'Oh, I knew that wouldn't be a problem,' he muttered sleepily, not deigning to raise his head from the pillow.

'Oh, why so? Lucas and Maisie are hardly landed gentry.'

'No,' he opened one eye, 'but they're intellectuals, and here in Oxford, where my parents live, that counts. Hundreds of years of respectable ancestry is all very well, Luce, but when your pile is on the doorstep of a famous seat of learning, it ups the ante. Adding a little grey matter to the breeding mix helps. It lends gravitas.'

' But . .' I puzzled.

'Forget it, Luce,' he sighed, 'it's complicated. But genius, being unbridled, is very upper cla.s.s. And take it from me, my mother's as upwardly mobile as the next person.' He turned over and shut his eyes. 'Can't help noticing they're still not coming though,' he murmured.

I blinked and read the letter again. Oh. No. Clearly not.

And so the wedding went ahead, quietly and simply as planned, and with lunch afterwards in my parents' back garden. Trestle tables overflowed with food, flowers brimmed from urns and vases, friends crammed into the tiny garden, shrieking with laughter, and aside from a lovely cousin of Ned's called Jack, we didn't trouble the Fellowes. In fact, we didn't trouble the Fellowes again for - ooh, the next couple of years.

Periodically, though, as time went by, I felt guilty. Particularly when Ben was born. With another rare show of courage, I insisted we go and see them, just occasionally, to show them their grandson. These forays were never a great success. Ned was mute and stony-faced as we ate lunch in the huge panelled dining room at Netherby, with its pendulous chandelier, sea of gla.s.sy mahogany and array of dazzling silver, and I was always terrified that Ben, in his highchair beside me, would misbehave. Archie sat at one end and Rose at the other, but quite often there'd be scores of other friends and family too, because Rose, it seemed, being terribly social, couldn't sit down without at least twenty people around her. Or maybe she felt, as Ned constantly consulted his watch, itching to go, that it diluted a potentially tricky situation. Either way, we'd finally drive home exhausted, with Ned, gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, vowing, 'Never, never again'

Ironically, after that particularly torrid occasion, we never did go again, because six months later, he was dead. And whereas before they'd always kept us at arms' length, suddenly I couldn't move for Fellowes. Rose was beside herself,' naturally - her son, her beloved boy - and wept so loudly at the funeral she had to be restrained by Archie at the grave. Icouldn't help wondering why she hadn't shown more emotion when he was alive. She then went into overdrive, and a few weeks later, arranged the most extravagant memorial service in the Guards Chapel, which Ned would have loathed. Numb with grief and not caring anyway, I went along with it, sitting quietly in the front with Ben, hoping it would soon be over.

'It's only right,' Maisie had a.s.sured me, squeezing my arm as we'd left, crossing the forecourt at Wellington Barracks. 'They're an important family, Lucy, these things matter in their circles.'

I'd nodded dumbly. He wasn't just my husband, he was their son, and I had to remember that. Had to remember not to hog the grief. To be considerate. To include them.

I did include them, but then suddenly, Rose wouldn't leave me alone. She was on the phone constantly, day and night -mostly night - and always at my worst time; when the children were in bed and I allowed myself the luxury of breaking down. The telephone would ring, and I'd hear her voice, quavering, breaking slightly. 'h.e.l.lo, Lucy?' Then: How was I coping? How was I finding the strength to carry on? Didn't I miss him dreadfully? She knew she did. How on earth did I get through the days?

Finally, I realised she was doing me no good. I was trying my d.a.m.nedest to be strong, and three times a week, regular as clockwork, she was breaking down my defences. I went to see her, taking Jess with me for moral support, hoping a personal appearance might do the trick, but still the phone calls continued. After a while, gradually, guiltily, I let things slide. I left the answer machine on and I rarely returned her calls. Cruel? Perhaps, but I knew it was for the best.

