'You ... left your car here?'

He walked towards it. 'Yup. Often do. Makes sense.'

Of course it did. Perfect sense. No doubt there was a convenient parking permit to be borrowed. A handy little ticket to tuck cosily in the windscreen as they snuggled together upstairs. I swallowed and glanced around in panic, desperately wanting that bus to still be there, to be able to jump back on it, trundle on down the river, but it was probably halfway to Hammersmith by now. He strode on.

'Um, Jack,' I called after him, 'look, I was thinking. Now I'm here, I might, you know, peel off. Do some shopping or um - go and see Teresa.' I tried to sound cheerful, willing my disappointment not to show.

He turned, looked surprised. 'You're not coming in?' I breathed deeply. 'Probably not. On balance.'

'Oh.' He looked disappointed. 'I wanted to show you around'

I blinked. 'Around Pascale's house?'

He frowned. 'Pascale's? This isn't Pascale's house, this is my house.'

'Your house!' I stared. Looked up at the pale blue facade. 'You live here?'

'Well no, not yet, but I intend to, soon. It's only just been finished. Only just got rid of the builders.' He took a key out of his pocket.

'But, hang on - I thought, well when I picked you up that day - you didn't say it was your house!'

'You didn't ask.'

'Yes, but - I mean .. I gazed up again, astonished. 'Well, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Jack!'

'What?'

'Well, I mean, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' I waved my arm around, speechless. 'I mean, look at it! It's three storeys high, for G.o.d's sake! A delightful little mews house in the heart of old Chelsea, in a cutesy bijou street full of media luvvies - must have cost a flaming fortune! And on a lecturer's salary?' I gaped. Closed my mouth. Pursed my lips. 'Have you been selling your body? Become a proper gigolo?'

He grinned. 'Nope.'

'OK,' I said slowly, 'so ... don't tell me. No, don't tell me, Jack, don't tell me.' I put a finger to each temple in mock concentration. 'The poetry. That's it. You've wowed the literary world with your latest offering and they've made you Poet Laureate. They're all fawning around you and you've sold your s.e.x scandals to the newspapers.'

'Wrong again.'

I dropped the fingers, frowned. Then I smiled. Nodded knowingly. 'Oh right, yes OK, I've got it. Silly me, of course. A trust fund. Another, terribly convenient Fellowes trust fund, lurking in some long-forgotten family vault just waiting until you turned 000h, what would it be now, Jack thirty-six and a half? Golly, I bet the great unwashed wished they could turn up nest eggs like you Fellowes can, eh?'

'Like you can, you mean'

I flushed. 'Yes, well, that's the children's. And I may not touch it.'

'Jolly n.o.ble.' He grinned. 'But no, I'm afraid I'm not as fortunate as you, Lucy. My personal inheritance, such as it is, is being squandered, probably as we speak, by my dear mama, liberally, and I hope joyfully, on the gaming tables of the South of France. And good luck to her, I say.' He paused, turned before going up the path. 'But heavens, how impudent of you to enquire as to how I have the means.' He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. 'How frightfully forward.'

'Well gosh, sorry Jack, but the last time I visited your gaff it was a two-roomed, fourth-floor affair in Earls Court, with pigeons in the rafters and mice behind the fridge. As I recall we sank a bottle of plonk that didn't require the services of a corkscrew and spent the evening trying to tape up the windows with Elastoplast. How come you've migrated to a poofy little place like this!' I boggled at the designer window boxes, the symmetrical bay trees standing sentry by the door.

'I had no idea my penury was so apparent,' he mused. 'How distressing. And you're quite right,' he conceded with a sigh, as we reached the door, 'this isn't my house at all.'

'Ah ha!' I pounced. 'I knew it wasn't! It's Pascale's, isn't it?' I stepped hurriedly back off the doorstep.

'No, it's not b.l.o.o.d.y Pascale's,' he said, taking my arm as he opened the door, 'and stop backing away. It's actually Jason Lamont's''Jason who?'

He ushered me in and I gazed around, marvelling as we stood in a pretty cream hallway, light and bright with coir matting, walls covered with prints and watercolours. An archway led off to an equally sunny sitting room with sandy wooden floors, pale green sofas and dusty rose curtains, whilst another arch led down some steps and onto an airy kitchen, beyond which, a garden beckoned.

'Jason Lamont,' he said as he marched off kitchenwards. 'G.o.d, it's stuffy in here' I followed at a slower pace, wondering why the name was so familiar.

'He's a writer,' he informed me helpfully as he made for the French windows. With one hand he reached up to unbolt them, and with the other, delved into a box on the kitchen island, which seemed to contain about a dozen identical books. He plucked one out and tossed it to me. 'Here!'

