'Yes, splendid for the minute, but it's not a career.'

'Oh, but surely with two small boys to bring up and financial security under your belt, any sort of work is well, just a bit of posturing. I know you young girls feel you have to do something these days, but let's face it, you don't actually need a career!'

'Need, no, but might want,' I said firmly. 'I always had one, and never considered it posturing, and anyway, who knows, there might be other factors to consider. I might meet someone. Someone I might even want to marry,' I added brutally.

Her eyes clouded at this, and her chin shot out, almost as a defensive reflex. She collected herself.

'Well yes, of course you might. You're young, no one expects you to be a widow for ever, but this place is plenty big enough for a family, and you know, you could always add on at the back.'

I caught my breath at this. How much she'd already thought through.

'Yes, I suppose I could, and who knows, it might not happen. I may stay single. And maybe I won't be able to get back onto the career ladder either and get a proper job, because I've left it too late. In which case I may well stay here and bring up my boys, and jolly lucky I'd consider myself to be, and jolly grateful to you, too, for letting me have this lifeline. What I'm saying though, is,' I struggled to be honest, 'well, I simply don't know. I can't predict the future. Can't make any promises.'

She nodded. Glanced down at her lap. 'Of course not,' she said shortly. 'But for the boys, you know, there's such stability here. And they're starting a new school in September. Yousurely wouldn't want to hoik them out again?'

'I have no intention of hoiking them out,' I said patiently. 'But if I did, I think you'd find it would be fine. Children are very adaptable.'

'And of course, the extended family here,' she swept on, ignoring me and trying another tack, 'is marvellous for them. Not having a father, but to have his family, his parents, their grandparents, right next door-'

'Is wonderful for them, sure. But don't forget, they had all that in London. With my parents.' I looked her in the eye. 'Who they now don't see so much of.'

'Of course,' she said tersely, 'but then the boys are Fellowes, aren't they? That is their family name, a very old, family name. And roots are so important, don't you think, Lucy?'

I nodded. Probably best not to speak. Probably best to hold my tongue. Not to say, 'Oh, as opposed to my family name? My Polish/Irish immigrant roots?' Not for the first time I experienced a nasty taste in my mouth.

'And look what they've got here, too. So much s.p.a.ce, acres to run in, lakes to fish, the swimming pool they're having the time of their lives!'

I nodded again, and didn't mention that they'd had the time of their lives in London; friends in the square to skateboard with, parks to cycle in, dinosaurs to gape at in the National History Museum, less time in cars, a five-minute walk to school. Instead I picked my words carefully.

'Rose, I'm delighted you came across, and it was sweet of you to feel you had to apologise. There was no real need, I promise, I wouldn't have taken offence. But if you're looking for a guarantee that we'll stay here long term I can't give you one. I'm grateful, so grateful, as I've said before, but I truly don't know which way my life will go. If I was privy to the denouement of that little plot, I'd be delighted to share it, but I'm not, so I suppose what I'm saying is, I can't make promises.'

Her eyes glittered dangerously for a moment. Then she raised her chin. Smiled. 'Of course you can't, and who can. Golly, even those of us with the most settled of lives can't tell what's around the corner.' She lapsed into reflective silence, as at that moment, headlights shone in, glaring through the huge, plate windows, illuminating the barn, and causing us both to shield our eyes. The lights dipped, and a moment later, a car came to a halt outside, the engine still running.

Rose got to her feet. 'That'll be Archie. I told him I was popping down here; he probably thought it was too dark for me to walk back.'

I slid off the stool and walked her to the door, struggling with my emotions, hoping I hadn't been too harsh. 'Rose, we do love it here,' I began, 'the boys and I. Don't get me wrong, it is idyllic, it's just-'

'I know.' She stopped me with an unexpected peck on the cheek. 'You just don't know yourself, that's all.' She gave a wan smile. 'And who does?'

