Praise for Jane Sigaloff’s
Name & Address Withheld:

“This book is the perfect antidote to Christmas

get-togethers. Escape to a comfy chair and enjoy!”

—Company

“Sigaloff’s first novel is without doubt

an engaging romantic comedy!”

—Booklist

“Witty, juicy and romantic—a clever, controversial

comedy about finding love in all the wrong places.”

—Bestselling author Sarah Mlynowski

“Moving and cleverly written…

a great present for a girlfriend in need of some love

advice (we all have one of these).”

—handbag.com

“4½ stars… Sigaloff has an interesting

take on the relationship conundrum.”

—funkybitch.com

“Unusually daring in its approach…”

—The Big Issue

Jane Sigaloff

was born in London and, despite brief trips into the countryside, Jane has always been a city girl at heart. After studying history at Oxford University she entered the allegedly glamorous world of television, beginning her career as tea and coffee coordinator for Nickelodeon U.K. After she progressed to researcher and then to assistant producer, her contracts took her to MTV and finally to the BBC where she worked for over three years.

Since 2000, Jane has enjoyed a double life as a part-time P.A., which has given her more time to write and feel guilty about not going to the gym. She lives in London with her laptop and ever-expanding CD collection. Lost & Found is her second novel.

Find out more about Jane at: www.janesigaloff.com

By the same author:

Name & Address Withheld

Lost & Found

Jane Sigaloff

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In a concerted attempt to be more concise than last time, immeasurable thanks and much love to my friends and family for their unwavering support, for listening (or at least making encouraging noises while thinking about other things), for their positivity and for ensuring that the life of this writer is by no means a solitary one.

In particular:

Omi—my PR granny extraordinaire. Kate—for always being there for me (and for valiant shelf patrol). Charlotte—for indispensable and immediate fast-talking advice. Louise, Alice, Gemma, Mandy, Fred and all at the Barnes Ladies Writing Circle—it wouldn’t be as much fun without you. Marten Foxon, the most flexible boss in London—for employing the only part-time part-time P.A., for being grammatically pedantic and for tales of the city. Melissa, Stuart and Clodagh—for providing insight into life as a lawyer and answering all my questions with due consideration. Peter French and Alex Tscherne at the Carlyle Hotel, New York, for unrivaled hospitality.

As always, thanks to my agent, Carole Blake, to Sam Bell for editorial prowess and keeping me focused, to Claire Sawford for PR duties and to the whole Red Dress Ink team who have worked so hard on my behalf both in the U.K. and North America.

For my parents—

all of them

and

for Paul—

my little big brother and partner in crime

since 1975.

Contents

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter One

‘Something to drink, sir?’

‘We’ll have champagne…’

Sam hid behind her eyelids. She’d closed them for the steep climb from JFK and must have slipped straight into a power nap. But now she was very much awake. And listening. Taittinger + senior supervising partner (flirting) + altitude of 38,000 feet = certain recipe for disaster.

‘Just a still mineral water for me, please.’ Opening her eyes, Sam automatically ran a finger along her bottom lashes to remove any smudges of mascara, whilst flexing her calves and curling and uncurling her toes to prevent the onset of DVT. If she focused on her legs she was almost sure she could feel that the blood flow was a little sluggish in the bended knee area. Hypochondria in action. Sometimes knowledge was definitely not a good thing.

‘Oh, come on, let’s celebrate.’ Richard punched her arm playfully. Regrettably, despite the extra room in business class, he was still well within touching distance.

‘No, really. I might have some red with supper. You go ahead.’ She still couldn’t believe he’d flown out for the meetings. As for his behaviour last night—she was generously going to attribute it to the martinis. Yet he was sitting next to her. For the next seven hours. Twenty-first century purgatory.

‘Couldn’t you squeeze in one glass? We’re not billing them for this hour.’

Now he was trying lawyer jokes. ‘No, thanks.’ Champagne invariably gave her a headache at sea level. ‘Just the water.’ She exchanged an esoteric smile with the flight attendant as another waft of his Eau de Testosterone threatened to choke them both.

‘Great work this week. Very impressive. You know how highly I rate you.’

Typical ambiguity on the personal-professional line. But, while Sam could feel her flesh starting to crawl, her demeanour gave nothing away.

‘They were always going to take our recommendations.’

Determined to avoid prolonged eye contact, Sam rummaged in her bag for her lip balm and wished she could be teleported back to London. Business trips were one thing, but a night in New York with Richard Blakely was in a different league altogether. Especially given that the only merger she was working on didn’t involve him.

‘Maybe, but I’d forgotten how good you are round the table…’

‘I enjoy it. Especially when things go our way.’

Wallet, passport, make-up, hairbrush, mobile phone, PalmPilot, perfume, chewing gum, hand cream, dental floss—come on, come on. If her lips were to survive the brutal in-flight air-conditioning she couldn’t give up now. She was sure she could actually feel cracks forming.

‘…and you’ve always been a bit of a ball-breaker. I wouldn’t trust you with mine…’

Definitely not the impression he’d given her last night.

‘Cheers…’

Richard raised his glass and, hang on, was that a wink? Sam wasn’t sure. Watching as he tipped his head back åand took a long sip, she forced herself to think positive. Maybe a stray beam of light had caught the edge of his trophy Rolex as it peeped out from underneath his stiff made-to-measure Jermyn Street cuff. Not a glimmer of embarrassment from him. Nor any sign of a hangover. Amazing.

Picking her bag up from the floor, Sam continued her search in the upright position just in case he thought she’d been aiming for his lap. She’d never so much as given him a modicum of encouragement—unless wearing a just-above-the-knee-length skirt to her final interview at City law firm Lucas, Lex, Lawton six years ago could be cited as foreplay—but her lack of interest didn’t seem to bear any relevance to his level of enthusiasm or dedication to her cause. His confidence levels were as unnaturally high as the balance of his current account.

‘…we could teach them a thing or two about drinking, though.’

‘Mmm.’ Sam wasn’t listening. She’d heard it all before. But she knew she should be grateful that at least she wasn’t expected to provide the in-flight entertainment.

‘So, what have you got planned for the weekend?’ Richard’s tenacity on the conversation front was commendable. ‘What does one of London’s most eligible women get up to when I let her out of the office?’

‘Oh, not much…’

Her choice. Sam refocused on the methodical check of the pockets of her bag, which should have been a dedicated site of special scientific interest. It would appear that they were breeding Biros and tampons.

‘I haven’t had a clear weekend at home in…’ she paused ‘…well, with the three-ringed circus of hen weekends, weddings and work, we’re probably talking months…’

Still sifting through the contents of her shoulder Tardis, Sam squinted at the screen showing their route across the Atlantic. To her dismay the computer-generated plane had barely left the Eastern seaboard, and was creeping north at the sort of pace that had given snails a bad name.

‘…and I’ve got loads to sort out—you know, all that life laundry that always has to take a back seat…’

She was craving a marathon gym session followed by an evening in and a long soak in an aromatherapy bath with the current men in her life: Paul Mitchell, Charles Worthington, John Frieda and, of course, her oldest and most loyal shampooing partner Tim O’Tei. Candles. Chill-out CD. No more having to make polite chit-chat. A bowl of bran flakes. Bliss.

Sam’s bathtime bubble burst and her stomach knotted instantly as she realised her bag was emptier than normal. The plight of her lips paled into insignificance as, uninvited, a cold sweat crept up the back of her neck.

A furtive glance to her left. To her relief Richard appeared to have finally taken the hint and was now staring out of the perspex window, apparently mesmerised by the blackness of the night sky. Or perhaps checking his too-perfect teeth in the reflection. Sam peered into the dark folds of her bag before unzipping the myriad compartments one more time, just in case she might have misfiled or overlooked it. Not that she did ‘over-look.’ Fuck.

‘Everything Okay?’ Richard sensed a change in the force. A tell-tale furrow had appeared in her brow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

‘Fine.’ Sam forced a smile and, leaning back stiffly in her seat, closed her eyes to create a few seconds of personal space. Maybe it was in her laptop case? A spark of hope followed by a dash of reality. She knew it wasn’t. And none of this would be happening if he hadn’t interrupted her routinely obsessive check of drawers and cupboards earlier.

She had to move fast. Only right now she was on a plane which, even with a complementary tailwind, was hours from Tarmac and a private telephone opportunity. Forcing herself to take a sip of her water, she reclined her seat, headphones on, volume off, pretending to watch the screen sprouting from the end of her armrest. But while the images flickered enticingly, they failed to penetrate her thoughts. The water felt like a river of neat acid as it burned its path down to her stomach. Internal turbulence. But in nineteen years her diary had never let her down, never told her it was too busy, never not been there for her…until now.

Ben refused to open his eyes. Having tossed and turned for most of the night, typically he’d only finally managed to drift into a proper sleep moments before the alarm had gone off. Yet it appeared, from the generally high activity levels going on around him, that his sister was well and truly up. On a Friday morning. On vacation. He must have been adopted; there was no way they could share genes.

Doing his utmost to pretend he was still asleep, he willed the steady hum of the air-conditioning to lull him back into unconsciousness, and was practically knocking on nirvana’s door when a very familiar voice started up right next to his ear. He should have read the small print. This had been sold to him as a free weekend away, not some sort of boot camp. But there was always a catch.

‘Ben…jy.’ The sing-song pre-school approach to his name was quickly cast aside in favour of an impatient bark. ‘Ben… Come on.’ If he’d had four legs he’d have known he was in trouble. ‘Look, I know you’re awake—your breathing’s changed. Come on, will you?’ No wonder David hadn’t minded him taking his place. Ben wondered whether his clients really were in town this weekend.

Ali poked his arm and Ben faked a somnolent shrug and murmur before opening one eye—partially and deliberately obstructed by his arm over his face—giving him a restricted view of his sister, who was squatting down at the edge of the bed. He tried not to smile. Things hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Then on Sunday mornings she’d physically prised his eyelids apart to prove that he was awake before forcing him to play stupid games—usually involving dressing up in clothes their mother had charitably donated to their cause—he suspected now, merely so that she hadn’t had to actually throw or give them away.

‘Ha! Stop pretending. I just saw you open your eye. Your arm shield needs work.’

Ben stretched indulgently before propping himself up on the pillows. ‘Give me a break.’

‘I know you.’

‘I’d hope so.’

‘Better than you know yourself.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure about that.’

‘Well, I know that this pretending to be asleep ruse is a) gym avoidance…’

It was fair comment. But the sight of Ali in full Nike regalia before nine on a Friday morning was inducing acute narcolepsy. After hours of sleep deprivation, his eyelids felt incredibly heavy, and a vortex of dizziness was threatening to pin him to the mattress.

‘…and b) because you’re still worrying about Julia. Come on. You should come for a workout with me.’

‘Are you insane?’ Ben yawned and stretched before springing back into the foetal position.

‘You could do with it.’

Ben clenched his stomach muscles and stabbed at his T-shirt-covered torso to reassure himself that he still had some muscle tone, even if it was currently a few centimetres below the surface.

‘Maybe later. I’ve never been any good at physical exertion first thing. And I’ve only had about ten minutes’ sleep so it might just kill me.’

Ali rolled her eyes.

‘Okay, maybe a couple of hours, tops, but I didn’t sleep much on the plane.’ He couldn’t help it if he was a sucker for seat-back Nintendo games and multiple movie channels playing on a loop. ‘And I’ve never been a morning person.’

‘It’s nearly two in the afternoon for us.’

‘For you, maybe. Anyway, that would make it just about time for an afternoon snooze.’ Ben folded his arms behind his head and indulged in a prolonged blink. Closed was definitely preferable to open.

‘You can’t just lie here moping.’

‘I would have been quite happy sleeping.’ Ben pulled the heavy Egyptian cotton covers up to his nose and relished the weight of the down duvet on his weak body.

‘Bull…it’d be good for you to get your blood pumping.’

‘It’d be better for you. You’re the one writing an article on the gym refurbishment. I might come along tomorrow, or I’ll go for a run in the park later. I need more sleep.’

‘Whatever.’

‘One of the advantages of being single is autonomy. Or at least that was the idea…’

‘Julia wasn’t bossy.’

Ben smiled to himself. In some respects she and Ali had been way too similar. They always say girls pick men like their fathers, but did brothers pick women like their sisters? Right now, he hoped not. ‘Besides I hate gyms. Too many mirrors. I want the before and after, not during. I mean, who looks good while they’re exercising?’

‘You’ll have to look yourself in the eye eventually, and she’s bound to have pulled herself back together by now—she’s a tough cookie…’

He just wished she didn’t have to hate him in the process.

‘Far better that you were honest. The longer you’d left it, the harder it would have become—and if you’d strung her along I’d have disowned you. Plus, just for the record, there are far more single women of your age out there than men. Read any of the magazines on my bedside table if you don’t believe me.’

‘Hey, I’m not desperate.’

‘I know.’

‘Even if I said the “d” word out loud, which might mean that you think I am because I’ve said I’m not.’

‘You are such an amateur shrink sometimes.’

‘I’m just a little disheartened. She wasn’t who I’d thought she was.’

‘We’ve all done it.’ Ali shuddered at the memories of dating pre-David. The drip-feeding of information at appropriate moments in an attempt to generate common ground before coming out with the more contentious, potentially deal-breaking stuff farther down the line. At seventeen she’d even reinvented herself sartorially in pursuit of Johnny’s affections. But he had been very cute. Everyone in her year had wanted to date him.

Ben smiled. ‘Are we talking ten-hole Doc Martens?’