'Oh!' I caught it. Just. Stared at the cover. Red, with a black cross on it, splattered, in a puddle. Very dramatic. 'Oh. Hang on,' I turned it over. 'This is the one you and Lucas were both reading. And Archie too.'

'Quite right, except I was reading the paperback. Which isn't out yet.'

I frowned up at him, puzzled. 'Isn't . .?' But he was busy propping the doors open to get some air. I glanced down again. Slowly opened the cover, and read the flyleaf.

Jason Lamont was born in Oxford. Little more is known about him, save that he is unprolific, and has a penchant for fly fishing, the former, quite possibly, being a direct result of the latter. He lives in London, with his conscience.

Suddenly it dawned. 'It's you,' I said quietly, looking up. 'You're Jason Lamont.'

He grinned. 'Good name, don't you think? Catchy t.i.tle too.' I looked again. Devices and Desires.

'I know this book,' I said slowly, turning it over in my hands. 'The hardback was a bestseller last year. And now they're making a film out of it, with Tom Cruise and Julia-'

'Roberts, that's it,' he said stuffing his hands in his pockets, grinning broadly now. 'Pretty girl. Nice teeth. Met her in Cannes last summer. Smarter than she looks.'

He strolled out into his leafy garden, humming. His back was turned deliberately to me, since, despite the nonchalance, he was clearly unable to keep a huge smile at bay.

I, in turn, seemed unable to retrieve my jaw. I stared at his back. 'G.o.d, you sneaky .

I stood stock still for a moment, watching as he studiously arranged some teak chairs around a small table in the middle of the lawn. Carefully brushed leaves off a pile of books that had been left out. Then I came to. Hastened after him.

'Jesus Christ, Jack! Jason b.l.o.o.d.y Lamont! Why didn't you tell me?'

'Oh, come on, Luce,' He squinted up at the sun, purporting to do more chair arranging, looking for shade. 'Not much point having a nom de plume if everyone knows who you are. Much more fun to be incognito, and actually, so much more fun watching everyone read the thing and pa.s.s comment, not knowing it's you they're insulting or flattering. So delightfully partisan, somehow.' He grinned. 'Too much s.e.x, was Rose's sniffy p.r.o.nouncement as she read the last page and tossed it to Archie, who, a few days later growled, "Not enough!" Andanyway, on a more serious note I wasn't entirely sure how penning a trashy blockbuster would go down with the powersthat-be at the university, or more to the point, my extremely highbrow and literary poetry publishers. Didn't know if I'd be out on my a.r.s.e. Actually I needn't have worried. My poetry editor thinks it's highly amusing. Thinks it might actually help sell the poems, give the punters the flip side of the coin, so to speak. Hope so,' he scratched his chin thoughtfully and gazed down the garden. 'Got a slim volume coming out in September. Not that it'll impinge on anyone's consciousness, except a few loyal stalwarts who read the TLS, but you never know. That's my real pride and joy.'

'But G.o.d, Jack that's fantastic!'

'What, the poetry?' He turned, eyes shining.

'No! I mean yes, of course, but you know, the film deal! The Tom Cruise bit. The bestseller, G.o.d amazing! So,' I swung around the garden, waving my arms incredulously at the tasteful, leafy enclosure, 'that's how come you bought all this?'

He shrugged. Thrust his hands in his pockets. 'That's how come. I needed somewhere to live, and it was about time. My flat, as you so eloquently pointed out, was a disaster area and getting beyond a joke. Damp, garret walls may be gritty and artistic but they were giving me pneumonia. The money was suddenly in the bank and this came up for sale. It was in the right location, so-'

'For what?'

He paused, ran a hand through his hair. 'Hmm?'

'Right location for what?'

He turned and narrowed his eyes down the garden to the wisteria-clad wall at the bottom. 'Oh, I don't know.' 'For Pascale?' I said suddenly. 'Is she close by?'

'Pascale again?' He threw back his head and gave a hoot of laughter. 'Pascale's my decorator.'

'Your decorator!'

'Or should I say because I know she'd prefer it my interior designer. She did this place up for me, right down to the last lick of paint, the penultimate cushion, the final tie-back. I didn't have a clue, and didn't care either, couldn't be less interested except for what goes on the walls and in the bookcases and she came recommended by a friend. I just gave her a "light and airy" brief and let her get on with it.' He glanced back into the house. 'She's done quite well, don't you think? D'you like it?' He sounded almost anxious.