At first she persisted, baffled by my silence, but then she too went quiet. I heard nothing for months, by which time it was stalemate. I was too nervous to ring out of the blue, and she, I think, was too proud. I kept meaning to write, but I never did. Christmas cards were exchanged, presents arrived in the post on the boys' birthdays, but no contact. No words exchanged. Four years went by, in fact. Until I got her letter.

My dear Lucy, Forgive me for writing to you after such a long silence, but this letter has been written and rewritten many times. So much to explain, and so hard to know where to begin. Firstly, my unshackled behaviour at the time of Ned's death must have unnerved you, and I feel I should go some way to explaining what must have seemed like a disproportionate outpouring of grief. Grief is discouraged in this family; Archie dismisses it as a weakness and the children bottle it up, but I was incapable of doing either. You see, my dear, despite all the differences Ned and I had in later life, when he died, I felt as if I'd died with him.

Does that shock you, Lucy? Of course it does, but then how little you know. And I don't say that in a patronising way, because why on earth should you? After all, Ned and I never seemed close when he was alive, and yet did you know, for instance, that as a child, he and I were inseparable? Did you know that he was laughingly known as 'Rose's shadow', always trotting around the garden after me, trowel in hand, hating me to be out of his sight? You wouldn't think so, would you. Youwouldn't think that, up until he was fifteen, he and I would fish for salmon most weekends, walk the dogs together, read the same books, discuss them, enjoy each other's company.

One should never admit to having them, of course, but he was my favourite. My only cerebral, yet light-hearted child; my darling boy. Perhaps that goes some way to explaining why, when he had a cla.s.sic teenage rebellion at fifteen, it came as such a terrible shock to me. He wore such strange clothes, became obsessed with music and the film world, smoked and drank all natural progressions, of course yet instead of accepting them as such, I felt as if I'd been slapped in the face, and told him so, too.

We rowed horrendously, as only people who love each other can, and some terrible things were said, mostly by me. The memory makes me go hot with shame. I behaved like a spoilt child whose best friend has chosen to play with someone else. I broke down and smothered him with ghastly, maternal tears, for which I'm sure he never forgave me. I wanted my little boy back, and he was rightly repulsed.

Lucy, what strange ways we have of showing our love, especially mothers to their children. I know you felt uncomfortable about coming to see us here, but perhaps you now understand the depths of emotion only shimmering on the surface, and how hard it was for both Ned and me.

Still, the years have gone by, four, now, of course, and I'd like to make it up to Ned's memory. Like to go some way to making it right, for you and the boys. I gather from Maisie that things are hard in London, that money is tight, so here it is: would you do me the honour of letting me help? Archie and I would love you to have Chandlers Barn - you know, the pretty old timbered one at the top of the meadow where the Jacob sheep are. It's been beautifully converted and would make a wonderful home for you and the boys, with a pretty garden and the lake at the bottom. We are close by, of course, but not entirely on your doorstep, and your privacy would be respected and paramount. The barn would be made over in your name, and we'd also like to pay for the boys' education, until they're eighteen, at schools of your choice. Do let us know if you fecl you could accept our offer, we would so love to have you amongst us. At any rate, and whatever your decision, please count on my love and support, at whatever distance.

With best love, Rose.

I showed it to Maisie. 'Lovely,' she said finally. She took off her gla.s.ses and looked surprised. 'Really lovely. She's come clean at last. I always thought there was a heart lurking in there somewhere. What are you going to do, love?'

'I don't know,' I said quietly, taking the letter back as she handed it to me. I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully. 'I really ... don't know.'

But I think I did, even then. I think I'd made up my mind the moment I'd read it. Ben was unsettled at school, Max was riding his bicycle around our minuscule flat and driving meinsane, and Netherby was only a couple of miles away from Hexham. Hexham? Where the h.e.l.l was that? And what the h.e.l.l difference should that make to anything, anyway?

Oh. Well. Hexham was the village where Charlie lived. And I had to do something about Charlie. I tucked the letter back into the pocket of my jeans, gazed reflectively over my mother's shoulder and out of the window behind her. Yes, I had to do something about Charlie. It was just getting ridiculous.

Chapter Three.