I watched her get in the car, carefully tucking in her feet and closing the door behind her, but as they turned around and purred back past me, I realised it wasn't Archie driving at all, but David Mortimer.

Well, of course, I smiled. I couldn't actually see Archie consulting his watch in the library, setting his whisky aside and heaving himself out of his chair to collect his wife,worried about her walking home in the dark, but I could see him giving a nod to the man in the armchair opposite, 'Would you be so kind, dear boy?'

Yes, as ever, I thought, locking the door behind me, they had a loyal dependant at their beck and call. Unpaid, of course, but probably in receipt of favours any elderly bachelor would covet. A day's shooting here, a Sunday lunch there, unlimited access to the drinks cupboard. And he sang for his supper, too, was always good-humoured and charming. But he was a dependant, none the less. Around to do their bidding.

Chapter Twenty-one.

When I went up to Netherby the following morning to collect the boys, I discovered they weren't there. n.o.body seemed to be there, in fact, but I finally ran Archie and Pinkie down, in the pale blue breakfast room. The white linen cloth was covered in crumbs and most of the breakfast things had been cleared away, but they were still lingering over cold toast and marmalade, bathed in sunlight, and buried in the Telegraph and the Mail respectively. Archie looked up, surprised, when I asked.

'Ben and Max?' He leaned back in his chair and rustled his paper. 'No, my dear, they've gone into Oxford with Rose. Left about an hour ago. There was some talk of a puppet show, or something, I think, at the Bloomsbury. That was it, wasn't it, Pinkie?'

He glanced at his daughter, but Pinkie was absorbed in Nigel Dempster, mouth open, lips moving slightly as she read.

'Think that was it,' muttered Archie, going back to his own paper. 'Didn't she mention it?'

'No! No, she didn't.'

'Ah.''So, did she say what time she'd be back?'

'Hmmm?' He frowned abstractedly from the depths of Court and Social, then glanced over at his daughter who was audible now. 'To yourself, please, Pinkie!' he snapped. 'b.l.o.o.d.y expensive schools and you end up with r.e.t.a.r.ds.'

I cleared my throat. 'Any idea what time she'll be back, Archie?'

'Didn't say, my dear,' he muttered, then glanced up. 'Could well take them out to lunch, though, I suppose? Loves their company, eh?' His pale blue eyes widened.

Yes, I thought hovering, and so did I. I sucked a piece of my hair nervously as he went back to his paper. And I didn't seem to be seeing much of them these days. They were always either up here, or out with some member of the Fellowes family, but then again, that was probably my fault, I reasoned guiltily. I had been rather preoccupied of late.

Archie glanced up again. 'Sorry Lucy, was there something else?'

'Oh, no. No, nothing else' I turned to go.

In other words, 'Why are you lingering, woman, when a chap's trying to have a quiet breakfast?' Not, 'Pour yourself a cup of coffee, Luce, and pull up a chair.' And Pinkie hadn't even deigned to raise her head to say good morning. It hadn't escaped my notice of late, that without the boys in tow, my presence lost a lot of its attraction at Netherby. I turned on my heel. And nice of Rose, too, I thought, as I stalked angrily down the oak-panelled pa.s.sage, to take the boys without asking me. I mean yes, sure, a puppet show with Granny was terrific, and I was determined not to overreact, but I'd only seen her last night. She might have mentioned it.

I headed off towards the back of the house, my footsteps m.u.f.fled by Persian runners, then crossed through the main hall, shoes squeaking suddenly on the black and white, limestone flags. The French windows were already thrown open to the terrace at the back to accommodate the antic.i.p.ated heat of yet another glorious day. The frazzled thyme and sage squeezed between the yellowing York stone didn't look up to bracing itself for yet more baking, but down below, the rose garden bloomed more confidently. Beyond the roses, the shimmering expanse of pale green park stretched down to the lake, which was visible only as a phosph.o.r.escent glow, and then rose up again and away into the distance. Swapping this sudden burst of light for the door under the stairs, I followed the gloomy back corridor, pushed through the green baize door and headed for the stable yard.