Ali nodded sheepishly. Hormones had a lot to answer for.

‘And the rockabilly quiff…?’ He was enjoying this moment. She’d looked like a cross between Morrissey and the B52s.

She laughed nervously, willing the conversation to move on. ‘It was an important experimental phase…’

‘Turn-ups on your vintage 501s…bright red lipstick… Mum thought you were about to come out.’

‘Yeah, yeah… All photographic evidence has been systematically destroyed. And I don’t think I need to take this from the boy who wore eyeliner.’

‘Once. I was twelve and I wanted to be a New Romantic.’ Ben sighed, allowing his head to sink back into the pillow and making his next point to the ceiling. ‘It would just be much easier if single people were required by law to carry a card stating their genuine age, profession, aspiration for children, preference for Coke over Pepsi, cats over dogs, Friends over Frasier, you know…’

‘You need to get a real job. You’ve got far too much time to think.’

‘A real job like yours, eh? O freelance journalist.’

‘Just remember, it’s your choice that you’re on your own.’

Ben shrugged. Silence. Ali decided to ease off a little.

‘…so you’re not prepared to compromise. That’s a positive not a negative.’

Ben nodded sagely. Even at the time there’d been a sense of relief. Julia had become a habit rather than a choice. And he’d been very fond of her. Fond. That said it all. Great-aunts were fond of their great-nieces; the British nation had been very fond of the Queen Mother. But the bottom line was he wanted it all. The whole mutual love and respect thing. The Paul and Linda. The Brad and Jen. Someone to grow old with. To have children with. Or nothing.

‘But…’ there was always a bloody but ‘…maybe I was just being male. Wanting the thing I didn’t have just because… She was a great girl in lots of ways. Spent a bit too much time at the office…’

‘She was ambitious.’

‘So am I. I just don’t feel the need to talk about my career trajectory incessantly. And at least I have an office to go to.’

‘As do I.’

Ben scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘I think you’ll find yours is the spare room.’

‘At least I have a spare room.’

Why did she always have to have a comeback? ‘Anyway, people need television.’

Ali snorted. ‘Only in the way I need four pairs of black boots. Anyway, it’s not like you have a biological clock that’s ticking—and you’ve still got all your hair. Relax, unwind, have a bit of fun…’

Ben nodded. Right now the random shag option was far more alluring than playing the relationship game. He didn’t have the energy for false starts, thoughtful gifts and the whole wooing process if there wasn’t long term potential. Lazy? Tired? Uninspired.

‘She’s out there somewhere, Benj. Maybe even at the gym.’

‘Nice try, Al.’

Resting on his elbows, Ben eyed her suspiciously as she contorted herself through a number of stretches at the side of the bed. Women were definitely more supple than men, and Ali was always hyper when they were back in New York.

‘OK, I’m ready. Are you coming or what?’

‘Nope.’

‘Fine.’

Ben knew from her tone that it absolutely wasn’t, but he also knew she was his sister and by the time she’d sweated away over three hundred calories he’d be forgiven.

‘I’ll be about an hour. Why don’t you get some breakfast sent up?’

‘We can just grab coffee and a bagel.’ Ben wasn’t in the mood to spend forty dollars on tea and toast.

‘Order whatever you like. I’ll claim it.’

She knew him quite well.

‘I don’t want you whingeing about hunger pangs in a couple of hours—we’ve got a big shopping day ahead of us.’ Ben wished that he could get a little more excited at the prospect. ‘Now, shape up. This weekend is not all about you. Work aside, I need new clothes—and, having unpacked your bag, I know you do. Not least because we’ve barely made an impact on the walk-in wardrobe. I think this suite is bigger than your apartment in London.’

‘Not difficult.’

‘Stop being so antsy.’

‘I’m tired. Blame it on sleep deprivation. You’re the one who felt the need to set an alarm.’

Ali performed her most serious stretch while whistling ‘New York, New York’. It was like watching some freaks’ talent show.

‘And no one asked you to unpack for me.’ Maybe she was rechargeable. A couple of hours plugged into the mains and good as new. Now she was practically bouncing on the spot.

‘It was a pleasure. Love you too.’

The door closed—and opened again almost immediately. What now?

‘Hey, Daddy Warbucks, the Times and the Journal. I want you fully up to speed by the time I get back.’

The thud of broadsheet on carpet preceded the click of the room door and, relieved to finally be alone, Ben exhaled as he closed his eyes and fleetingly imagined himself on the treadmill. He could always go down and surprise her. Just a couple more seconds.

One of the things he loved most about living in England was the fact that everyone he knew talked about going to the gym whilst in the pub and, with the exception of January, they didn’t quite get there. As long as you paid your membership and could theoretically go and work out instead of hitting a bar, you actually felt fitter. And anyway, he always walked up escalators. Well, if he wasn’t carrying heavy bags…

Suddenly dimly aware that he was on the verge of his deepest sleep yet, Ben jerked awake. Sitting up far too fast, a wave of numbing pins and needles swept up his body as he stared at the alarm clock. It had only been a few minutes. Reaching for the remote he allowed himself a quick pre-shower television moment while his body came to terms with the fact that sleeping opportunities were over for the day.

He surfed fast and purposefully. If his career wasn’t going to be spiritually rewarding or making a difference, it could at least be paying better. He needed to be thinking format. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? He did. Such a simple idea. Just sadly not his.

Flicking between MTV and VH1, now he was awake he needed sustenance—even if the only growing he was doing these days was outwards. Leaning over, he tried the bedside drawer—Manhattan Super Pages and a pristine Holy Bible. In a single movement he rolled over to the other side of the bed. Nothing. Forcing himself into the vertical position, he padded across to the desk and checked the drawers.

Bingo. 1 x folder containing everything you would ever want to know about the hotel and its environs, including the extensive Room Service menu, and 1 x nondescript black hardback book. Moments later breakfast for two was on order and Ben was back in the horizontal position. But with the MTV channels on a simultaneous ad break, cartoons and infomercials on almost every channel that wasn’t showing the news, and Ali’s glossy magazines proving to be totally resistible, Ben opened the black book at a random page.

‘If anyone calls from The Carlyle put them through immediately…’

Please. Mel mouthed the word silently as she rolled her eyes at no one in particular from her desk outside Sam’s office.

‘…and I need those file notes typed up as soon as you’ve got a moment.’

‘Will do.’

Sam dialled the next number without even looking at the keypad.

‘Good afternoon, Greenberg Brownstein. EJ Rutherford’s office.’

‘Hi, is she there?’ Sam took another sip of her cranberry juice on the off chance that her nausea might be attributable to dehydration rather than the projection of what just might be in a no holds barred, worst-case scenario. Never before had she wanted to be able to turn back time. Where were Michael J. Fox and his customised DeLorean when she needed them?

‘Who’s calling?’ Standard screening procedure and a success-related perk. When your firm charges you out at nearly four hundred pounds an hour you get a full-time secretary-shaped filter to allow you to select who you speak to.

‘Sam Washington.’

She was through in a nanosecond.

‘Hi, darling. How was NYC? I haven’t been home for way too long.’ EJ kicked her shoes off under her desk, rubbed her tired feet against her ten-denier encased calves and swivelled in her chair to face the window. Blue sky and cold golden sunshine mocked her from the other side of the enormous double-glazed pane that was designed never to open. There might as well have been bars on it. She deserved a break.

‘Not bad.’ Who was she kidding? Sam glanced around the sanctuary of her office. Two hundred and seventy-five square feet of personal space. Almost a direct reflection of the percentage of her life spent at work. Not to mention the millions she’d made for the partners. She definitely needed some sleep and a holiday. Unless she was having a quarter life crisis. In which case she was expecting to live one hundred and sixteen years… Maybe taking golf lessons wasn’t such a stupid idea after all?

‘Did you bring me a Tootsie Roll?’ EJ Rutherford, top corporate lawyer, reduced to seven-year-old child complete with whiny voice at the prospect of her favourite candy.

‘No.’

‘What? Hey, you’re kidding, right?’

‘Sorry—I forgot. Mad rush at the airport. Plus I had Richard with me.’ See, she could do normal. Just another day at the office. And the hotel hadn’t called, so at this precise moment nothing was officially lost, merely missing in action.

EJ regrouped quickly and remained as optimistic as she could under the circumstances. ‘Raisinets?’ The silence spoke for itself. ‘Reese’s Pieces?’

‘You can buy them here.’

‘But they don’t taste the same. Did you say Richard was with you?’

‘They are exactly the same… Yup, he just turned up out of the blue for the meeting.’

‘Jeez. That man has a nerve. You’ve got to hand it to him—he sure is persistent.’

‘I don’t have to hand him anything.’

‘Hey, easy, tiger.’

‘Sorry, it’s been a long week.’

‘So…’ EJ sounded like a child bracing herself for disappointment. ‘Did you bring me anything at all?’

Sam exhaled. This she could handle. ‘I might have copy of W in my computer case…’

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘…and a bag or two of Reese’s.’

‘Awesome. Yay. Thanks, darling. You’re the best. I love presents.’

‘They’re one hundred and five per cent fat.’

‘Just because you don’t like peanut butter…’

It was a valid point.

‘Anyway, they taste of home to me.’

‘Give me a fruit & nut any day. You guys have a lot to learn about chocolate and biscuits. I mean, Chips Ahoy? What’s that all about?’

‘They’re cookies.’

‘You are so pedantic.’

‘Look who’s talking…’ EJ trailed off, distracted by a man skilfully pasting a new twenty-four-sheet poster onto the advertising hoarding visible from her window. He was making it look very easy.

‘Anyway, how’s things? Good week?’

‘Just another takeover at the office. Still, at least the weekend is looking pretty safe—although I’m still standing by for final instructions from an American fund on an acquisition. Fancy a bit of supper tomorrow? It feels like ages since we last actually saw each other.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ The more distractions the better.

‘Excellent.’

‘Maybe we could squeeze a film in too?’

EJ watched the young man smooth the final sheet down with his low-tech broom, finally revealing the release date of the film his handiwork was promoting.

‘How about Taking Stock?’ Never underestimate the power of advertising. He wasn’t exactly the Diet Coke man, but it was quite refreshing to see muscles, jeans and Timberlands…and a full head of hair—a pretty rare sight at Greenberg Brownstein, where, it would appear, the success of male employees was intrinsically linked to their being follically challenged.

‘Taking Stock?’

‘Yup.’ EJ squinted at the billboard. ‘“Jim Stock, Wall Street whizz kid, goes missing”—and by the look of the ad campaign it’s going to be big budget and totally unrealistic.’

‘Perfect. Nothing I like more than a bit of global financial meltdown on a Saturday night.’

‘Great, because it’s finally happening. I’m losing touch with popular culture. We so need an extra day in the week. Just imagine—three-day weekends every week, only forty-five weeks a year… It’d be a hell of a lot more popular than the Euro. You sure you’re Okay? You’re very quiet. Unless, of course, you’re just using me as filler while you go through your inbox…’

Sam took her finger off her mouse button. She’d only been skimming a few. Meanwhile the clock on her phone was silently baiting her. 13:36. 08:36 in Manhattan, and they’d promised they’d check first thing. Sam didn’t care about interrupting the sleep of guests who’d paid over five hundred dollars for a night of luxury. Plus it was Friday; most of them were bound to be jogging around the reservoir or knee-deep in a breakfast meeting by now.

‘Did it all go well?’

‘I’m just tired.’ Finally it would appear her physiology was starting to limit her once indefatigable attitude. One of her school reports had called her a human dynamo; now she needed a jump start. Sam rested her forehead on her fist and exhaled.

‘What’s with the yawning? Didn’t you sleep at all?’

‘Hmm?’ To her annoyance, Sam was feeling worse since she’d got to the office.

‘Sleep…on the plane?’

‘A bit. Well, I pretended to so I didn’t have to small-talk my way home, but I had a lot on my mind…’ Her masochistic self wanted to confess, but EJ wasn’t really listening. Sam didn’t begrudge her. They were both experts in self-absorption—plus, since their law school days they’d had an unwritten rule that governed their friendship, outlawing negativity and insecurity. Together they perpetuated strength and success. And Sam hadn’t granted this situation crisis status yet.

‘I know what you mean, honey. What are we like—? Oh, my God!’ EJ interrupted herself. ‘I just have to tell you about last night.’ EJ dropped her voice to an almost whisper. ‘Let me tell you there is only one thing worse than a dinner party full of couples at our age, and that is a singles dinner party thrown charitably by a couple of cohabitees attempting to streamline their Christmas card list. I seriously thought about stabbing myself with a fork during the main course so I could pretend I was coming down with meningitis. Seventy per cent of the men were called Ed, only fifty per cent had hair, forty per cent had talked about their serious ex before dessert and, at a guess, one hundred per cent of them would like to screw a thirty-year-old lawyer, if not marry one.’

‘Well, I’m safe for a few more weeks, then.’

‘Why is it now that we’ve hit our thirties we’re suddenly expected to be grateful for any male attention that comes our way? If it wasn’t so fucking hilarious it’d make you want to cry. It’s all about older men. Obviously it’s better if they’re not married, but…’

Sam’s focus returned. ‘Elizabeth-Jane—you’re not, are you?’

‘No…afraid not. Even though it was the best sex I’ve ever had.’

‘La-la-la. Fingers in ears. Not listening.’

‘Oh, yes, you are. Prude. Just because you haven’t had sex in…’

‘Hey, that’s harsh.’

‘Anyway, Nick’s ancient history.’

‘Just ancient.’