I first met no, saw Charlie, about six months ago. He was standing on the end of my road talking to Ricky, the flower-seller, who marks the corner. Not buying, just chatting, pa.s.sing the time of day; newspaper under one arm, dark head thrown back, laughing loudly. He had an athlete's physique, tall, broad and powerful-looking, and I just remember thinking, what an attractive man. That's all, just, What an attractive man. When I came out of the newsagent's, my own paper tucked under my arm, he was still there. He caught my eye, smiled, and I smiled back. He said something too. I couldn't quite catch it, but I think the gist of it was that Ricky would keep you talking all day if you weren't careful! I laughed, and he held my eye. Briefly, but long enough for me to know that he'd noticed, and wasn't disappointed.

I'd gone home slowly, thoughtfully, gripping my paper tightly under my arm, but when I reached my door, I ran straight up our four flights of stairs taking them two at a time without pausing. I went quickly down the pa.s.sage to my bedroom, shut the door, and sat down at my dressing table, my heart pounding. I stared at my reflection, curious. Fascinated,even. My cheeks were pink, but no pinker than they'd be under normal circ.u.mstances if I'd just run up four flights, and my eyes sparkled a bit, but there was something else, too. Something stirring within me which was making me glow, entering me somewhere around my toes and sweeping through me in a great wave, and which I recognised as pure s.e.xual attraction. Something I hadn't experienced since Ned, hadn't felt for four years.

And not for want of trying, either. Oh no, I knew the rules, knew what was expected of me after all this time. 'Can't mope for ever, Lucy, life goes on,' et cetera and so I'd played the game. I'd been out with one or two guys, mostly at Jess's instigation, and mostly friends of Jamie's. Nice guys, too. Journalists, mostly. I'd been to the theatre a couple of times, been out for dinner, and once I'd even asked a guy in for coffee and gone for a full-blown snog on the sofa. We'd -almost got to the bedroom door, when 'G.o.d, I'm so sorry, it's me, I know. So awful, but I just can't seem to . .

'No, no, don't worry. It's fine. I'll go'

And he had. Whoever he was. Shutting the door quietly behind him.

Nothing, you see. Not a spark, not a flicker of interest, either l.u.s.tful or romantic, and yet, just now, after the briefest of exchanges on a pavement with a man I'd never seen before ... something.

I picked up my brush and swept back my hair hair Ned wouldn't recognise now with its honey-blonde highlights hooking it back behind my ears in firm, swift strokes. I lifted my chin and gave a sudden smile, challenging my reflection.

Well, whaddya know, Lucy. Progress. Definitely progress. Perhaps there's hope for you yet?

After that, I kept an eye out for him. Only on a terribly casual basis, you understand. I certainly wasn't tailing him or anything creepy, but I was alert. I checked on the corner shop, for instance, walked slowly past Ricky with his flowers, peered into the Italian deli - any sign? No. But then a few days later - bingo. As I walked into Mr Khan's Seven-tillEleven, there he was, wire basket in hand. In the basket, a solitary pack of Brillo pads suggested domestic ritual, but did nothing to diminish his shine, particularly since his legs were on display too. It was summer, so khaki shorts, and a blue sailing sweatshirt, bleached and worn. His black hair was a little damp around the edges, particularly at the back of his neck, indicating a recent shower. I could hardly breathe, I was so excited. Ridiculous! Joyfully I s.n.a.t.c.hed a basket, and head down, scurried over to the chilled cabinet where he was browsing, reaching for a pint of milk.

'Ooops, sorry!' I said as our hands clashed over the semi-skimmed. I flashed up a smile.

'Here,' he laughed, handing me a carton. 'You're obviously in dire need.'

'Thanks.' I flashed some more.

'Thirsty work, this weather, isn't it?' he grinned.

'It certainly is'

And that was it. Two seconds later he'd paid and left the shop, and I was still standing there, with one pint of milk in my basket.