As I made for the back door, I pa.s.sed the kitchen. The smell of bacon grease hung in the air, together with the usual steamy fug which seemed to accompany anything Joan cooked. I was about to walk on, when I was halted by a sob. I paused, stepped backwards and peered in. Joan's broad back was obscuring my view, and the steam didn't help, but she was standing behind someone seated at the kitchen table. The sob came again. I hesitated, then went in. Trisha was sitting with her elbows on the table, forehead propped up in her hands, whilst Joan, a plump arm around her, patted her shoulder awkwardly. Trisha swung a tear-stained face round at my approach.

'Sony.' I hesitated. 'It's just, well I heard . .

No, no, it's OK,' sniffed Trisha, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. 'Come in, Lucy. I was going to come and talk to you anyway.'

'What is it? What's wrong?' I hastened over and sat beside her. Joan, relieved to be able to abandon her post, hurried away to the boiling vat of water on the stove which had clearly been bubbling away for some time.

'Boy trouble,' Joan muttered darkly, s.n.a.t.c.hing a tea-towel from a rail to drag the cauldron off the heat. 'And with the worst possible candidate if you ask me.' She picked up the heavy pan and staggered with it to the sink, pausing to rest it on the edge. She turned. 'I told her, right from the start, Lucy: it ain't no good hankering over someone like Jack Fellowes. He'll never settle, and that's the end of it. I'm not sayin' he's a bad lot, but I've never seen him more than five minutes with a girl and that's a fact. I told you, right from the start, didn't I?' She jerked her head accusingly at Trisha, before pouring half a hundredweight of potatoes, together with the boiling water, into a vast colander in the sink. Clouds of steam obscured her.

I covered Trisha's hand with mine and squeezed it. 'Oh Trisha, Joan's right, I'm afraid.' I sighed. 'Jack is just too fickle. G.o.d, I wish I'd warned you too, but I had no idea you were in so deep.'

This prompted a fresh outburst of tears and her head dropped like a stone into her arms.

'I am, I am in deep, and I can't help it. I - just love him so much!' Her m.u.f.fled voice came up from the scrubbed pine table. 'And Lucy,' she raised a tear-stained face, 'he had no idea! Absolutely no idea! Thought it was just a bit of fun, thought hanging around with me was great, until I mentioned yesterday that it might be nice to get away from this place, 'cos I've got a bit of holiday coming up, just a weekend, but I thought, you know, we could go away. Stay in a nice pub or something, but he was like, "Oh my G.o.d, a relationship!" I tell you, you've never seen anyone retreat so fast in your life.'

I grimaced. 'Yes, well, I can imagine one might not see him for the dust on the soles of his trainers. G.o.d, he makes me cross sometimes. It's just so typical of him, isn't it, Joan?'

'As I say, he ain't a bad lot,' Joan muttered carefully, intent on shaking the colander full of hot potatoes in the sink. Tut he can't settle, that's his problem'

'And the thing is,' Trisha sniffed, 'I'm sure there's someone else. The other day he went to London you know, with you Lucy and when he came back, he was really oh, I don't know distant. Distracted. Hardly spoke to me. I'm sure he was with some tart up there,' she finished vehemently.

I swallowed, recalling the svelte, beautiful, and hardly tarty Pascale as they'd snuggled and cooed out of her bedroom window.

'Ye-es, well, possibly,' I conceded, not wanting to twist the knife. 'One never quite knows with Jack, although he could just have been distracted by work or something,' I said encouragingly. 'That poetry book of his is coming out soon; he might be worried about reviews or something' Joan snorted derisively from the sink.

Tut even if there is someone else,' I hastened on, 'it's absolutely no reflection on you, Trisha. He's just that kind of man. Can't keep his hormones to himself, and actually, the sooner you realise that, the better. He is what I believe used to be called a bounder.' I grinned and squeezed her shoulder, trying to buck her up.