‘He’s only forty-eight…and I haven’t seen or spoken to him in weeks…’

‘Weeks? I thought it was January when you…’ Conscience more stabbed than pricked, and Sam swallowed hard as her error dawned on her.

‘Hey, a girl’s got to live a little…’

She’d had nowhere else to turn. But now, thanks to the blank page and Bic biro approach to secret-keeping, it wasn’t only her personal life currently out there on a pale blue feint line. Sam shook her head as her Friday feeling hit an all-time low. She envied EJ. Having a therapist was no stranger than having a hairdresser if you were American. And you couldn’t accidentally leave a therapist in a desk drawer.

‘I really better get on, honey. I need to sort some stuff out before my tele-con with the LA office. I promise I’ll give you the rest of the story tomorrow. I’m planning to run Hyde Park first thing—call me if you’re interested. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’

Sam was miles away, torturing herself silently with details. Now the phone had gone quiet. Bugger. And she hadn’t actually heard EJ say goodbye.

‘Look forward to…’ Sam stopped herself when the dialling tone cut in, confirming that she was talking to herself. Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared at her computer screen, seeing nothing except imaginary tabloid headlines. Despite her desire to come up with a proactive master plan, all roads currently led to Wait Patiently. Not something Sam Washington had been designed to do. Losing things coming a close second.

As if she’d been waiting for a silence, Mel popped her head round the door. Apparently privacy was an outmoded concept.

‘Three file notes for you to proof, and I’ve brought you some tea. Thought you might need pepping up before your meeting.’

Sam was about to request a herbal alternative, but from the wafts of minty steam knew her secretary had anticipated well.

‘Thanks. Meeting?’

‘Your two o’clock. Fifth floor. Conference room 1. Just thought it might have slipped your mind, what with the not having been to bed thing. I mean, I know your seat practically turns into one, but I imagine it’s not the same.’

‘Right. Yes. I’ll be there…thanks.’ Sam picked up a pen and stared at the papers on her desk. She’d been counting on losing herself in a drafting but the words were just taunting her. As for a meeting…

‘No problem.’ Mel turned as she got to the door. ‘Oh, and your mother rang. Please call her when you get a chance. She said it was fairly urgent.’

‘Will do…’

Sam suppressed her irritation. Despite repeated briefings on the subject, her mother still hadn’t grasped that phoning the office was best kept for emergencies and that organising Sunday lunch didn’t deserve ‘fairly urgent’ classification.

‘Oh and Mel?’

‘Yup?’

‘If The Carlyle Hotel call…’

‘I know, I know. I’ll put them straight through.’

‘Right…’

Conversation closed.

Taking a sip of her tea, Sam brushed her hair, applied a little extra Touche Éclat, a fresh coat of powder, lipgloss and a generous squirt of perfume from the bottle she kept in her desk drawer. Restored to at least a superficial level of normality, she smoothed down her skirt as she got to her feet, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Perfect.

Insecurities filed away in an internal drawer somewhere, she strutted towards the lift. She loved the high-profile deals, and she was getting more and more of them. Youngest partner in the City. She dared to dream. As long as EJ didn’t get there first.

Chapter Two

January 24th

Ben hesitated. Ali hadn’t seen the funny side of him reading her journal, and that had been nearly twenty years ago. But there was a high probability that this one might contain more than high school crushes, exam angst and playground politics. Plus, if he didn’t at least try to identify the author, how was he supposed to reunite the two in exchange for eternal gratitude? Perfect justification. He flicked back to the beginning.

If found please return to:

Flat 3,

68 Warwick Road,

Battersea,

London SW11 8HP

Damn. But breakfast wasn’t due for another forty-five minutes, and he only needed to have a quick shower. After all, he was unpacked already.

Jan 1st

Hungover. Should never have gone to Sophie’s dinner party. Food always fantastic—really must learn to cook properly—but midnight was a bit like watching the slow dance at the school disco. Bed at 4:00 a.m. Resolve to wake up next New Year’s Day without having to apologise to liver, stomach and kidneys for immaturity. Brain seems to have developed pulse of its own. Just waiting for it to burst out of my forehead, Alien stylee.

NY Res:

1. a) Run/cycle round Battersea Park at least 3 x week

b) Register for charity half-marathon. Would like to hit 30 at peak of physical fitness

Ben held his two-pack in. What was it with women and exercise? As far as he could make out they spent most of their schooldays avoiding physical education before devoting their late twenties to single-handedly combating the twin forces of evil—cellulite and gravity—determined to make amends.

2. Posture.

Stand and sit up straight.

Don’t want to become hunchbacked old woman

He sat up a little straighter. Round shoulders were the curse of the comfort generation.

Smile while walking fast. Don’t want to be old and fierce-looking with furrowed brow

3. No carbs. (January only) Fresh fruit x 5 daily. Espec. red peppers and tomatoes—antioxidants

4. Read one Penguin Classic every 2 months

5. Keep legs and bikini line hair-free even in depths of winter—remember am doing it for self

6. Be better friend, however busy at work. Owe Sophie and Mark at least five dinners—prob. more

7. Sort out nuclear winter in window boxes and try and keep them alive for more than two months at a time. Replanting is cheating. Water might help. Think last batch of plants were dodgy. Water. Sun. Photosynthesis. How hard can it be?

8. a) Have great sex

b) Have sex more than once

c) Have sex more than once with the same person

d) That person must be someone you have never had sex with before

9. Pilates or yoga? Research difference

Research difference? Ben scoffed. He was sure one was just the new-fangled version of the one before. It was all a gimmick. New millennium women were exhausting.

10. Streamline wardrobe. Be ruthless. Do not need another pair of black trousers, probably ever.

11. Buy anti-wrinkle cream. Is it too late once wrinkles have started to appear? Ask EJ. She seems to have inside track on new products

12. Buy night repair cream—why do repairs have to take place at night? Is it like roadworks? But no one has to dig anything up, do they?

13. Find tennis coach. Am too old to still have a crap serve

14. Try whisky again. May have grown into it now.

Ben grimaced sympathetically. He’d never understood the allure of cough medicine with ice or water, and despite David’s repeated determination to make him a man, Southern Comfort was as close as he’d managed to get to the whole malt zone.

15. Exfoliate

Liver now feels like is trying to burrow its way out of my back cavity. Sure in desperation it has borrowed water from other vital organs. Can’t rehydrate fast enough and have officially run out of soap operas, Australian, American and otherwise, to watch on apparently numerous digital television channels that I pay for. Hangovers definitely getting worse.

EJ says we have passed physical peak. Wish I’d known when I was reaching the summit. Should’ve had more random sexual encounters. Anyway, who says I need man to rescue me? Am perfectly happy. Wonder how Paul is? Oh, no. Usual downward hangover spiral and selective memory kicking in. Always wouldn’t mind having boyfriend, however unsuitable, on days like today. And if alcohol is a depressant why did I feel so good last night? Lonely. No one has called. Not even Mum. Don’t know why I bother to have answer-machine and call-waiting.

Ben shook his head. If she had just got off her toned arse and headed down to the pub for a couple of Bloody Marys with a buddy or two she’d have been feeling a lot better, he was sure of it.

Must call Sophie and Mark and say thank you. Not now. Probably still in bed. Not sure will make it out of house today. Maybe should add atrophy to list of skills to perfect this year.

All out of empathy, he flicked forward a handful of pages.

Jan 16th

Bad day. 1—Caught myself counting faint lines on forehead in lift mirror at 7:00 a.m. before remembering CCTV memo. 2—Richard called twice about having lunch to discuss my progress—more like his progress. 3— Departmental drinks tonight—decision to have onions in salad at lunch was wrong one. 4—Monster spot brewing on lipline, with roots in central nervous system and fast-track link to tear ducts. Have drenched in tea-tree oil and now whole office smells like aromatherapy zone. Have despatched Mel to buy industrial strength cover-up and air-freshener.

Ben yawned. Just reading her life was exhausting, but no wonder Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones were world-famous. It was mundanely addictive stuff, and without thinking he’d conjured up a mental picture of a black-trousered, ageing, hyper-active hunchback in need of chill-out, pilates and serve lessons.

Hope that someone laughs at early attempt to be witty before I lose will to live or they notice spot. Definitely should not have attempted pre-emptory squeeze. Lip must not swell. Are there genuinely confident people out there or are they just better at bluffing than the rest of us?

Sam sat in the conference room and watched the bubbles in her mineral water lose their battle to cling to the bottom of the glass before forcing herself to concentrate by diligently taking copious notes. Doing her utmost to avoid Richard’s gaze, even though she could feel him observing her from the other side of the table, she channelled all her positive mental powers of retrieval to the other side of the Atlantic.

Jan 21st—Edinburgh

Freezing my tits off despite two fleeces and long sleeved T-shirt. Perfect skiing weather, only there’s no snow and no piste. If I ever have hen weekend it will be somewhere hot and will not involve being hungover in hiking boots. Sunshine is glorious. Wind-chill is positively Scandinavian. Thank God Sophie has opted for London-based traditional drinks, dinner and nightclub approach. Hope Gemma not having some sort of travellers reunion on Designers Guild sofa and has remembered to feed George.

Hard to share after months alone, and probably impossible to ever find someone totally compatible post-Soph. Can’t believe G caught me waxing legs in front of Dolly Parton documentary on Thursday night. Now probably thinks I am some bluegrass nut. And all because I couldn’t face Newsnight. Miss the anonymity. And do miss topless cup of coffee first thing, pre-shower. Maybe am secretly some sort of naturist? Will actively discourage that tendency.

Deal should close next week. Hope EJ is still up for skiing. Can’t believe she is still sleeping with NG after everything he’s put her through. But apparently sex is awesome.

Ben stopped skimming. This was the Holy Grail of diary snooping.

Fact he is so well known has got to be recipe for disaster…not to mention the takeover. Have had serious chat and she’s adamant he’s got more to lose than she has. Therefore she’s safe. She didn’t even buckle at the Hello! spread. Perfect home, perfect children, perfect wife. But you can’t just go shagging the other side. Even if he did make the first move, how could she ever prove it?

A surge of adrenaline powered up Ben’s hard drive as he began to scour his archives. NG… NG…

Can’t believe it’s been on and off for 5 months.

Ben counted back on his fingers to August/September and added the details to his search. Still nothing.

She insists monogamy is flawed. I just don’t want to see her get hurt. Of course if you never over-estimate a man then he’ll never let you down, but she deserves so much more, and it’s not like she needs to be checking in and out of hotels midweek, even if they are all five-star. She claims it’s all on her terms, but how can it be when he dictates where and when? She says this is the future. I am still hoping for more. Seems impossible that is now six years since my last, okay my only serious relationship ended. Wanted period of being single, but not necessarily a lifetime. And what if that was the best I—

A knock, followed by—what was that?—the doorbell?

As he crash-landed back in his world, Ben’s amusement at the fact their room was large enough to merit a bell was only momentary as he heard a key slice into the lock.

‘Coming…’

Momentarily forgetting the breakfast order, he wondered whether this could have been a set-up. The curse of a vivid imagination coupled with mild paranoia. One of the many side effects of being a true creative…along with lower than average salary, propensity towards messiness, predilection for alcohol and the inability to look truly smart even in a suit.

‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ Stuffing the diary under his pillows, Ben strode across the fitted carpet to answer the door.

Disappointingly there was no sign of any food. Instead, a woman power-dressed in a black suit, who looked as if she had been made up enthusiastically by Picasso using a trowel, was waiting patiently, hands clasped to display her freshly manicured nails.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you, sir…’

Ben loved the formality of hotels. Being a paying guest was a prostitution of sorts. Instant respect without having to earn it so long as you had a valid credit card number. Where else would a thirty-something producer for a mediocre television production company, dressed in his underwear, be addressed with such deference? Although somewhat disappointingly she had resisted the urge to bob a curtsey. It wasn’t until he felt her gaze wander to his midriff and back that Ben realised he was only wearing boxer shorts. A cursory glance due south confirmed that nothing was gaping and everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, albeit shrinking rapidly.

‘I can come back a little later if this is a bad time?’ This time she looked him squarely and unblinkingly in the eye, the directness of her stare more than a little unnerving.

‘Really, it’s no problem. What can I help you with?’ Ben folded his arms across his chest to remove the likelihood of his hands accidentally straying to his groin area for a morning scratch. It was either that or hands on hips, which would have looked even stranger and much camper, if not like a little teapot. He would have pulled on yesterday’s jeans if he’d been able to see them. Obviously they were hanging in a wardrobe for the first time in their life. There were advantages to having an interfering older sister, but this wasn’t one of them.

‘It really shouldn’t take a minute.’

‘I was just getting up anyway…’ To his relief, Ben spotted a bathrobe and belted it round him to reduce his increasing feeling of semi-nakedness. But now, with his underwear still on underneath, he might have appeared more decent but he felt like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Lily Savage.

She was still hesitating on the threshold.

‘Really. Come in.’ Taking a step to one side, and with a hospitable sweep of his arm, he finally persuaded her to enter the room and, shoulders back, she strode past him to the bedroom.

Retreating to the sitting room, Ben pulled back a curtain, flooding the room with light. It had been dark when they’d arrived, but now a patchwork of power stretched out below, the long green rectangle of Central Park a perfect contrast to the density of towers midtown that made the New York skyline one of the most distinctive in the world.

