her head, when she found she was naked in a strange bed in a strange room with the headache from hell.

Oh my God, oh my God, screamed her conscience, never one to hold back on melodrama when the occasion warranted it. Surely to goodness she hadn’t gone back to the office with Ray? Surely, even given her patchy track record vis-à-vis men she hadn’t ended up stark naked and blind drunk in the boss’s bed on her first day in a new job? Surely not.

Jane scurried through her memories, trying desperately to recall exactly what had happened. She could remember the wine, remember eating supper, remember coffee, although that was slightly fuzzier, remembered thinking she felt sick—hopefully she hadn’t been. And then? And then…nothing.

Surely she couldn’t have slept all night? She ought to get up. She ought to get up, get dressed and go home.

Jane looked around for her clothes and spotted her suit and blouse hanging neatly over the back of a chair under which were tucked her shoes. Did seducers hang up your clothes? And where the hell was her underwear? Was it clean? Did it match? While her brain busied itself panicking over trivia she heard footfalls on the stairs.

‘Oh my God,’ whimpered her conscience. ‘Oh my God…’ It took Jane a second or two to realise it wasn’t her conscience but her whimpering aloud.

She fought the temptation to hide under the duvet, while across the room the door swung slowly open.

‘So you’re awake then?’ said Gary. He was carrying a tray on which a glass of something opaque and white hissed and bubbled. Beside that stood a pot of tea. ‘You still drunk?’

Jane was torn between resenting his tone and wanting to hug him. Gary didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Drink this and have a shower. I’ll get you something to eat. There’s a robe, and everything else you’ll need is in the bathroom.’

‘How did I end up here?’

‘Because there is a God,’ said Gary grimly, plumping the pillows behind her as if Jane was an invalid. ‘That and the cab driver dropping you off. You were completely off your face. Oh, and before you ask, you undressed yourself. I just tidied up behind you. Has anyone ever told you you’re a messy cow?’

‘I thought I’d gone home with Ray,’ Jane said, concentration elsewhere.

Gary glanced down at her. ‘I must be a terrible disappointment.’

‘God, no—no, not at all. I just can’t believe I got that drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything like that in my life before. I don’t know how I’m going to face him.’ And then she paused as a thought blossomed, closely watched by Gary. ‘You know, I think he got me drunk.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Gary, in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

Jane stared at him. ‘Why didn’t Jayne warn me?’

Gary shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe she thought you two would be perfect for each other.’

Once Gary had gone, Jane very gingerly eased herself out of bed, head pounding, put on the bathrobe and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was all over everywhere, her skin looked awful and her eyes looked worse. Much worse. She considered the row of expensive unguents and creams lined up on the dressing table for a few seconds and then padded silently into the bathroom, turned the shower on full, hung the robe on the door and stepped under the warm bubbling torrent. It hurt. She stood for a long time in the shower, willing it to wash her hangover away.

‘You drowned yet?’ called a familiar voice after ten minutes or so.

Jane swung round, instantly regretting moving so fast. Jayne’s elegant en suite had been built as a wet room, with a big daisy-head shower and a bluey green obscure glass block wall snaking across the room, separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. Gary, looking rather like a benign bat through the distortion of the glass, was on the far side clutching the huge fluffy white robe.

‘No, but I wish I had. Have you never heard of invasion of privacy? Do you know you’re worse than my mother?’ she said, reaching around the glass partition and taking the robe.

‘Pity you didn’t take more notice of her then, accepting drinks from strange men. Anything could have happened.’

‘Rather naïvely I didn’t think Ray was a stranger,’ Jane snapped right back, slipping the robe on and tying it tight. It was warm as well as being thick and velvety.

‘In my experience they don’t come much stranger than Ray Jacobson.’

‘Now you tell me,’ she said, padding out through the bubbly water. ‘He’s Jayne’s right-hand man. She said so.’

Gary rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Um, yes—Jayne’s got a blind spot when it comes to certain people, Ray being one of them.’

‘I’ve got to work with him.’

‘You should work from here. That way I can keep an eye on you.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Have you told Jayne about Ray?’

‘She thinks it’s just sibling rivalry. They’ve been together for so long that they finish each other’s sentences. Years. Too many years for her to have any sense of perspective.’

‘Romantically?’

‘Good God no, he likes his meat young and tender.’ As he spoke Gary lifted an eyebrow.

‘That is disgusting.’

‘He doesn’t seem to think so. His last serious girlfriend was nineteen.’

‘Yuck. Because…?’ said Jane, taking the towel Gary handed her for drying her hair.

‘Because any woman over thirty-five can see straight through him. He’s all slime, style and no substance.’

‘And you’re telling me this because?

Gary shrugged. ‘Because Jayne won’t listen to me. And besides, he’s more likely to jump you.’

Jane groaned. ‘Oh, please, don’t. I’m feeling delicate enough as it is.’

‘Although actually you’re probably a little long in the tooth for him,’ Gary continued, looking her up and down.

Jane glowered at him, or at least would have done if it hadn’t made her headache worse.

‘Then why did he get me drunk?’

‘He probably pulls the wings off flies as well. Food is in fifteen minutes,’ said Gary, on his way out of the door.

‘I’ve already eaten.’

He pulled a face.

‘What?’ asked Jane, gently towelling around her hangover.

‘You don’t remember being sick?’

Jane groaned. ‘Oh, no, don’t.’

When she had finished getting dressed Jane headed downstairs. As she crossed the landing she hesitated. Jayne’s office door was ajar.

Jane opened the door wider still, stepped inside and looked around. The room was awash with mellow starlight.

Although she had seen it the previous week it felt different now—calmer, more peaceful. So this was where Jayne worked; this was where Jane could work and live if she wanted to. She switched on a lamp, the room instantly warmed by its soft golden glow, and then gently ran her fingertips over the broad slate desktop. The room was painted the softest cream, with a natural coir carpet and matching linen full-length curtains, pulled back wide to reveal as much of the view out over the park as possible.

Beyond the picture windows in the moonlight, the herd of deer were gathering around the lakeside, the rippling water backed by a stand of trees picked out in silhouette against the skyline. It was an image that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a painting.

Around the room there were cupboards to waist height along one wall, neatly arranged with books and stationery, and box files neatly labelled. Above them hung a Tabitha Salmon painting of gondolas on the lagoon in Venice and a whole gallery of photographs.

Along the other two sides of the room on the slate desktops stood plants, books and catalogues, and Jayne’s Apple Mac. The final wall, with its two large picture windows, was empty, although the deep windowsills were upholstered and had a scatter of gold, blue and red cushions picking up the colours in the painting. Jane looked around, drinking it all in. Working here just had to be better than driving into town every day by about a million miles.

She switched on the lamps above Jayne’s workstation. On the pin board above the desk, between a couple of postcards and some theatre tickets, was a faded black-and-white photo with curled edges; it was of a good-looking guy with shoulder-length blond hair and a smile that lit up his face like a spotlight. It was impossible not to smile back. Without thinking Jane reached out and took the photo down. On the back someone had written, ‘Andy Turner, Beach-Bum of the Year 1982’. Jane’s smile broadened. So this was the man Jayne had run away from. Hard to see why. He was beautiful in a rugged way, and had the kindest eyes.

‘So there you are,’ said Gary, making Jane jump. ‘What do you think then?’ he said, indicating the room.

‘It’s beautiful.’

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