She gave a weak smile in return. 'He's also the nicest, kindest, most generous, funniest man I've ever met in my life,'she said in a low voice. 'And I can't help loving him. I can't help it, Lucy!' Her head dropped onto the table again as she was ambushed by tears.

I sighed and looked to Joan, ready to raise my eyebrows, to share a how-many-times-have-we-been-here-before moment, but Joan's back was resolutely to us; she was slicing her potatoes like a demon, the blade of her knife glinting.

'Listen, Trisha,' I tried again. 'I know it seems like the end of the world at the moment, but I promise you, in a couple of weeks you'll look at him and wonder what you ever-'

'I won't, I know I won't!' she bellowed into the wood, her nose an inch from the table. 'And what's worse is I have to see him every b.l.o.o.d.y day, look at him every b.l.o.o.d.y day, and hear his voice every b.l.o.o.d.y day! And I just don't know how I'm going to bear that.'

With another strangled sob she jumped up, and blinded by tears, knocked her chair over backwards and fled from the room. I heard her run down the corridor, then the back door slammed.

I reached down slowly and picked up the chair, setting it upright. Joan didn't comment. Trisha had been crying so hard, the table was wet, and as I reached for a tea-towel to wipe it with, I felt my blood rising. I screwed up the cloth and flung it down, furious.

'Where is he, Joan?'

'In the library, as usual. Writing those wretched poems of his, no doubt.'

'Right. I'll give him something to write about'

I got up and marched out, heading off back down the tiled pa.s.sageway, pushing smartly through the green baize door, back to the formal side of the house. As I crossed through the front hall again, I could feel fury mounting with every step; my pace quickened as I rejoined the oak pa.s.sageway down to the library.

I paused there a moment in the quiet, panelled gloom, breathing heavily. The door was closed. I raised my hand to knock, then, dammit, turned the handle and strode in.

The book-lined room was unnaturally bright, but then I was used to seeing it in the evening, when Archie presided over a log fire, the green velvet drapes drawn. Shafts of dusty sunlight streamed in now through the tall windows and fell on the shelves, flitting about the leather spines. It was a large room, and with the sun in my eyes, it took me a moment to see Jack at the far end, sitting facing me, behind the huge mahogany desk in the bay window, his back to the view. Despite the bright light, his head was bowed under a green gla.s.s desk light, intent on not a pile of papers, but a paperback, with a lurid red and black cover, propped up in front of him. He put it down, guiltily almost, as he heard the door open, looked momentarily annoyed. Then his face cleared.

'Oh, Lucy, hi' He quickly shut the book and put it in a drawer.

'Don't you "Oh, Lucy, hi," me,' I snapped, striding across to him. 'What have you done to that poor girl?'

He looked bewildered as I rested the palms of my hands on his desk and leaned towards him. He sat back in the wing chair. 'Which poor girl?'

'Trisha, of course! My G.o.d, you've only gone and broken her heart and you can't even remember which girl it is! Christ,what's wrong with you, Jack? What kind of emotional delinquent are you?' I searched his face. His blue eyes looked back blankly at me. 'Haven't you got any sense of decency? Any sense of responsibility? Any I don't know any heart, for crying out loud? Don't you know when a girl is falling in love with you? Can't you read the signs, or is it that you can read them, but couldn't care less? Just carry on humping her regardless, prior to dumping her when she shows any hint of commitment?'