The sky was a perfect high-pressure blue, and as the sun reflected off cars and windows, with glimpses of handkerchief-sized stars and stripes blowing in the crosstown breeze over twenty floors below, it was as if the city was twinkling. Surveying the scene, he was overtaken by a sense of pride. He loved London—its quirkiness, its history, its architecture—but the British just couldn’t do skyscrapers. Canary Wharf wasn’t in the same league.

‘I’ve just got to check a couple of drawers.’

‘No problem.’

‘The previous guest thinks she may have left something behind…’

‘Really?’ Ben silenced himself. Each word on the subject only deepened his deception. Picking up the New York Times he forced himself to sit down and act natural. He was an oxy-moron in action. Maybe just a moron. And he might as well have been holding the Times upside down for all the information he was gleaning.

Ben watched and listened over the top of the paper, half expecting the book to fling itself into open view from its inadequate hiding place. But on Tuesday he’d be back in London—or he could hand it in to Reception later. It was a win-win situation.

Sam stared at the Post-It in the centre of her desk. Melanie’s curvy writing filled the primrose-yellow. There had to be a logical explanation. But if she didn’t have it and neither did the hotel…

Her chest was tight. Only a diary. Only a diary. Only a diary… It wasn’t working. If anything, hysteria was tiptoeing a little closer. If she’d wanted to expose her soul to an audience she’d have been a talk-show host, not a lawyer. Yet now someone had the fast-track to her unencrypted inner sanctum and, worst of all, it wasn’t only her privacy that had been invaded.

Sam shook her head vehemently and deliberately. She needed a calming influence. There was only one person for the job. She might have moved out in October to start a joint life with Mark in their little house on the Fulham prairie, but thankfully she was still at the end of the phone.

Sophie eyeballed the phone, daring it to ring. She’d only popped out for stamps, and she’d left return messages for Sam everywhere. Something was up. She couldn’t remember the last time Sam had called her at home in the afternoon. All part of the not-needing-anyone-for-anything charade that she seemed to have successfully perpetuated with everyone who hadn’t met her before she’d finally split up with Paul.

Double-checking she had all the photos and samples she needed for her meeting, Sophie made herself another coffee. As the kettle boiled she stared critically into the mirror, pawing at imperfections only she could see before standing back to allow a more soft-focus view and grimacing to tighten the skin of her neck in an attempt to exercise the muscles responsible for keeping her chin in place.

As Mark swept in to the sitting room, pinstriped from head to toe, newspaper tucked under his arm, a bunch of flowers wrapped in the usual pastel paper from the flower stall outside the tube station, Sophie gave her hair a quick flick and hoped he hadn’t noticed her moment of gurning madness. She was never going to stop men in the street with her looks, but she’d always been attractive enough. And happy enough. It was just—well, what with all the planning for the wedding she couldn’t help becoming a little more self-absorbed and self-conscious…

‘Hello, you. Happy weekend. Smells gorgeous in here.’ Mark presented Sophie with the bouquet and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek before striding over to the oven and peering in. ‘Mmm. Cottage pie. My favourite. You are clever. Lucky me. But only a small dish…’ He looked up. ‘So does this mean you’re abandoning me again this evening?’

‘Only for a few hours. And only for another woman.’

‘Excellent.’

Sophie smiled. Mark’s fantasies were as original as his taste in suits.

‘She’s just inherited four floors of Artex and woodchip in Richmond and needs serious help.’

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘Here’s hoping.’ Sophie walked over to her husband-to-be. His five-thirty shadow was giving him an atypically rugged appeal that she really quite liked. ‘It’s just an informal meeting—a chance for me to introduce myself and give her a few knee-jerk ideas—but at least this way I’ve still got the weekend to myself, and if she likes my recommendations it’s potentially my biggest project yet. Apparently her husband’s loaded.’

‘And hopefully devastatingly unattractive.’

‘Hideous, I believe. Anyway, there must be a good four hours of crucial sport for you to watch on cable until I get back.’

‘Well, they’re repeating the one-day cricket from India…’ Sophie pulled a face. She couldn’t understand the point of a sport in which the quick version took a whole day to play. ‘…plus there’ll be the weekend football and rugby previews, and of course essential tractor-pulling on Eurosport. But first I was planning on getting out of my uniform and having a little rest.’ Mark filled a pint glass with water from the mixer tap, liberally showering himself in the process.

‘Poor you. Have you had a horrible day?’

‘Not too bad, but it’s Friday so of course there was a large lunch to contend with.’

She should have known. His breath was far too minty for this time of the afternoon.

Mark grabbed at his love handles with a contradictory combination of pride and disgust. ‘These must be worth a fortune. Pure sirloin, frîtes and Fleurie.’ He gulped down his water, wiping his mouth on his forearm in the manner of a true nine-year-old. ‘What time are you off, then?’

‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’

‘Don’t go changing…’

It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.

Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’

Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.

Chapter Three

Ben sat himself down in a leather armchair identical to the one he had just vacated a few blocks east and, arranging the expanding collection of shopping bags at his feet, exchanged an empathetic smile with the men sitting on either side of him.

He’d done almost all his clothes-shopping in a couple of stores on Lexington straight after lunch, and yet this was their third branch of Banana Republic in two hours. Ali assured him this was their flagship, the mother ship, the Mecca, the ultimate collection, and until they opened a branch in London he’d just have to be patient. Reaching for the GQ magazine that he was using as a disguise, he settled into his seat and selected one of the most recent entries.

Wednesday March 21st

Furious. Richard turned up at hotel this morning all smiles for final meetings. Not even a call or e-mail first. Wanker. He claims he is relationship-building. Yadda-yadda-yadda. If he’s waiting for me to screw up it’s not going to happen.

Must keep calm. Home tomorrow. And, small consolation, did pick up killer DKNY trouser suit yesterday. Simple lines. Classic cut. Great fabric. Always feel unassailable in NYC. Energy levels infectious and people no ruder than in London. Need green card. Or American firm to sponsor me. Or American husband—note: George Clooney has previously shown a healthy degree of interest in English girls.

Nick still periodically chasing EJ. Am proud to report she is resisting and has no shortage of alternative offers. Own daily routine feeling bit flat by comparison. Busy enough socially, but is increasingly girlie nights and am often sole singleton at dinner parties, expected to entertain with tales of the City so they can relive their dating days vicariously. Less random new people. Need new project. Most exciting thing to happen to me last week was new series of Friends on E4. And never have time to watch whole series. Know I will end up buying DVD and filing it, unopened, along with others. Scene change would be good. And it’s not like I’m going to give it all up and make jam.

Ben shook his head. These pseudo-feminists were their own worst enemies, believing they could eat men for breakfast when all they really wanted was a man to make it for them.

Sometimes I think I’d like to spend more time outside.

Personal trainer? Landscape gardener?

Landscape gardener? He was supposed to be the creative one, yet in his regular life and career crises he only ever came up with the traditional bar owner/teacher/doctor options.

Or at least do something that feels more tangible. I have good job. Good salary. Qualifications. Prospects. But sometimes wonder if I am too sensible—own worst enemy—but then maybe grass is always greener in a landscaped garden. But haven’t met any guys with longterm potential since I’ve been at 3L. Not that this is all about a man. Far from it.

‘Yeah, right.’ Ben stabbed the diary with his finger before turning the page. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with problems. He was talking to a magazine.

Could retrain. Teaching is tempting. Salary is not. But increasingly feel would like to make a difference, however small.

Need gym session. Not sure fast walking in semi-heels to Bloomingdales and back counts as exercise. Now Richard has suggested exercising corporate Amex over cocktails with clients in Bemelmans Bar at 6.30. Could just be a little late. Woman’s prerogative. Then again, probably not quite future partner prerogative. At least have new classic cocktail dress. Makes me feel fabulous, especially now upper arms are more toned. On the whole these NY boys are more attractive than their British counterparts, but sadly they rarely have any substance, any real spirit. As if their strength has been sapped by their sand-coloured Chinos.

Ben shook his head and looked down at his black round-neck jumper and Diesel jeans, irritated by her descent into cliché. Yup, all American men were dull and without style, and all British women only had sex in the missionary position. Maybe if she stepped out of the executive gene pool she’d have a bit more fun.

I think Bill likes me, though. Should make evening slightly less painful. And with a bit of a power flirt I imagine ‘just call me Harvey’ will be happy to agree to the fee proposal and recommended deal structure, just as long as Richard doesn’t interfere. Cocktails not such bad idea after all. Bugger. Just seen time. Instead of scribbling could at least have done a session on the stepper.

Never had American man. Maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong…

He wasn’t surprised there wasn’t a queue. Like she knew anything about the real world, locked away in her ivory office block. Smug, supercilious…and single.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Ali strutted over in an all black outfit, a bundle of tags swinging from her belt loops.

‘Hmm?’ Ben gave his sister the once-over and, still fuming, must have accidentally frowned.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Ben did his utmost to minimise the machinations of a lawyer in crisis and focus on his sister as she sashayed along an imaginary catwalk in front of him before coming to an abrupt, less glamorous halt.

‘Well, come on—spit it out. I didn’t bring you along to be polite.’

‘It’s all lovely.’

‘Fence-sitter. Now, let’s start again. Trousers?’

Ben refocused. ‘Aren’t they the same as the ones you tried in the last place?’

Ali’s subsequent sigh was tinged with exasperation. ‘No, the waistband is totally different and there are no back pockets on these.’

‘Of course.’ Amateur error. How could he have missed the waistband/pocket detail?

‘Well?’

‘They’re very nice. Great. Get them. How much?’

‘Flattering?’ Ali ignored the last question. How could you put a price on the perfect pair of black trousers?

‘Yup. Very.’ Ben tried not to stare at his sister’s bottom. ‘Seriously, I like the cut. Simple lines and, um, great fabric—classic.’ Ali’s eyes lit up. Ben knew he’d hit the jackpot. ‘Yup, definitely classic.’ Silently he thanked his anonymous tipster. When it came to women’s fashion, she was good.

‘Great. Thanks. Right, just a few more things to try and then we’ll stop for a coffee.’

‘What else do you need?’

‘A couple of sweaters, maybe a spring coat, a bag, a belt…’

Ali paused. Ben was getting the idea.

‘It’s not like I’ve got a list…’

Of course. The hunter-gatherer try-it-all-before-deciding approach to a new wardrobe.

‘…but I’ll know them when I see them.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Thanks for being so patient.’

‘No problem. Look, we’re here now—take your time, try anything you like…’

Ali cocked her head and studied her brother for a moment before strutting back to her cubicle. What about the ‘they do have shops in London’ line he usually came out with? She’d get to the bottom of it just as soon as she’d found the perfect pair of jeans, and maybe a couple of sweaters…

Suddenly, clearing her social plate for her first night home was seeming less sensible. EJ was out, Sophie was with a prospective client, and Gemma was as likely to be home on a Friday night as Cherie Blair was to have a number one single. Yet Sam was lingering in the office, afraid to face up to both her conscience and her empty fridge.

For the twenty-first consecutive minute Sam stared out of her window, mesmerised by the moon rising over London. Perfectly round and almost whitely luminescent against an increasingly deep blue sky, it was the sort of scene you expected Elliot to cycle across with ET in his basket. And a timely reminder of the fact that the world was still doing its spinning thing while she remained powerless.

Sam swivelled back to face her desk and reached for another file-shaped dose of reality. Give her a complicated deal any day over the emotional stuff.

The writing was much messier now. And in a different pen.

Richard Blakely is a wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker.

Richard Blakely is an arrogant, misogynist wanker who wields his (not exactly enormous) sexuality like some sort of power tool.

Richard Blakely is a tool, an egomaniac, and my boss. Fucking marvellous.

A smudge. Her hand? A tear? Neat vodka?

How can this be happening? Tired of being an adult. Want someone else to take responsibility for me. To help. Am so tired.

‘You’re making me feel guilty, just sitting there. Why don’t I meet you in that enormous shop you love and I hate?’ Ali’s voice came sailing out of the changing area.

‘What?’ Grumpy at the interruption, Ben tuned back in to his life just as Ali appeared with an armful of rejects and further requests for the assistant.

‘The Virgin Megastore.’

‘The last thing I need now is a virgin.’

‘Benjamin…’ The warning tone. ‘Just go.’

Carefully he closed the magazine. ‘What you still fail to understand is that you can never have too much music. Fashions come and go. The soundtrack of your life is ever-expanding.’

‘Whatever.’

‘It’s true. Certain tracks are like milestones.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Which song did you have your first French kiss to?’

‘Um, George Michael—“Careless Whisper”.’

‘1984.’

‘You’re a freak, do you know that?’

‘And what were you wearing?’

‘God knows.’

‘See.’

‘Please, be a music anorak with my blessing…just leave me out of it. But really you might as well go on ahead. You must be bored out of your mind.’

‘Bored?’

‘I know what I’m like when I’m on a mission. I’ve still got a few more things I want to try here, and then I need to go to Barnes & Noble and Sephora.’

‘Here you go, miss.’ The assistant had returned with Phase 6 of the try-ons and another pseudo-genuine smile from her collection.

‘Thanks…could you find me a belt too?’

‘Sure.’

Ben rolled his eyes at the girl and she did her best not to reciprocate. Hey, the customer was always right. One belt selection coming right up.

‘Okay, I admit it. There’s no such thing as a selfless good deed.’ Ali headed back behind the curtain. ‘But you know how much I hate it when you insist on walking up and down every aisle, including the Country, World and Extreme Reggae departments. Maybe if we were married I’d find it endearing. Then again…’

‘I’ll go later…or tomorrow.’ Ben tried to focus.