'Oh, yes!' I breathed, gazing back too into the creamy kitchen, admiring the pale, bleached cabinets, the bright, Turkish rugs on the wooden floor. 'G.o.d yes, it's lovely.' I was warming to Pascale, too, now that I knew she was just the decorator. Clever girl. Pretty, too, I thought charitably, nice eyes, and 'Oh!' I swung abruptly back to Jack. 'You kissed her!' 'Didn't.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y did! Yes, no, sorry Jack, you did. When I picked you up, you know, that day when I'd been-'

'With Charlie,' he said grimly.

'Well yes, OK. You two were hanging out of an upstairs window like a couple of love birds, billing and cooing and looking like you'd just-'

'Made love? Excellent. Excellent news. That was entirely the impression I intended to give. In fact, we'd just beenchoosing the carpets for the bedrooms'

I stared. 'But why would you . .

'Want to make it look like a love nest?' His blue eyes widened. 'Why, because that's where you'd just emerged from, my dear Lucy. All tousled and rumpled, tumbling from the steamy, sensual arms of your panting, red hot, tiger lover. I couldn't let the side down, now could I? Couldn't let you think I'd merely been comparing the Axminster with the Wilton all morning? Feeling the pile?'

I stared, confused. 'But, no hang on, you did kiss her,' I persisted obstinately. 'I remember.'

He pecked the air. 'Like that?' He raised an eyebrow. 'Well . .

'Oh undoubtedly. Yes, I did, well spotted. And three times too, on the cheeks. Very French, our Pascale, and very flirty, but not my type. A decorative decorator, but lacking in substance between the ears, if that doesn't sound too unchivalrous.'

He looked at me. His blue eyes were steady yet vibrant in the sunlight. Challenging almost. The colour of a Devon sky. For a moment I couldn't breathe.

'Now why would you want to do that, Jack?'

'Do what, Lucy?'

'Make me think she was your lover?'

'Oh,' he scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. Scuffed his toe on the gra.s.s. 'To make you jealous, I suppose. Didn't work, did it?' He grinned down at the daisies.

'But why?' I persisted. I stepped forward. We were close now. Very close. His eyes came up from the gra.s.s to meet mine.

'You still need to know?'

'Yes,' I breathed. 'I need to know.'

The silence that followed was highly charged. At length he cleared his throat. Went on in a low voice.

'Well, I should have thought that was perfectly obvious. I love you, Lucy. I've always loved you' He shook his head slowly. Looked bemused. 'Surely you know that?' He regarded me gently, his eyes soft. Vulnerable, even. I knew at once it was the voice of truth, and not experience.

'No,' I whispered. 'I didn't know that. Why would I? G.o.d, how long? I mean - G.o.d, Jack, always?' I was stunned. So stunned I sat down, on a convenient chair, my legs buckling. He pulled up another and straddled it backwards.

'Pretty much,' he decided thoughtfully. 'I mean, what am I saying? Yes, right from the beginning, certainly. Right from day one.'

'Day one! But you never said!'

'No, quite right, never said. No chance, really.' He scratched his ear sheepishly. 'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Ned got in before me, didn't he?' He narrowed his eyes past me. 'And that was so unlike him, actually. So untrue to form. To get in quick.' He folded his arms across the top of the chair, rested his chin on them and smiled ruefully. 'The deal was, you see, in those days, that when we went out together, on the pull, I'd commandeer the bar and give the girls the eye as they lined up for their spritzers, then give them a bit of banter. His job was merely to organise a couple more bar stools and follow through with some more intelligent chat. Mention Kant. Nietzsche. That sort of thing.' He smiled. 'April fourth. Remember? Remember where we met you, Luce?'

'Of course I do,' I said slowly. 'In the college bar, a sixties night or something . .

'Exactly, a sixties night. And there we were, Ned and I, propping up the bar as usual, but eschewing any groovy clothes because we didn't want to look complete nerds - Ned had a token kipper tie on as I recall - trying to look like we were too cool to breathe, when in you walked. On your own. A confident, stunning hippie. In a long, blue, antique silk dress, which rippled as you walked across the room, and with that sheet of long blonde hair down your back, flowers in your hair, beads - you didn't care. Nothing half-hearted about your style. You asked the barman for an orange juice.'

'Yes, I did,' I whispered. I was staring at him, stunned. He loved me. He'd always loved me.

'And then Ned, in a very unNed-like way, blushing madly, b.u.t.ted in and offered to buy it for you. I couldn't b.l.o.o.d.y believe it. He'd only ever organised bar stools in the past, never offered to buy the drinks. Anyway, we spent the next hour or so chatting at the bar, the three of us, remember?'

I nodded. Couldn't take my eyes off him.