Must follow, must follow, I thought desperately, scurrying to the till. But Mr Khan was on the telephone. I tapped thecounter impatiently, willing him to hurry, but he was talking fast and furiously in Hindi, and I had to watch, helplessly, as my man strode past the plate-gla.s.s window, drinking his milk straight from the carton, disappearing into the crowd.

By the time I'd emerged, he'd gone. Hopeless, Lucy, hopeless. Oh, and riveting repartee by the way. 'Thanks,' and, 'It certainly is.' Really memorable. He'll ponder that for hours.

The next time, I was slightly more prepared. I had Max with me, which wasn't necessarily a G.o.dsend, when I saw him nip into Mr Khan's again.

'Come on!' I seized Max's hand in the street and started to run. 'Sweeties, Max, we need sweeties, don't we?' I hissed in his ear. 'Come on!'

Max looked startled, but rose magnificently to the occasion, and we were in that shop in seconds. I grabbed a magazine from the rack and nipped in behind my man in the queue, almost elbowing an old lady out of the way in my excitement. Well, all right, actually elbowing an old lady out of the way.

Sanjay, Mr Khan's son, was serving behind the counter, one eye on the television.

'Orright, Charlie?' He chewed gum laconically.

Charlie! Now I knew. I gazed rapturously at Charlie's back. It seemed to me to be entirely composed of erogenous zones. My heart was beating in my fingertips. Sanjay's gum rotated rhythmically round his mouth as I listened intently.

'Not bad. Sanjay, and you?'

'Yeah, orright. Thrashing you in the test. A hundred and three for four.'

'Early days, my friend, early days'

'Dream on, you're playin' wiv schoolboys! Couldn't bat their way out of a paper bag. There you go.' He handed him some change. 'Yeah?' This, to me, because of course Charlie had been served and was walking away from the counter reading his paper, whilst I gazed, slack-jawed, after him. I snapped to.

'Oh! Oh yes. Come on Max, hurry. What d'you want, fruit gums?'

G.o.d, he was going. He was going! I shoved some sweets into Max's hand but he screeched and threw them back again, determined to choose for himself. The door was opening. Quickly, I swung around. Smiled, as if surprised.

'Oh, hi there!'

Almost out of the shop, he glanced around. Blinked. Clearly didn't recognise me, then either did, or pretended he did. 'Oh, hi.'

Sanjay cleared his throat. 'Just the fruit gums and Caravanning Weekly then, luv?'

I glanced down at the magazine, horrified. Charlie looked too, then up at me in surprise.

'Oh! Oh no, I thought it was . . I dropped it hurriedly. Sanjay was grinning widely, and when I glanced around, Charlie had gone.

I flushed to my roots. Stupid. So stupid. And so adolescent, Lucy. G.o.d, what was I doing, picking up strange men in corner shops? And with my four-year-old son in tow, too! I rooted miserably in my purse for some change.

'He not with it today.' Mrs Khan smiled kindly at me, elegant in her sari as she slid off her stool in the shadows. She came forward to take over from her uncouth son who sidledcloser to the television, picking his nose.

'Sorry?'

'Charlie. He lost in his work. He not recognise anyone when he like that.'

'Oh!' I stared. 'No, that's right. He does get very involved, doesn't he. Um, does he say how it's going?'

'Oh, he nearly finish, he say. But then, you know, he also say when is it ever finished' She laughed. 'Always he say he can play with it, you know?'

I gulped. 'Yes. Yes of course he can.'

'OK?'

' Hmmm? Oh.' I startled. 'Yes, OK. Just the sweets.'

And that was that. I walked slowly back to the flat, wondering what on earth it was Charlie was playing with. The next day I breezed back in again. Walked confidently up to the counter. Oh good, Mrs Khan. I smiled at her as I handed her a Daily Mail.

' Charlie looks well. I've just seen him in the street. Says he's nearly fmished'

She looked surprised, but recovered.

'Oh, good.' She smiled. 'So he can go home soon. He like that.'

'Home?'

'Yes, somewhere near Oxford. He only here to work, and he miss his wife, I know. Thirty-six pence, please.'