Why is he even here tonight? Why can’t he understand I am not now, nor ever will be, interested in him? Can’t believe he actually suggested we have a fling. Correction, an affair. Jesus. Much worse. OK, I admit have been ignoring some signs, a few glances, a couple of compliments, but I never thought he meant anything until now.

And to think he said it wouldn’t change anything…

‘Ha. Busted. Extreme Reggae. I invented a whole new musical genre and you didn’t even notice.’

…that he actually suggested that fucking the boss, as he so delicately put it, might be exciting. That I’d be the perfect mistress. Mistress. He didn’t even want a one-night stand. What is it with me? What is it that I exude that makes men want to sleep with me, yet date and marry someone else?

‘Yup.’ Ben selected a monosyllabic random response and hoped it fitted in with the general gist of Ali’s conversation.

God, I’m stupid to have let him come up here when he said he just wanted to collect some papers. Honestly didn’t think I was being naïve. I only went to the bathroom for a minute and then there he was, in my bed, his clothes abandoned in a pile on the floor. How can Richard think of me as some sort of emotionally detached sexual predator? Increasingly unsure whether I even have a romantic core any more. Think Paul may have packed it, along with my Crowded House CD, when we split up. Must repurchase.

Nodding sympathetically, he turned the page. Julia had squirrelled away quite a few of his old favourites, but it had seemed a bit petty to bring it up at the time.

Could it be that I’ve only got as far at 3L because Richard…? Know I am being ridiculous. Am bloody good at what I do. But suddenly everything feels sordid. Why does it always have to boil down to sex? Why can’t it be more like school? End-of-year exams. Pointless rules. Regulation hockey socks. Gym knickers. But no sex. Well, not for me at any rate.

Ben’s eyes darted along every line, taking in as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Ali was bound to interrupt again any minute.

At least I kept my cool. Didn’t overreact. He apologised. Questionable sincerity. Claimed too much to drink. Got carried away. Should be carried away. Such a smooth operator. I never want to be a wife if this is what happens. Am adult. Can cope.

Still don’t know how EJ managed to be so laid back (laid back!) about NG thing. If it gets out her life at GB is as good as over, and all for the sake of a few orgasms. Then again, when was the last time I even had one of those? Maybe he wanted her to be his in-house counsel. But now his wife is expecting a third. And he never pretended his marriage was in trouble.

And why would I leave one of London’s top firms when I can almost see my name on the headed paper? Guess it’s just business as usual, then. I can do professional and so can he. I’m not the one with a wife and children. Sometimes the world is so disappointing. Wanted my life to be St Elmo’s Fire, not Carry On Up Against the Filing Cabinet.

Ben laughed before attempting to segue into more of a cough when he realised there were other people listening.

Ali waltzed out in a different outfit.

‘Hey. What about this?’ Ali pulled the back of the top down, tightening it across her chest. ‘Is the sweater too pink? Or not pink enough?’

Startled by her speedy return, Ben had barely enough time to tilt the magazine to his chest.

‘Nice.’

‘What?’

‘The pants. I mean the trousers.’ Twenty years of living in London and he was almost fluent in English.

‘Get with it. They’re the same.’ Ali wasn’t doing a great job of disguising her impatience. ‘It’s the top I want to know about.’

‘Quite tight. Good colour on you.’

‘It’s supposed to be tight.’

‘Then it’s fine.’

‘Fine? Just for the record “fine” and “nice” are not acceptable answers when clothes-shopping.’

‘It’s great. Splendid. Marvellous. Exquisite. Really, it suits you.’

‘Not too tight?’

‘No.’

‘And not too big either?’

‘No. Tight. Definitely tight.’

‘Sexy tight?’

‘I guess.’

‘But not tarty tight?’

‘No.’

‘Nor shrunk-one-size-in-the-wash too tight.’

‘No.’

‘Which is a good point.’ Ali twisted the seam until the care instructions were in her grasp. Dry Clean Only. But, fingering the wool, she was sure she could hand-wash it carefully. ‘Do you think David will like it?’ Ali was contorting her chest in the mirror and tilting her upper body through ninety degrees, presumably in case she ever needed to wear cashmere to a gymnastics meet.

‘I’m sure he’ll love it.’

‘And it’s not too pink?’

Too pink? Ben was confused. It was pink, definitely pink, but too pink? He was out of his depth.

‘No.’ He was a little hesitant.

‘I think it’s a great pink. Not too pale, not pastel or insipid, but not puce either…’

Phew. He’d clearly said the right thing.

‘I’ll take it. Shall I get it in black too?’

‘Why not?’ Ben’s attention had been drawn back to the page.

‘You don’t think black’s too harsh?’

‘No…’

‘Good. That’s what I thought.’

‘It’s just a sweater.’ It was a mumbled afterthought. Ali didn’t appear to hear him. Which was a relief. But, slowly taking his eye off the page, he realised she hadn’t retreated to her cubicle either. This didn’t bode well.

‘What are you reading about?’

‘Um, nothing.’

‘Ben?’ Her hand was definitely on her hip. ‘You never do reading unless there is absolutely nothing else to do. And it isn’t even the hundred sexiest women in the galaxy issue.’

‘I do read.’

‘Since when? You skim.’

Much as he loved her, if there was one person who could wind him up instantaneously with a change in tone it was his sister.

‘Everyone reads on the subway.’

‘The tube.’ Ali corrected her brother, making sure to pronounce it in perfect English as ‘tyoob’ and not ‘toob’. ‘Although I don’t know how you’d know. You even bought a scooter because you hate public transport so much.’

Ben refused to rise to Ali’s goading and, with a shrug of his shoulders, returned to his extract—or at least he would have done if she hadn’t snatched the magazine. A few photocopied pages drifted lethargically to the floor.

Ali scanned a few lines as she fought Ben to gather them up, her gaze becoming stonier by the minute. ‘Whose is this?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ben was suddenly sheepish, despite the fact he’d definitely been an adult in his own right for a good thirteen years. ‘I found it…well, I found the original…in a drawer in the room. This is just… I didn’t want it to get damaged… I’m going to hand it in when we get back. Or post it. There was a London address.’

‘There was?’ Ali had turned a different colour, and if he was honest the sweater was now clashing a bit with her skin tone. A sort of raspberry ripple effect. Maybe it was too pink.

‘Calm down. No harm done. It’s not like it’s yours or anything. And I’m just reading it, not auctioning the film rights.’

‘I’m confiscating it.’

‘You can’t. It’s not yours.’

‘And it’s not yours. Honestly, I thought you’d know better…’

‘It was lost. Now it’s not. I’m the good guy.’ Probably not a great time to mention the management search earlier, or the multiple programme ideas that had been bubbling under since he’d started reading it this morning.

‘Hardly. You’re the creep who went to the copy shop.’ Ali took the magazine and the pages and stuffed them into one of the bags he was guarding for her before taking it away.

‘You were having a manicure…and I didn’t want it to get thumbed.’ Ben could see that neither was a winning argument.

‘So, what? Now I have to check your pockets and I can’t leave you on your own? We’ll discuss this later.’ Ali re-entered the changing area.

‘How about I buy you the sweater?’ Ben shouted after her.

‘Jumper,’ Ali corrected him.

‘Just because you’ve got an English husband doesn’t mean you have to let go of your American roots completely.’

‘We’ve got an English father. And stop changing the subject. I’ll accept the bribe, but don’t think this is over yet. This is the only the beginning of that conversation.’

Somehow Ben had suspected that already. Plus, now he was bored.

Sam lay in the bath and watched the shadows flickering on the blue and green mosaic tiles. Her candles were failing to live up to their calming aromatherapy promise. Holding her breath, she allowed herself to slip under the hot water and, crossing her legs to remove her knees from the cold air of the bathroom, she cocooned herself in muted warmth. Bed beckoned. When the going got tough, the tough hibernated.

‘Next, please.’

Ben shuffled a little closer to the till, clutching a tower of CDs to his chest. Mid-season sale. Not that he was sure which season they were mid at the moment, but he wasn’t complaining. He needed coffee. He still had a good hour before he was due back uptown. And the more time Ali had to calm down the better. Women.

Leaving the store, he walked a couple of blocks east to Grand Central Station and ordered a coffee at Cipriani’s. Absorbed by the swirling crowds on the main concourse below, he let his mind wander back to the diary. Having drained his cup, and ignoring the waiter’s scowl at his failure to order a second, he found a pen and started scribbling on a napkin.

Chapter Four

Kicking the front door closed behind her, laden with shopping bags, Sam rustled her way along the corridor to the kitchen before her arms gave out. Her quads were smarting slightly after the intensity of her gym session, but thank God for endorphins. It was almost impossible to feel morose with your heart-rate at one hundred and sixty. Determined to keep her activity levels high, she switched the radio on for instant company and automatically re-boxed the CDs lying on the work-top while she searched for a station with a little less bass line and a few ‘classic’ tunes. Classic meaning old. Old enough for her to remember.

Having explored every possible plan of action on the running machine, she had come to the somewhat unsatisfactory, if definite conclusion that there was nothing she could do. According to calendar convention it was a new day, and so, for the time being, Captain Optimistic was back in town, having finally shaken off Assume-The-Worst Woman on the rowing machine.

As she restocked her cupboards Sam noticed a tell-tale slick of grease on the floor tiles. Obligingly, the Chinese take-away diva had left her foil containers out, and it appeared that the insatiable George had gone for self-service.

Roused from a warm corner of the flat by the crinkle of a supermarket carrier, he careered into the kitchen, anxious not to miss a potential feeding moment, and once in full view attempted to feign nonchalance but failed miserably thanks to the negative braking properties of claw and paw on terracotta. Having regained his composure, from the purr crescendo and surprisingly powerful shoves Sam was getting, he was claiming to be hungry. Not physiologically possible but he was one of the few who knew, contrary to popular myth, his owner had a slushy core.

Sam retched at the intense aroma burst of meat, offal and jelly as she opened a new can. Living on her own hadn’t been a problem, but living on her own with a kitten? Cliché-tastic. Now Gemma was around. That had been Sophie’s idea too. Breathing through her mouth, she put George’s dish on the floor and carefully washed up the fork. According to the clock on the oven door it was nearly eleven-thirty, and there was no evidence that the Queen of Peking had even surfaced to make herself a cup of tea.

Sam flicked the kettle switch and turned the radio up in an attempt to mask her enthusiastic, if somewhat atonal sing-a-long. No more tiptoeing around in her own flat. Today had started hours ago.

Gemma appeared in the doorway almost exactly as the kettle boiled, bleary-eyed, her unruly hair even wilder than normal. And she seemed to be wearing a strappy top and pyjama shorts. Obviously the latest in naughty-but-nice-girl-next-door sleepwear, and much more Sarah Jessica Parker in dishevelled sexiness, Sam noted, than it would have been on her. Gem was a natural. The sort of girl who’d never sat at the side of the school hall at the end-of-term disco. Who’d never had to pretend that she didn’t want to dance to ‘The Power of Love’ or the ‘Lady in Red’. Boys had always sidled up to her on the off chance. They still did.

‘Morning.’ Gemma started rubbing her eyes in an attempt to uncrust last night’s mascara and restore the individual lash look.

‘Only just… Look, do you think you could try not to leave food out? He’s a cat—he’s going to help himself. And he’s definitely not designed to eat spring onions drenched in plum sauce.’

Sam had her head in the fridge and was in the process of jettisoning most of the salad drawer, which had apparently liquidised itself in its bags since last week. This had never happened when Sophie had lived there. Mark was a lucky man. Sophie was a rare find in the twenty-first century—perfect wife material. And Sam was speaking from experience. Having a flatmate who’d enjoyed cooking, worked irregular hours and often from home might not have been great for the phone bill, but it had been fantastic for leftovers and getting her washing done.

As she replaced the old bags with new ones, freshly shopped, she knew it would be as good for her nutrition as buying them was for her conscience if she actually ate the stuff—but she never seemed to have time to eat at home at the moment.

‘Sorry. Chuck us the milk. I need tea.’ Gemma might not get up until late, but she was always incredibly perky when she did finally surface.

Sam handed her the plastic container, simultaneously liberating a shrivelled courgette from a dark corner of the second shelf, and did her best not to appear fazed by the similarly dishevelled young man now standing in her kitchen. From his slicked-back hair it looked as if he had at least managed a shower. In fact, he smelt familiarly citrusy.

‘Good shower?’ Her tone was mordacious.

The bastard reeked of her Jo Malone bodywash. And the whole point of paying a mortgage was so that you didn’t have to carry your towels and products in and out of the bathroom each morning.

‘Yes, thanks.’ His reply was hesitant. Small talk or sarcasm? His eyes darted to Gemma and back, hoping for a clue. Gemma, however, was concentrating on squeezing every last drip of caffeine into her cup.

‘Well, hi. I’m Sam.’ She faked a smile.

Now she’d sodding well have to change all the towels. She couldn’t risk drying her face in his pubes, even if Jo Malone had given them the once-over. She swapped neurotic for civil. At least for the short term. Giving her hands a quick rinse with antibacterial wash, she dried them on a teatowel, absent-mindedly polishing the fridge door with it before re-hanging it over the handle on the matching stainless steel oven.

Finally Gemma looked up. She must have sensed the tension because she was actually taking her teabag to the kitchen bin, albeit leaving a trail of drips in her wake, only to realise that she’d filled the bin to capacity before bed. Pushing the teabag down with the spoon, she did create enough space for the lid to spring back—even if it had now become slightly stained in the process.

Sam pretended not to notice.