He regarded me across the desk. Slowly he put the top on his pen, replaced it on the blotter in front of him. 'Actually it wasn't like that at all,' he said carefully. 'In the first place, I had no idea she was "in love with me" as you so romantically put it, until she sprang this weekend break on me, and in the second place I didn't encourage her, unless you count pa.s.sing time with her and the boys. I'm sorry if she's upset, genuinely, but-'

'Oh, spare me that "genuine" b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' I spat. 'You couldn't give a monkey's! Couldn't care less whether she's topped herself or gone back to Australia, and if Not Encouraging Her includes making love to her on the river bank, whispering sweet nothings in her sh.e.l.l-like, and generally letting her believe she's the most wonderful woman on G.o.d's earth then you're on dodgy ground, Jack. Don't forget, I've known you a long time, I've seen you in action and I know the routine. This isn't the first girl I've had sobbing on my shoulder over you, I'm sure it won't be the last, and to be honest, I'm getting just a little bit fed up with it. You're not a teenager, for heaven's sake, you're not even a young blade about town as in gosh, what a lad, the guy can't help himself, so virile, couldn't possibly settle down, wouldn't last a moment no! You're not in any of those categories any more, you're just a sad, aging Lothario, a serial s.h.a.gger who chases his female students around the lecture theatre and can't keep a grip on his trousers for ten minutes!'

I could feel myself shaking with rage. I was also vaguely aware that quite a lot of pent-up anger which might have been better directed at my mother-in-law, sitting smugly between my two sons in a darkened theatre, was winging Jack's way.

'I see,' he said quietly, seemingly unmoved. 'So what does that make you?'

'What?'

'Well, if I'm a sad, aging Lothario, what does that make you, Lucy?'

'We are not talking about me,' I said between clenched teeth, 'we're talking about you, and your irresponsible behaviour which has resulted in a young girl sobbing her heart out at the scullery table!' I pointed a finger down the hallway. 'She's down there Jack, or was, with Joan and me, but she's probably prostrate on her bed now, soaking her pillow. And do you care? No!'

'Well I do, but then again,' he paused, 'she's not married, is she?'

'What?' I narrowed my eyes incredulously at him, panting slightly with the exertion of so much yelling.

'I said, she's not married.'

I stared. 'Oh that's pathetic, Jack,' I said at length. 'Truly, childishly, ridiculously pathetic. And cheap too.'

'Is it?' He got up and came round to my side of the desk. He seemed very tall all of a sudden, and a little too close,actually. I took a step back. 'Cheap, is it? To suggest that before you come marching in here talking about duty and responsibility, you take a look at your own gla.s.s house? Pathetic, to suggest that before you start lobbing stones in my direction, you consider the effects of your own actions, do a little reinforced double glazing to ensure against far more shattering consequences?'

'Oh you're so clever, Jack,' I spat, 'with your English tutorial metaphors, but I know what you're talking about so let's call a spade a spade, shall we? Yes, he's married. OK? Happy? But the marriage is not mine, and it is not my duty to maintain it.'

Even as I said it I knew I was shot to bits.

'You don't believe that for one minute,' he scoffed. 'That's just cowardly cant. That's not you talking at all, Lucy, that's someone small, weak and deceitful, looking for someone else to hide behind. That's unworthy of you, not like you at all.'

'Oh really?' I flushed, furious I'd let myself be cornered. 'So what is like me, then, Jack? You don't know me nearly as well as you imagine, but I know you, and if you're trying to tell me you've never fallen for a married woman you're a hypocrite and a liar.'

He paused. 'Only once. And it was unrequited.'

'Rubbish,' I scoffed. 'You've been nipping in and out of marital beds and making a perfect nuisance of yourself for years. Shinning down drainpipes as the husband's key goes in the front door oh, you've been there all right, and what you don't like is that now I'm there too. You don't like the fact that I'm finally getting out and having a good time. You want me in widow's weeds for ever!'

I turned and walked angrily to the door. When I looked back, his face had paled. His hands were clenched at his sides.

'That's a despicable thing to say,' he said in a low voice, 'and you know it.'

'Oh, do I?' I retorted, opening the door. 'I'm not sure I know anything about you any more, Jack.'

I slammed the door behind me and stalked off down the corridor, a mixture of fury and guilt rising within me like a surging torrent. I gulped it down hard as I crossed the chequered hall and made for the open doors onto the terrace. Pinkie had transferred herself out here, installed in a steamer chair, still gripped by the Daily Mail she'd made it to the horoscopes a cup of coffee beside her. She glanced up as I strode past, shading her eyes with her hand, but I ignored her and ran on down the steps to the gravel below. I felt horribly hot as I skirted the fountain and made for the rose garden, back towards the barn.