I left, shattered. In pieces. Married. And he didn't even live here. Only here to work. Oh well, that was it. Definitely it. Married. Hopeless!

Except that it wasn't it. Short of breath, and almost having palpitations, I stepped off the bus behind him the very next day. Then, two days later, without even looking for him at all, I was in the deli with him. Only this time, he was behind me, and I was at the front of the queue, choosing some cheese. I dithered wildly, gazing desperately at the display.

'That,' he said, leaning past me and tapping on the gla.s.s cabinet, 'is delicious.' He pointed to the Epoisses.

'Oh!' I breathed as his shoulder brushed mine. 'Is it?' 'Strong, powerful, really mature, and when you get it out, it just oozes ... everywhere.'

Well, I nearly lost control of my legs.

'I'll take the Epoisses!' I gasped, holding onto the counter. 'How much, madam?'

'All of it!' I squeaked.

I made my purchase and turned to thank him, but found I couldn't. Couldn't speak. Pathetic. Then just as I'd cranked up the vocal cords, he turned to someone I realised he was with, an older man, and continued his conversation. I gaped, stupidly. As I left, I was just lucky enough to hear 'Yes, sir?'

'A piece of Epoisses, please.'

'Oh, I'm awfully sorry, that lady just bought the lot.'

I stopped, horrified. Shut my eyes and groaned. Then walked on, shaking my head.

This is absurd, I thought, a few minutes later as I headed down the road to Safeway's, to do the proper shopping. I hadn't behaved like this for years, not since I was about sixteen. And not with Ned, certainly, because he'd chased me. All around Oxford, in fact. So had I ever I thought back ... no, I decided. Never. Never chased a man in my life. So this was what it felt like, eh? I savoured it, rolled it around in myhead reflectively. Predatory defmitely. Controlling and powerful, yes, because no one knew. He certainly didn't, and I hadn't told anyone, so no one could belittle it. No one could pour scorn, mock it, spoil it. I was the only one. I straightened my shoulders. Smiled. And I felt invigorated too; better than I had done for weeks, months, even though at home well, at home I was barely with it. Barely had a grip on the household at all. Why, only yesterday I'd forgotten to put Ben's recorder in his bag, had left his homework undone on the kitchen table, and neglected to put anything in Max's sandwiches.

'Jus' b.u.t.ter, Mum?' he'd said indignantly when he'd come home from school, outraged. 'Ns' b.u.t.ter, in my samwidges?'

And all the time, all the while that I was absently putting the shoe polish in the fridge and the rubber gloves in the oven, I was inflating my fantasies to pneumatic proportions. Rewriting history, too. So that instead, for instance, of staring mutely at him after that cheese episode, what I'd actually done, what I'd actually said, was something scintillating like Me: Oh yes, of course Epoisses. It's from the Buleric region in Southern France, isn't it?

Him: (Delighted, turning to look at me properly. Momentarily mesmerised by my beauty.) Yes. Yes, that's right. Have you ever been there?

Me: No, never, but I hear it's wonderful.

Him: Oh, it is. Enchanting. Would you like to go? (Yes I know, but this is the stuff that dreams are made of.) Me: What, to the Buleric Hills?

Him: Yes. Come on!

And off we'd go. It was the work of a moment. So that instead of trolleying dreamily around Safeways as I was now, reaching for the Cheerios, what I was actually doing was climbing those enchanting Bulimic or whatever Hills, hand in hand with the tantalising Charlie. Past the goats and the sheep we'd stroll, through the daisies, like Heidi and her grandfather no, not like Heidi and her grandfather. Charlie wasn't that mature. More like well, Heathcliffe and Cathy, only not Yorkshire.

Likewise, the milk episode in Mr Khan's had swelled to: Him: (Handing me the milk.) Here. You're obviously in dire need, so hey. Are you all right? You look a bit pale. Let me get you a Mr Khan! Have you got a chair? (Mr Khan bustles over with chair, then bustles away again, leaving us to it.) Him: (Hovering anxiously.) Is it the heat?