‘Sorry—how rude of me.’ Gemma gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon and Sam watched more tea hit the tiles. ‘Toby, this is my landlady…’

Sam pulled a face. ‘Landlady’ sounded so curlers and pink nylon housecoat. Friend would have been better…or flatmate…

‘Sam, this is Toby, and he’s just going.’

Toby blushed, even more awkward than he had been moments earlier. Sam had to hand it to Gem. She was bucking every so-called trend and single-handedly proving that there were plenty of single men out there if only you weren’t too dismissive at first sight. She hadn’t even offered him any breakfast.

Sure enough, five minutes later Toby had been consigned to recent history and Gemma had set up camp by the toaster while Sam vigorously attacked the soon-to-be-much-whiter sink with a ‘new and improved’ product she had invested in less than an hour ago. They did have a cleaner, but she never really seemed to do very much. A bit of ironing, cushion-plumping, plant-overwatering and ornament-shuffling. Well worth the eight pounds an hour.

‘That’s looking great.’ Gem stretched and yawned, revealing a naturally toned tummy. Sam subconsciously clenched her abs and winced as a searing hit of lactic acid reminded her that they’d been crunched enough already. ‘Guess I better hit the shower in a minute…it’s about time I started my day before you finish yours… Just out of interest, what time did today start Washington time?’

Sam ignored her. ‘So, he was about twenty-four, was he?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. At least twenty-six.’ Gemma laughed.

Sam scrubbed resolutely. ‘And you met him where?’

‘Hey, Mum, what’s up with you this morning?’

‘Nothing.’ It was too dismissive to be totally true.

‘You just seem a bit—well, a bit on edge…’ Gemma took a contemplative slurp of her tea and Sam reminded herself that, all things considered, she was just fine. What was it with everyone? Now even her moods were public property. ‘You just don’t approve…’ Now Gemma was planting opinions.

‘Hey, I’m just your landlady. It’s none of my business who you see…’

Sam rinsed the scouring pad. It wasn’t that she was unequivocally anti the one-night stand. There were certainly times when she wanted someone to snuggle up to. Someone who didn’t purr or exhale meaty fish. But she’d also definitely been at her loneliest the morning after the night before. Gemma sipped her tea, safely staring into the middle distance, whilst the timer on the state-of-the-art toaster ticked like a time bomb behind her.

‘Sorry, Gem, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. So, do you think you’ll see him again?’

‘Doubt it.’ Gemma seemed relieved at Sam’s overture to normality. ‘Not bad in the sack, though…a huge improvement on Sean. He was an anticlimax—and I mean literally. Plus it saves me going to the gym later. All these women pumping iron when all they really need is a good shag…’

Sam felt herself redden and instinctively clenched her pelvic floor muscles, managing ten repetitions whilst wrestling the stuffed liner from the bin. It was one thing letting a room to a former classmate, but quite another when she had (a lot) more sex and telephone attention than you did. Plus, Gemma was only too quick to volunteer the details.

‘Anyway, Toby’s a Capricorn. Astrologically we couldn’t be more wrong for each other…’

As far as Sam could remember, birth dates were definitely a second or third date question in her book. Unless in these days of heightened security she was asking to see a driving licence or passport for ID purposes.

‘Then again, he saved me half a taxi fare home, he paid for the take-away, and—well, my granny always used to say you never know until you try…’

Sam was sure Gemma’s grandmother had meant foodstuffs, not fellatio.

‘Now, if he’d been a Sagittarius it could all have been very different…’ Gem trailed off mid-sentence as she observed Mr Muscle’s more glamorous sidekick hard at work. ‘Stop. Please stop. I swear I was going to give the kitchen a bit of a tidy when I got up, but I should’ve known your first thing and mine are about four hours apart. Sorry.’

Her good intentions pre-empted Sam’s well-worn washing-up mini-rant. While Sam would admit, if only to herself, that her intolerance of dirty dishes was possibly teetering on the brink of obsessive behaviour, she had to hand it to Gem. Unless she was a bloody award-winning actress, most things really didn’t bother her. As for bringing a bloke back to the flat—to Gemma, having sex was like Sam having a swim. Just about making the effort. And, judging from the Pisa-esque tower of toast and Marmite that Gemma had just made herself, it had a similar effect on her appetite.

Sam wiped the crumbs off the work surface without even realising what she was doing, before grabbing an apple and following Gemma into the sitting room.

‘How’s your job going?’ Anything. Sam would rather talk about anything than leave her mind to wander today. It kept trespassing into restricted areas. And Gemma was the perfect distraction. Just chatty enough to require concentration, just day-to-day enough to allow simultaneous magazine flick-through and general multi-tasking.

‘I could do this one standing on my head, but it pays pretty well considering I spend most of my day sending personal e-mails around the world and surfing the net. In fact, I was checking out the Friends Reunited website this week…’

‘You haven’t got into all that, have you?’

‘It’s brilliant. Most of our year have registered, and it’s great to see what they’re all up to. Loads of them are married.’

‘Mmm.’ Sam didn’t mind weddings. She just didn’t view marriage in the glorious Technicolor of many of her peers. She had trouble visualising the bit at the altar. Or maybe it was visualising the person waiting for her at the end of the aisle that was her main stumbling block.

‘Can’t believe it’ll be Sophie in a month… Anyway, between you and me I’m sort of hoping Dominic Pearson will get in touch. He was so damn sexy.’

‘He was pre-pubescent.’ Puffer Pearson had been smoking twenty-a-day in ten-packs from the age of fourteen and spent his early teens loitering behind his fringe at the bus stop, wearing a denim jacket over his blazer. Needless to say he and Gemma had often had to be prised apart at the bitter end of house parties. ‘And it’s all very well getting nostalgic, but life’s all about moving forward.’

‘But your schooldays are supposed to be the happiest of your life.’

‘Don’t believe the hype. I have no interest in re-establishing contact with people who spent their lives poking fun at me.’

Probably not the best time for Gemma to mention that she’d registered Sam on the site, then.

‘They were just jealous. You were annoyingly good at everything.’

‘I was asked to give up Art.’ She’d liked to think she’d been more of an abstract artist. The Kandinsky of the Greenside High School for Girls art department. So what if she couldn’t sketch a still life of a vase or a feather? She probably could have pickled a sheep or a cow in formaldehyde quite successfully, and with the right palette she was sure she might even have been able to give Mark Rothko a run for his money.

‘Fantastic. You’re not perfect after all. I’ve found your Achilles’ heel.’

‘No need to look quite so delighted. See, this is the problem.’

Sam’s mood had definitely shifted again. Gemma decided to return to non-controversial tales from the typing pool.

‘Anyway, the agency are going to send me somewhere new. The first few days anywhere are always the most fun…that’s when I get to save the day. Once I’ve mastered the software and company protocol, and lost a few incoming calls in the system, that is…’

Sam couldn’t imagine anything worse than being a temp—except maybe having Gemma as her temp. Still, she had to hand it to her. Her positivity was apparently unassailable. Gemma was one of life’s more buoyant passengers.

‘But it’s been keeping me in beer money since Australia, and something better will turn up—I’m sure of it. Only yesterday I met this woman at the bus stop…’

Gemma collected people as eclectically as some people collected fridge magnets.

‘…she was a photographer—nothing National Geographic would be bidding for, just weddings and family portraits, but tasteful. No soft focus airbrush or fake fabric weave…’

Sam nodded, to acknowledge that she was still listening. She prodded her neck and rolled it through one hundred and eighty degrees, first in one direction and then back again. There was no mistaking the tension. She was going to have to relax. She added it to her mental ‘to do’ list for the afternoon, but even she could see that ‘relax’ wasn’t something she’d be able to fit in to the five minutes between bill-paying, shower-head descaling and toenail painting.

‘She used to be an investment banker. Just woke up one morning and realised she wasn’t living the life she wanted and so she changed everything…’

Maybe if she ditched toenail painting? It was March: still far too chilly to get her feet out.

‘…downshifted. With no regrets. It really makes you think, and it just shows you never know what’s round the corner if you keep your eyes open to possibilities…’

‘Yup…alternatively you can just set yourself a goal and work towards it.’ Sam started sorting the papers and magazines on the coffee table.

‘That’s all very well if you’re as focused as you are, but most people don’t have as many objectives, goals, strategies and backup plans as a political party in an election campaign…nor do they get up at eight a.m. on a Saturday.’

Sam was sure there was a compliment in there somewhere, just fighting to get out.

‘But for the rest of us it’s good to see that life all works out in the end. She had a really good karma…’

The only karma Sam knew anything about had something to do with Culture Club in the early eighties. She kept it to herself.

‘Anyway, things do happen for a reason. If I hadn’t come back from Australia when I did, you and I wouldn’t be living together.’

‘Exactly.’ It had been meant to be a joke. Sort of. Smiling in an attempt to soften her tone, Sam got to her feet. ‘Another cup of tea?’

‘I’d love one…’

Silently Sam thanked India for providing the British with bottomless cuppas. There appeared to be no limit to their restorative powers…and no teabags in the jar.

‘Gemma Cousins…’

‘Mmm?’ From Sam’s tone, Gemma could sense trouble. And she could take a pretty could swing at why.

‘We seem to be out of tea.’

‘Ah.’ She did her best to be contrite. ‘Not to worry. I’ll just have an instant coffee, then.’

Sam muttered to herself as she let the cupboard door slam. Gemma clearly believed in teabag fairies, loo paper elves and waste disposal pixies, and her faith was always rewarded.

‘Luckily I went shopping this morning.’

Gemma’s voice wafted into the kitchen. ‘Let me know how much I owe you…’

It was only for six months, and then once again she’d be able to wax her legs in front of the TV, pluck her bikini line while on the phone to her mother and go the loo in the middle of the night without getting dressed.

‘You didn’t get a paper, by any chance…?’

Sam delivered her still pristine copy of The Times, along with fresh tea, to the sofa, separating the main body of the paper from its weekend sections and sitting down with it in the armchair opposite.

‘Thanks, love.’

George, having optimistically followed Sam to the kitchen and back again, just on the off-chance a roast chicken or spare salmon might inadvertently have fallen from the fridge when Sam was getting the milk, decided to sit with Gemma, and when he glanced across, apparently innocently, all smug purrs and green eyes, Sam narrowed hers to express her disdain. As he turned away Sam smiled victoriously before stopping herself. Who did she think she was? The cat whisperer?

Gemma was heading straight for her star signs in the magazine. Despite herself, Sam could feel herself listening to the general murmuring noises. Today’s sounded quite affirmative.

‘Hmm. Interesting. Do you want me to read out yours?’

Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, let me guess… As the week begins, Saturn makes its way through Aries, popping in to Gemini and Scorpio on its way. Take care around the new moon on Thursday, when Pluto’s activity means business matters may not turn out the way you planned. Beware of friends who try and tell you what’s going to happen next. Shop thoroughly. Watch out for Capricorn rising and Venus wandering in and out every twenty-eight hours, when emotions may run high and someone close to you may not be who they seem… How did I do?’

‘You really shouldn’t be so dismissive. It’s a science. You’d be surprised how accurate this stuff can be. If you’d only let me draw up a personal chart for you… I just need your birth time and I can calculate your rising sign. You’d be amazed at—’

‘Then I’d know which days to stay in bed and which ones to bother with? Honestly, Gem, for someone as intelligent as you are I can’t believe you are so into this hocus-pocus, this planetary, may-the-force-be-with-you bollocks.’

‘And I’m surprised that someone as intelligent as you can be so dismissive. I think you’re scared. You don’t want to think that things might be pre-ordained.’

Sam ignored her. She was doing her best to concentrate on an article about law reforms. Gemma, sensing the stalemate of the situation, tried to return to the chit-chat.

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Chamomile.’

‘Yuk. It smells like wee.’

‘Thanks.’ For a holistic, feng shui kid, Gemma was surprisingly hostile to the idea of herbal teas.

‘Well, it does.’

Sam put her paper down again. She was feeling like a rather irritable husband at the moment. All she wanted was a bit of quiet and a chance to catch up with the rest of the world.

‘No one’s asking you to drink it, but I’m trying to cut out caffeine at weekends for detox reasons and this is great for stiff joints and generally calming—allegedly.’ Sam rustled the broadsheet and turned the page pointedly.

‘Well, rather you than me…’

Clearly not pointedly enough.

‘And you wouldn’t have stiff joints if you didn’t go to the gym so often. Plus there are lots of free radicals in real tea that are good for you.’

‘And it’s full of caffeine and tannin, dehydrating, cellulite-inducing and addictive.’ Sam knew she was being crotchety. Let Gemma think it was Mars clashing with Mercury, or whatever fitted the picture best.

‘And delicious.’ Gemma took a big sip and Sam had to admit, if only to herself, that it did smell good. And finally a moment of peace. Just a moment.

‘Oh, before I forget—Soph called yesterday afternoon.’

Sam could have really used a chat with the most rational person she knew last night. When she and Mark got round to having them, their children would be sorted. As opposed to Gemma’s, who’d clearly be caked in snot and felt pen at all times.

‘Any message?’

Gemma looked up from the travel section and squinted as she tried to recall the moment. ‘No. Just to call her, I think…’

‘Anyone else?’ Sam was joking.

‘Your mum. I must have been on the phone at the time, but she left a message on the BT answer-phone thingy. She said she’d try your mobile.’

‘So that’d be two messages, then?’

‘Yup.’