My parting shot had been below the belt, I knew that. In the bad old days, no one had tried harder than Jack to help me get over my grief. No one, except perhaps Jess, had spent more evenings in my tiny, miserable flat the worst times, those evenings when the boys had gone to bed just being there, sitting with me at my kitchen table, as I let rip, sobbing into old photograph alb.u.ms while he mopped the photos dry with kitchen towel. I remembered the endless bowls of spaghetti carbonara the only thing he could cook which I'd toyed listlessly with before my eyes would fill up again, and I'd set down my fork and dissolve. I remembered his patience, his kindness, his perseverance, his total lack of compa.s.sion fatigue which had overcome other pilgrims who'd visited meon the top floor. He'd helped me through some dark days, there was no disputing that, and I'd been wrong to ... well. I swallowed, shoved a piece of hair in my mouth and chewed hard.

But then again I'd been provoked, I thought quickly, anger rising self-righteously to balance the guilt on the grocer's scales of my mind. I'd lashed out like that because I quickly re-played our conversation in my head because of all that sanctimonious moralising! He'd preached to me back there like some wise old paternalistic sage, and yet everyone knew he conducted his life like a randy old mongrel, sniffing out every b.i.t.c.h on heat in the county. That was what I objected to, I decided angrily, as I picked up speed, threading my way along the gra.s.s path through the rose garden; that was what had goaded me his hypocrisy. How dare he adopt the high moral ground with me?

Pink and indignant now I considered the magnitude of his gall. Jack Fellowes, of all people what a nerve! Double standards, I seethed, making for the bridge over the lake, double, b.l.o.o.d.y standards and yes, actually, some jealousy, too. Jealousy at someone else having fun for a change, someone else having a good time. Not that I was, I thought bitterly, spitting hair out of my mouth as my footsteps echoed on the wooden bridge. Not in the sense that he thought, anyway. Not in the sense of being awash with hot s.e.x, no, just hot guilt. All the shame and the finger pointing and none of the fun. Ter-rific.

I marched up the hill in the heat, the sun burning down on my forehead now, panting hard as I reached the gate. As I went up the little brick path to the barn, I slammed the door theatrically behind me. The huge gla.s.s pane rattled ominously and I clutched my head in horror, waiting for it to shatter. Happily it didn't. G.o.d, I was like a petulant child, I thought guiltily, lowering my hands. That was the sort of thing Max would do. Max. Hadn't seen him for ages. I touched my temples again. It came to me with an awful, dawning realisation, that I had the beginnings of a monumental headache. I stood still, fearfully, on the doormat. All that shouting, all that stomping around in the heat it could even be the onset of a migraine, something I hadn't had for years.

Walking slowly to the sofa, I sat down, holding myself like a native carrying a vase on her head, knowing any sudden movement would be fatal. This had to be handled with care. I waited. Yes, there it was again, thumping away ominously behind my eyes, like an approaching, marching army. Three or four years ago I'd been plagued by pains like these, and I knew that nothing more than a handful of Nurofen Plus and a darkened room would do.

I got up carefully and made slowly for the stairs, holding onto the banisters as I went. b.l.o.o.d.y man, I thought, groping my way into the bathroom at the top and peering in the cabinet for the bottle. I hadn't had to resort to this for years, and it was all his fault. I felt along the walls into my bedroom and sat down on the bed, armed with the painkillers. One at a time, I carefully slipped them down with sips of water, trying not to gag, trying not to throw my head back too far. As I took the last swallow, the telephone rang on the bedside table. I held my head, horrified, protecting it against its shrill summons, until it occurred to me that it wasn't going to stop unless I picked it up.

'h.e.l.lo?' I whispered, then held the receiver about a foot away from my ear.