'And then you said you had to go. Your flatmate was cooking supper or something. And I was on the point of coolly offering my services, when Ned played a blinder and suggested he walk you back to your house. Well I waited, teeth gnashing, and half an hour later, he returned. He walked up to the bar, in that typically thoughtful way he had, with that wry look on his face, hands deep in his pockets, staring at the ground, and stopped in front of me. When he looked up, his eyes were alight. On fire. "All right mate?" I said nonchalantly, terrified. "Slip her one did you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" He looked straight at me. Eyes still shining. "You know, Jack," he said quietly. "I've just met the girl I'm going to marry." '

I gulped. Inspected my nails.

'And I roared, of course, theatrically. Clapped him on the back, said he was a romantic fool but more power to his elbow or some such rot, but actually, I wanted to hit him. And be sick. It was the first time, you see, that I'd ever felt anything with any certainty.' He frowned down at the gra.s.s. 'When you stood beside us, that night I can still remember very clearly the impact you had on me. How I felt when you looked at me with your clear, frank green eyes. How my heart buckled up when you smiled, talked so naturally so like Maisie, now I know her and so unaffectedly. And I remember thinking, with resounding clarity, Yes. I could spend the rest of my life with this girl.'

I held my breath. Couldn't utter. There was a silence. He shifted in his chair. A regrouping gesture.

'So, Ned and I, we went back to our respective student houses and I hoped, prayed, that he'd forget. Not bother to get in touch with you. But the next day there you were. Walking to a lecture with him. Having coffee with him in the window of that steamy cafe we used to go to. And then I kept seeing you both, in town, in bookshops, in the library even, working together quietly, heads almost touching over books, me, feeling hollow inside as I walked past and "Oh, hi Jack!" as you glanced up. And then six months later, you were married. It was all over.'

'And you were our best man,' I whispered.

'I was.'

I had a sudden glimpse of him standing next to Ned in church, two straight backs in dark morning coats, side by side, as I walked up the aisle with Lucas ... And then at the lunch,afterwards, in Lucas and Maisie's back garden. My mind flew back to that sunny, happy day; the garden, full of jasmine and lobelia, a long trestle table covered in white linen, strewn with white roses and poppies. Ned, beside me, and opposite Jack. The only Fellowes present, with Jess, beside him, the bridesmaid, in s.e.xy black lace, flirting outrageously, Jack peering ostentatiously down her cleavage. Then Jack, standing up, after we'd eaten Maisie's salmon no, no Jack's salmon, because Jack had caught it, given it as a present getting to his feet and banging his spoon on the table for quiet. Tall, handsome, copper-haired, smiling; a gla.s.s of champagne in hand, a fierce light in his blue eyes, making us all laugh.

'You made a speech,' I breathed. 'About-'

'About how a lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d had got in before me.' He smiled wryly. 'About how I was pipped to the post. I did. Exactly. And everyone thought how chivalrous. How sweet'

I stared, astonished. Licked my lips. 'But Jack,' I struggled, 'no one would have known. I mean it never showed. I didn't know, not for one moment! You never gave an inkling.'

'Of course not, how could I? Last thing I wanted was to look like some love-struck git who fancied his cousin's wife. Especially since Ned was my best mate too.' He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. 'Yes. Good. Glad it didn't show. Always wondered. Nice to escape with a few tattered shreds of pride'

'And Hannah!' I remembered suddenly. 'You escaped with Hannah, too, from that wedding. My old schoolfriend, who you treated to an alfres...o...b..nk in Regents Park. We all heard about it.'

'Ah true. Hannah. Excellent smoke screen. The ultimate red herring. Nice girl. Big t.i.ts.'

'But Jack . . I struggled, 'so many women! Before, during, after. I mean, surely one of them-'

'So many, but never the right one,' he interrupted brusquely. 'I flitted, Lucy. I couldn't have you, so I tried as many other varieties as possible. And very pleasurable it was too. And I was nothing if not optimistic, either. I kept thinking one might eventually match up, might cut the mustard. They didn't, but I ploughed on regardless, filling in time between haircuts.' He shrugged. 'I suppose, in days of yore, I might have galloped off to the Crusades, murdered a few heathens, got you out of my system that way, but instead, I wrote poetry and bonked pretty women.' He shifted in his chair and grinned. Tr you know what John Betjeman said, when he was interviewed before he died? When asked if he had any regrets, he lisped, "Not enough s.e.x." ' Jack threw back his head and gave a hoot of laughter. 'Not a complaint this poet will be able to get away with, I fear, and totally reprehensible of course, but come on, Luce. What was I supposed to do? Pick one at random and marry her regardless, even though I didn't love her? Settle down in Putney with the requisite number of children in order to talk schools at dinner parties?'

'No, but-'

'Not one of them, to my mind, Lucy, came close to you. Not one.'