Sam took a deep breath, doing her best to refocus on the world headlines and ignore the proximity of the accident waiting to happen opposite. The potential stain cocktail of English Breakfast tea, Marmite, cat and weekend newsprint on bespoke sofa was making her decidedly twitchy. She was just ascertaining that the world was still as flawed as it had been the day before, that there was still nothing she could single-handedly do about it and that no one famous or notorious had married or died, when the phone rang.

Sam leapt to her feet while George opened an eye, got up, performed a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn and sat down again. Without even really taking her eye off the page she was reading, Gemma retrieved the portable phone from between two sofa cushions just at the point that Sam reached its empty charging base in the kitchen.

‘Hello? Hi. How are you? Great. Just having breakfast. Yeah, she’s here. How did last night go? Great. No? Some people are unbelievable. Definitely. Yup, I’d be up for that. Tomorrow? Not sure. Send me a text if you decide to. Fab.’

Gemma passed the phone over, ignoring Sam’s muttering about keeping the phone charged between calls. ‘It’s Sophie.’

‘Hi, Soph. Lovely to speak to you. It’s been far too long.’ Sam folded up the section of the paper she’d been reading and retreated to her room, determined to retain at least a semblance of a private life.

‘You’re the one who’s been gallivanting across the Atlantic. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I left you a couple of messages, but then I had a job on and I only got home just before midnight—at which point I guessed you were asleep and Mark was determined to seduce me.’

‘No problem. Did your meeting go well?’

‘Yup. Really well. But to be honest anything will be an improvement on what she’s inherited. It was her husband’s father’s house. A gorgeous Edwardian from the outside, but the interior is a tribute to the seventies. There’s even a hanging basket chair.’

‘You’re kidding. Was he related to Alan Partridge?’

Sophie laughed. ‘The before and afters are going to be incredible.’

‘Well, congratulations. You really deserve a big project.’

‘Thanks. I have to say I’m really excited. Mark’s bored already. He’s more interested in whether the husband is after me.’

‘Is he?’

‘Of course not. Haven’t even met him.’

‘But it’s not like you’ve never met anyone through work before…’

‘It only happened the once. And I’m marrying him now.’

Sophie ignored Sam’s attempt to be playful. She’d asked far too many questions already. Definitely avoiding something. Textbook behaviour.

‘So, my little jet-setter, is everything hunky-dory with you?’

‘Yup. It’s fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup.’

‘So why did you call?’

‘Well…fine-ish.’

‘Sam…?’

This total understanding was why, at the tender age of seven, Sam had handpicked Sophie to be the sister she’d never had. It was one of the best choices she’d ever made.

‘Well, Gemma’s driving me mad, Richard made a pass at me in New York and I’ve lost my diary.’ There, she’d said it out loud now.

‘No way?’

‘Way.’

‘Oh, my God. Where do you want to start?’

‘I thought I’d left it at the hotel, but they’ve checked my room and nothing. Unless…’

Sam felt her pulse-rate double. Had she seen it since?

‘What was in it?’

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘I think Richard might have it.’ Sam’s stomach plummeted to her ankles. Her life was over.

‘Are you sure?’

She took a deep breath. But she’d only been in the bathroom for a couple of minutes…

‘What was in it?’

‘The last three months of my life. Plenty of unprofessional whingeing. Potentially libellous statements. Quite a few personal titbits I’d rather not think about. And worst of all…’ Sam’s thoughts interrupted her flow. ‘Yes, I definitely wrote in it after he left my room.’ The relief was quite overwhelming.

‘He was in your room?’

‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Even to you.’

‘Sam, for God’s sake.’ Sam knew she could trust Sophie implicitly. Yet telling her meant that it was no longer a possible figment of her imagination. ‘And worst of all…?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said “And worst of all…”’

‘I did?’ It wasn’t her secret to tell. ‘I have no idea what I was going to say.’

‘So, did the entries include the night of that Valentine’s dinner party?’

Silence.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong…’

‘Being caught snogging the younger brother of the host in the coat pile wasn’t my greatest moment. Maybe if my skirt hadn’t been round my waist when Tim turned the light on…’

‘And the wine-tasting?’

Perfect example of alcohol-impaired judgement. It had taken her nearly three weeks to shake Steve off completely. He hadn’t outwardly displayed any signs of being a telephone stalker. Sometimes she wished Sophie’s memory could be a little less effective.

‘All the stuff about Richard?’

Sam felt her stomach tighten. ‘Yup, and I was in a bit of state. One minute he was collecting documents—the next thing I knew he was under my duvet.’

Sophie squealed. ‘And where were you?’

‘In the bathroom.’

‘Your life is so much more exciting than mine.’

‘I’m not sure “exciting” is the word I’d use.’

‘Anything else incriminating?’

‘You could at least try and sound a bit less gleeful.’

‘Sorry. And I’m not even remotely…it’s just, well, there’s a lot to take in.’ Sophie racked her brains. ‘Not…?’

‘What?’

‘The thing I’m not really supposed to know about.’

‘Did I tell you?’ Sam was almost relieved.

‘About EJ? Don’t worry. I haven’t told a soul—nor will I.’

‘It’s in there.’ Sam’s tones were hushed. ‘Well, most of it.’

‘His name?’

‘Initials only, I think. But there are probably enough clues. Of course now I can’t really remember, and it’s not like I can check.’

Sophie paused. ‘And your name?’

‘Just an address.’

‘Well, that’s something. Have you told her?’

‘What’s the point?’

‘Well…’

‘It’s like I’d be confessing to her and asking for her forgiveness. And if I was her I’m not sure I’d be doing a lot of forgiving. Meanwhile she thinks I’m all jumpy because of the Richard malarkey.’

‘Which you are. I know this probably sounds impossible, but try not to worry and think positive. Maybe someone will post it back when they find it. Anyway, who on earth would want to read a total stranger’s diary?’ The pause that ensued should have come with a ‘mind the gap’ warning. ‘Well, fingers crossed it’ll turn up in safe non-contentious hands.’

‘Maybe.’ Sam wasn’t convinced.

‘At least you lost it abroad.’

‘And of course no one reads English in New York.’

‘Hey, maybe it’s just been thrown away. Maybe it’s being pulped or dumped in a landfill site as we speak.’

‘I hope so.’ Sam could have kissed Sophie for her irrepressible optimism. And it certainly helped to have her rooting for her.

‘And, face it, the bottom line is there is nothing you can do.’

‘That’s the worst part…’ Sam sighed.

‘Just for the record, I think you need to give EJ the heads-up…’

Sam had been wrestling with her morals all morning.

‘I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch, are you? I need to sort out my shoes for the wedding once and for all.’

Sam couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’ve still got a month.’

‘A month? I thought I had ages to get everything ready.’

‘You did…’ Sam hesitated. She must be the least enthusiastic maid of honour ever to have been appointed. Fawning over empire lines and bias cuts didn’t come naturally to her, and she’d only accepted the role on condition that shot silk and baby pink did not feature in her outfit. But shoes she could do. And general sounding board duties. And lunch. Eating on her own at weekends was something that she did her best to avoid.

‘I need something that doesn’t scream Essex girl or dental nurse. I can’t possibly do barefoot, and Adidas Bride of Hip-Hop isn’t quite what my mother is expecting.’

‘I was going to sort some stuff out here…’

‘If Gemma’s winding you up it’d do you good to get out.’

‘I refuse to be driven out of my own flat.’

‘Stop being so bloody melodramatic. That girl’s got a heart of gold, and you know it’s just that things simply don’t occur to her. Come on. Just a couple of hours. Self-flagellation is so last season.’

Sam looked at her watch. ‘Give me an hour and a half.’

‘Brilliant. See you at Selfridges at two. I’ll be the one in the shoe department in a strop.’

‘And I’ll be the one with an ulcer.’

Sitting on the edge of the Bethesda Fountain, waiting for Ali, Ben felt very cloak and dagger—or very jacket and diary. As he revelled in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine, he knew morally she was right. The only problem being that, NG or not, he wasn’t quite sure he could go back to his life as it had been on Thursday.

Turning his back on the Angel of the Waters, he peered south through the dark arches of the arcade framing the vibrant colours of the park beyond. He spotted her long before she saw him. Shares in Kenneth Cole were going to be right up on Monday.

They’d scoured the collections like pros, and while the perfect white shoe was still eluding them Sophie had approved several other shopping diversions, and a cluster of high-quality paper carrier bags were physical evidence that Sam was feeling a bit better. Sam was incredibly grateful to Sophie. Which was good. Because this maid of honour was tiring slightly. Until they hit the new summer collection in Jigsaw, that was.

Sophie sighed. ‘Are you nearly done?’

‘Just one more suit to try.’

Poking her head round the door, Sophie observed the near identical suits neatly hanging all around Sam. She hadn’t known there were so many variations on a theme.

‘Any good ones?’

‘A couple.’

‘Not trying any bar-hopping gear?’

Sam raised an eyebrow at her best friend. ‘What for?’

‘Weekends?’

‘I’ve got drawers stuffed full of jeans and jumpers, Soph, and I hardly ever get to wear them.’

‘I was thinking more—you know—party.’

‘You mean tarty. When on earth am I ever going to need a backless, frontless, strappy handkerchief top?’

‘Every single girl should have a pulling top.’

‘My days of nightclubs are over.’

‘Bars?’

‘I’m not doing the semi-naked look.’

‘Fine. Well, I’ve had enough shopping for now. I refuse to stand in front of another in-store full-length mirror until after April the twenty-first. And I can’t be a size sixteen bride.’ Sophie paused as a wave of fear flashed across her face. ‘Maybe that’s why brides have their dresses made to measure?’

‘Soph…’

‘Well, just remind me never to shop in here again. Those jeans were allegedly a fourteen and I couldn’t get them past my knees.’

Sophie’s head disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. And just as Sam’s mobile started ringing. Having scattered the pile of her own clothes in order to locate her bag, she hesitated for a split second when she saw the number on the screen.

‘At last. Finally.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Honestly, I think it would be easier to get an audience with the Pope.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been in New York all week, working on a deal.’ Sam still liked the way that sounded. Travelling was exhausting, and far less glamorous than anyone based in one place would believe, but it certainly sounded good when relating to family and friends.

‘Last thing I heard they did have phones in the States, and according to Michelle you were due in yesterday.’

‘It’s Melanie and, yes, I was back—but we were manic.’ Overly defensive as she now remembered that she’d forgotten to return her call, Sam glanced down at her state of semi-undress. ‘Mum, can I call you back in a minute? This isn’t a great time. In five minutes…yes, I will.’ Sam was beginning to wonder what on earth had possessed her to press ‘answer’. ‘Look, I’m barely dressed… In a shop… In town, yes—Bond Street. With Soph. Not that expensive. Again this morning? No, I didn’t get it. Please, just give me five, ten minutes… I realise… I’m sorry, but yesterday was one of my worst days in a while. I’ve lost my diary.’

And I’ve just discovered that my boss wants to sleep with me. She stopped at the diary tidbit. Sam didn’t think her mother would appreciate the latter detail.

There, she’d admitted all was not well in the World of Sam Washington. Immediately she felt better.

‘Oh, dear, darling. Don’t you have it all on your computer these days, though? Can’t you just beam it into a new one of those hand pilots?’

‘Not my appointments diary. My real one—my journal. And it’s Palm, not hand.’

‘How sweet! I didn’t know you were still writing one…’

‘Usually only on bad days.’

‘Where did you leave it?’

‘If I knew it wouldn’t be lost, would it?’ Sam reined herself in. Hostility was not a fair trade for sympathy. ‘I thought I’d left it in a drawer in my hotel room, but apparently it’s not there now.’

‘Did it have your address in it?’

‘Yup.’ Sophie and her mother’s minds clearly worked in the same way.

‘Then I’m sure it’ll turn up. Listen, darling, the reason I’m calling—’

‘I can’t believe I’ve lost it. Everything was in there…and if it gets into the wrong hands…’

‘Darling…’ Helen was becoming increasingly exasperated. Sam had always been capable of incredible focus and self-centredness. Only-child syndrome. ‘I know it’s important to you, but it’s not like you’re Geri Halliwell or Prince William.’

Sam smiled despite herself. Only a devout Daily Mail reader could put those two in the same sentence.

‘No one knows who you are and no one really cares—except us, of course.’

‘It’s not just me I’m worrying about—’

‘Excuse me, madam, but are you going to be much longer? There’s a queue out here.’

‘Sorry—just give me one more minute. Mum, I promise I’ll call you back.’

‘Listen, your father’s in hospital.’

Sam was silent as her emotions jostled for supremacy.

‘I’m afraid it’s serious. He’s got a tumour in his liver and apparently it’s a secondary one. They’re going to operate on Monday, and then hopefully start chemotherapy, but apparently it’s large enough to suggest it has probably already spread further. It seems to be a case of damage limitation rather than cure.’

Her mother must have spoken to a doctor. Either that or she had been to med school since their elderly neighbour had gone through breast cancer when she had explained everything in terms of zapping and lumps.

‘They’re running all sorts of tests, and he says he’s been scanned to within an inch of his life. They’re still trying to ascertain the primary site.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s at the Royal Marsden. It’s one of the best places he could possibly—’

‘I’m incredibly busy at the moment.’ Clearly denial had beaten the others hands down in the battle of her emotions.

‘I know it’s been a long time, but you just don’t know… I mean at the moment they don’t even know…’

‘So now I’m supposed to sit at his bedside?’

‘Don’t be so stubborn. You remind me of him when you’re like this.’ Her mother pretty much had a doctorate in emotional blackmail. ‘I went to visit yesterday. He’s in there all by himself.’

‘What about his teenage girlfriend? Isn’t this her remit?’

Sophie glared at the fitting room assistant as she approached Sam’s cubicle, where she was now standing guard, protecting what little privacy Sam still had.

‘Honestly, darling, Susie must be in her forties now. It’s been a long time. You can’t have seen him in at least five years…’

‘More like ten.’

‘I know it’s a shock…’ Sam could hear her mother’s voice faltering as she battled with tears.

It didn’t take much to set her off at the best of times: an Andrex puppy, a wedding on television, Sam getting into Oxford, Sam leaving Oxford, Sam finishing law school. So, by rights, an ex-husband with cancer should have had her in floods. She was obviously focused on being strong for Sam’s sake. And Sam was quite happy not to have to support her mother on this one.

‘Simon is more of a father to me than Dad ever was.’

‘Simon’s not going anywhere. You know how much he loves you. But the fact is Robert is still your dad. I’m sure it would mean a lot to him if you just popped in.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so nice about it. We were there for him. And then he left us.’

‘He left me. Twenty-three years ago…’

Sam could still feel the weight of the silence after the front door slammed. Still remember the sun coming through the sitting room window. The dust particles swirling around her. The smell of the warm musty air. The pattern on her white knee-length socks. The sound of his car starting and driving off. For a fraction of a second she was a six-year-old trapped in a twenty-nine-year-old body.

‘It wasn’t meant to be. I married again. I learned to let go. And you need to. Because of you we’ve always kept in touch. And he does love you.’

‘Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it.’ Sam knew she didn’t have the monopoly on divorced parents. Almost everyone she knew had gone through the parents-living-at-separate-addresses thing. But, selfishly, all she’d wanted was a nuclear family. And maybe a brother or sister. And maybe a dad at home for a little bit longer than six years. It wasn’t that she hadn’t got on with her life. She couldn’t have been working any harder…

‘You’re the one who won’t see him.’

‘He can’t just expect to have a daughter at his beck and call when it suits him.’

He’d never taken her to the zoo. She didn’t even really agree with zoos any more. But she didn’t have any of those memories. No trips to theme parks or burger bars, no camping holidays—not that these were necessarily indices of good parenting, but it would have at least showed willing. Everyone knew children were the worst sort of investment plan. At least eighteen years to mature and no sign of the capital invested. Not much appreciation either. No good for impatient people. Simon, though, had unquestioningly done it all. Sam wondered if she had thanked him enough.

‘We managed perfectly well without him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you know if we’d stayed together none of us would have been happy.’

Deep down she did. And maybe if they hadn’t had her they’d still be together. He hadn’t exactly made a secret of the fact that he’d never really wanted children in the first place.

‘Sam, sweetheart, you don’t have to be all brave about this. I’ll come with you, if you like.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Next you’ll be suggesting I bake him some biscuits.’

‘There’s no point taking it out on me. I didn’t want him to leave either.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry, but I’m not going.’

‘Please? Think about it… He’s in Room 136. Maybe just call him…’

‘I’ve really got to go now, or it’ll be death by coat hanger for me.’

‘You’re bound to need a bit of time to let all this sink in. Love you, darling. I’ll call again later.’

‘Bye.’

Sam sat down and stared at the floor, seeing nothing. There was a tentative knock at the changing room door.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Give me a minute.’

Sophie gave her twenty seconds.

‘Come on, you, let’s get out of here. I need a coffee. A diet coffee, obviously.’

Sam regrouped and pulled on her pale blue v-neck, shopping forgotten. ‘I’m ready.’

‘It’s Okay, love.’ Sophie shifted her weight from foot to foot apologetically. ‘To be honest—’ she gestured at the saloon-style swing doors ‘—these changing rooms aren’t exactly soundproof.’

Sure enough, several sympathetic glances from the fitting room queue followed them to the front of the shop.

‘She still doesn’t get it. Just because I have a phone with me doesn’t mean I can chat for ages.’

‘It’s your dad, isn’t it?’

Sam nodded, momentarily speechless.

Sophie shrugged. ‘You’ve never exactly had a whispery voice, and there were only a couple of inches of plywood between us.’

‘Cancer, apparently. Liver secondaries.’

‘Oh, God.’ Sophie paled visibly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not like we’re close. I haven’t seen him in years.’

Sam couldn’t have been any more matter of fact. This had to be it. First Richard, then her diary, now her father. Everyone knows these things come in threes. Come in threes? Now she was sounding like Gemma.

‘Sam, come on—give yourself a break. Don’t be so bloody stubborn.’

‘Gemma didn’t even tell me she’d called again this morning.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’

‘I mean, how hard is it to write down a phone message?’

‘Sam?’

‘She must have to take messages at work all the time. If she’s not going to bother, I’d rather she didn’t answer the phone in the first place. Anyway—right—shoes. Where next? What do you think? King’s Road? It’s still only three-thirty. We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s just get a cab. My shout.’

Sophie dragged her into the nearest Starbucks. ‘It’s totally acceptable to be upset. In fact, it’s recommended. And you only have one father.’

‘Actually, I have two. Look, I’ll have a think and take a view. But today you, my friend, need white shoes, and it’s my job not to leave your side until we complete our mission.’

‘So I’ll wear flip-flops. You’re not going to get away with using my wedding or your work as an excuse to hide from the rest of your life—partnership race or no partnership race. What about going tonight?’

Silence. Sam’s face was expressionless, and for a moment Sophie wondered whether she had crossed the invisible unconditional-support-versus-advice friendship divide.

‘I’m seeing EJ.’

‘She’ll understand.’

‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks and I really want to—’

‘You’re right. You should tell her.’

Sam didn’t want to correct Sophie. But she’d only been going to say ‘see a film’. One step at a time.

Sophie had her diary out. ‘Well, Mark and I have a lunch tomorrow, but I could go with you first thing.’

‘Thanks, Soph, but honestly there’s no need. You’ve got quite enough on your plate as it is. And I will go. Soon. I just need a bit of time.’

‘Don’t leave it too long.’

‘He’d better be on his best behaviour.’

‘He’s got cancer.’

‘Which is why I’m going…’

Sophie reached over and gave her a half-hug. Not that it was really reciprocated, but it made her feel better for a start.

A doyenne of denial, Sam gathered her bags and got to her feet. ‘Now, come on. King’s Road or Knightsbridge? Your call.’

Chapter Five

108,102,96,94,88…Ben squeezed the brake and focused on the house numbers. Last week, safely on the other side of the Atlantic, this had seemed like a great idea: one knight, minus shining armour—well, more of a boy scout—doing a good deed for a damsel likely to be in distress. But at this precise moment he couldn’t help thinking that a stamp would’ve been far simpler. Added to the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he was there out of guilt, gratitude or just sheer curiosity.

Gemma flopped onto the sofa, cold bottle of lager in hand. The relief of pyjama bottom on sofa cushion was blissful. It had been a mundanely hard day in PAsville, most of the afternoon had been spent in Excel hell, and her eyes ached from sustained concentration. Fortunately Sam and EJ were checking out the latest influx of actors trying to make the transition from the big screen to the small stage, so the flat was hers for the evening.

Stretching out, she wondered how early she could go to bed without losing every self-respecting girl-about-town point. Almost all her friends with new babies were in bed by ten…and up at one, three and five. Surely she wasn’t getting broody? Well, maybe a little. And it wasn’t that she was short of male attention, but she’d always wanted to believe in The One, a sole soul mate, yet judging by the forest of wedding invitations on Sam’s mantelpiece, it did seem to be more about timing. In which case she should probably be out strategically sipping cocktails or salsa dancing. She knew she wasn’t going to meet anybody lying in front of the TV.

Ben took a look around as he slowed down. Aside from the roar of his Vespa—well, more angry wasp buzz—it was an eerily quiet road. And tidy. Window boxes added carefully thought-out finishing touches to newly painted windowsills and lovingly glossed front doors in muted blues, reds and greens. A smattering of estate agent boards signalled the transience of Battersea’s young residents as they moved onwards and outwards in search of more affordable space and room to park the inevitable people carriers. Shiny scooters broke up the Audi TT, MG, VW and Peugeot party, and Ben added his to the nearest bay. Strolling towards his final destination, he peered into the front rooms. Ikea envy. His foot was still nowhere near the first rung of the property ladder.

As he reached the front door of number 68, a large three-storey Victorian semi, he ruffled his hair. He knew better than to complain about an unruly mop when most of his mates were desperately trying to hold on to theirs, but it was a constant challenge to persuade it to lie flat, especially when there had been a helmet involved. Licking his finger, he held it firmly on the most independent tuft.

Houston, he had a problem. He’d carried the diary three and a half thousand miles and now there were three bells.

Johnson.

Brooks.

Washington.

And a perfectly acceptable communal letterbox. But surely that would be cheating?

Uncharacteristically tense, Ben rechecked the package in his hand. A sweat broke out in the small of his back as he remembered his broken promise to Ali, and he flapped his T-shirt to try and cool himself down. Flat 3. He checked his watch. Nearly eight-fifteen.

Taking a logical guess, Ben pushed the top bell.

A crackle of static. ‘Halloh…who is speaking, please, thank you?’

He seemed to have been connected to somewhere in central Europe. ‘Hi. Is that flat 3?’

A child shrieked in the background. Maybe two. Ben shook his head. He should have known that British electricians installed bells in whatever order they fancied. Bob the Builder should really have been Bodge the Builder. If he ever turned up at all, that was.

‘Heylow?’

His adult self compelled him to stay. ‘Sorry to bother you. Wrong apartment.’

‘No party here.’

‘Wrong bell. Wrong flat. Sorry.’ Ben wondered why he was shouting. Should have posted it. Should have posted it.

Without giving himself a nanosecond for second thoughts Ben went for the bottom buzzer and leaned in closer to the door. He couldn’t hear a bell ringing anywhere. He pushed it again, for longer this time. Second time lucky? He was sure the letterbox was winking at him.

Startled from semi-consciousness, Gemma sat bolt upright. She definitely hadn’t ordered any food yet, and a quick glance at the video clock confirmed it was far too early to be out for the count in pyjama bottoms. Leaping to her feet, she picked up the intercom handset while her heart made a supreme effort to pump enough blood to her brain to prevent her from passing out.

‘Hello?’ Gemma had tried her best not to sound dazed, confused or asleep. Listening to herself, she had failed on all three counts.

‘Is that flat 3?’

A delay. To reveal or not to reveal the information? At least she had stopped seeing stars now.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes…’ It was a tentative response.

‘Hi. Sorry to disturb you. My name’s Ben…’

Ben? Gemma didn’t think she’d ever had or known a Ben. She’d heard of plenty: Hur, Johnson, Affleck… In which case she could be Gemma from the block…well, maybe with a serious amount of work, a bit of Juicy Couture, longer hair and industrial hair irons.

Two floors down, all Ben could hear was breathing. ‘You don’t know me, but I have a package for you. If you’re flat 3, that is…’

Package for you. The three magic words every girl longs to hear. Open Sesame. ‘I’ll be right down.’

As she replaced the handset Gemma wondered whether she should be a bit more circumspect. It wasn’t your prime-time delivery hour. But she was sure all the e-mails she’d received about female safety involved quiet car parks and Rohypnol.

As she peered down from the sitting room window she could just about make out a bloke on his own. No TNT or FedEx van, but he didn’t look like an axe murderer. In fact from this distance he didn’t look bad at all. As for a package…disappointingly it appeared to be no more than a big envelope. She was still staring when he looked up at the house, obviously searching for a sign of life. Ducking down out of sight, she scrambled to her room, grabbed her combat trousers and, pulling them on over her pyjama bottoms, practically flew down the stairs, releasing her hair from its scrunchie en route.

‘Hello!’ She was unnervingly cheery.

Ben just stared. She was somehow…could she be too messy? He wasn’t usually messyist. Unless… Of course. This had to be Gemma. In which case, she was much more attractive than he’d imagined. He was thrown.

‘Um, hi. I’m really sorry to interrupt your evening…’ Now what was he going to do?

‘No worries.’ The honest truth. Gemma was face-to-face with a slightly nervous but definitely attractive man. Normally it took her months to meet one of this calibre, and that was after extensive searching, misspent evenings in bars and multiple cocktails. Never on her doorstep. Granted, if you were being pedantic, it wasn’t her doorstep, exactly, but for the purposes of this moment it would do nicely.

All he had to do was feign ignorance. How would he know the author even had a flatmate when, as he had reminded himself repeatedly on the way over, he hadn’t read it?

‘This is for you. I mean, it’s yours. I just thought I’d bring it over and drop it off as I was in the area.’ Ben stopped himself. Suddenly this was a ridiculous situation.

‘Thanks.’ Curious, Gemma took the padded envelope from him, still wondering if she was being overly trusting. But she was sure letter bombs and anthrax were never hand-delivered, and he wasn’t wearing enough layers to be a suicide bomber. Plus the vibe was definitely a good one. Classic Adidas, dark jeans, leather jacket, motorbike helmet under his arm and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a hint of an American accent going on. All excellent. Her prayers had been answered. The brat pack had finally come to Battersea.

‘Thanks.’ She said it again and, at a loss as to what to do next, went with convention and closed the door, watching the moment slip through her fingers in slow motion.

‘You’re an idiot, Fisher. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.’ Ben walked back to his bike slowly, muttering to himself. He’d handed over the only reason he had for ever being there, and still had no idea who the mystery author, EJ or NG were. And now he was far more interested than he had been even two minutes ago.

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