'I didn't think you were serious.'

'Of course I'm serious. I'd write it myself only I haven't got time. What day?'

'Oh. Well...' I was thrilled. 'Any day, really-except Friday, as that's the day I go filming.'

'How about next Tuesday then?'

I glanced at my calendar. 'Tuesday would be great. Could we make it after four though, as I've got my last appointment at two thirty.'

'That's fine.' Lily scribbled it down. 'I'll tell India Carr to come up here at four thirty, then I'll get the photographer to give you a call. Now who shall I get? Let's see...' She bounced the end of her pen against her teeth. 'Johnny van der Veldt? Hmm, I think he's away. Jake Green? Too pricey. Hamish Ca.s.sell? No-he's been working for Vogue, the treacherous little beast.'

I stopped folding the chairs. 'You want a photographer?'

'Yes, sorry, I was just thinking aloud. Don't worry,' she put her diary away. 'The picture editor will sort it out.' I looked at her. 'We'll be off then-my driver's waiting-and I've got to get this little baby into her bed.' She snapped on Jennifer's diamante-studded lead, then smiled. 'See you next week.'

'Can I make a suggestion, Lily?' She turned round. 'For a photographer?'

'Yes, okay.'

Adrenaline surged through my veins like fire. 'How about... David White?'

'David White?' she repeated. She blinked twice.

'Ye-es.'

'You mean D.J. White? That David White?'

'Erm, yes,' I said uncertainly. 'Him.'

'This one?' She'd picked up my copy of the Guardian G2 section. On the front was a photo of a Pakistani boy-he looked no more than five years old-working at a carpet loom. In the top right-hand corner I read, Photo: D.J. White. 'But he's a photojournalist,' said Lily. 'This is the kind of thing he does.'

'Oh. Yes, of course. Oh well-never mind. I don't know much about photographers, actually,' I said. 'In fact I don't know anything about them at all, but I just happened to have heard his name recently so I thought, you know, why not mention him just in case it was a helpful suggestion and-'

'But it is!' Lily exclaimed. 'It's a very helpful suggestion, actually. In fact-it's absolutely brilliant. Yes. D.J. White, distinguished photojournalist, doing portraits for a fashion mag. That might give it a bit of an edge. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. D.J. White doing the glossies. Very edgy. Did I tell you you're a genius, Miranda?' she added casually.

'Er, you did, actually.'

'Good.' She swept out. 'Because you are.'

CHAPTER 6.

But was it the same David White? The next morning, heart pounding, I phoned the two other photographers of the same name. Although they sounded slightly suspicious at being contacted, they both told me that, no, they'd never lived in Brighton.

'It is him,' I said to Herman as I replaced the handset after the second call. 'It's got to be. He's the right one. The White one,' I quipped frivolously. I felt curiously happy.

'So you engineered the introduction,' said Daisy when she phoned me on her way to work ten minutes later. I could hear her heels snapping on the pavement. 'That was bold.'

'I just decided to go for it, in case he was the same one and, as it turns out, he must be.'

'It'll make the whole thing much easier,' she said above the rumble of the traffic. 'The fact that he's got to take your picture first will mean that there'll be a connection between you, which is far less awkward than phoning him up cold. Can you get any more info on him before Tuesday?'

'I've looked at his website and there's no personal stuff. It just says that he was born in 1967-which fits, age-wise; that he trained at the City Poly, and that he worked for Reuters for ten years before going freelance.'

'And how do you feel about meeting him?' Meeting him. My stomach did a somersault.

'Sick. But I also feel strangely cheerful,' I added. 'Excited, almost.'

'That's because you know you're doing the right thing.'

I wondered what the consequences of doing the right thing might be-they could well be catastrophic-but I couldn't worry about that now. 'And what about Nigel?' I asked. I could hear the shrill beeps of the pelican crossing.

'He came back from Bonn last night. Obviously I didn't want to have any delicate discussions with him then, as he was tired. But I will. Soon,' she said. 'Definitely. I've just got to get him in the right mood.'

'Hmm. Of course.'

'But I'm not going to ask him this weekend as he's decided to have a barbecue while the weather holds-in fact, will you come? That's my main reason for ringing.'

'Yes, okay then.' I saw the postman walk by.

'Anyway, I'd better go. I've got a wedding to organize,' she added dismally. 'The reception's at the Savoy. A hundred for a sit-down. Six bridesmaids. Honeymoon in Galapagos. See you on Sat.u.r.day night.'

I pulled three envelopes from the bra.s.s jaw of the letter-box. There was a council-tax demand and the Animal Crackers filming schedule, and finally the form I'd been promised by the police. I quickly filled it in, then posted it. How long was it now? Six weeks. I looked in my hand mirror-the bruising had gone and these days my ribs only ached if I coughed. I'd been very lucky in some ways, I thought-unlike David, who would bear his scars for the rest of his life.

I spent the morning with a shy hamster in Hampstead-the little boy was upset because it didn't like being handled-then I went to see a distressed budgie called Tweetie in Crouch Hill. It had plucked so many feathers from its chest it looked oven-ready.

'Is he trying to commit suicide?' the elderly man asked, visibly upset.

'No, he's just rather unhappy.' Another tiny yellow plume fluttered down.

'But he's got a nice big cage there, and a cuttlefish, and lots of toys.'

'Yes. But there's something he needs much more than any of those things.'

'What's that then?' He looked mystified.

'Another budgie. Budgies should never be kept on their own. In the wild they're flock birds, so they need company.'

'Oh,' he said, mystified. 'I didn't know.'

'So I strongly recommend that you get him a friend as soon as possible and I'll be very surprised if he doesn't cheer up.'

'Right.'

'But please let me know what happens.'

'Yes. I will. I'll get myself down to the pet shop today. Now I must pay you.' He got out his wallet.

'Forget it,' I said. 'I've only been here five minutes and I was in the neighbourhood anyway, and to be honest I could have told you this over the phone, but I was a little...distracted this morning.' In fact, I'm distracted most of the time.

'Oh well.' He smiled. 'Thanks very much. But I'd like to give you something.' He went over to the sideboard, and opened the door.

'No, really,' I protested. 'There's no need.' Then he produced a small, square book.

'I published this myself a few years ago.' He handed it to me. It was called One-Minute Wisdom. 'It's just a book of maxims which have helped me through life. I didn't sell that many, to be honest, so now I just give them away.'

'Well, that's very kind of you,' I said. 'Thanks.' I quickly flicked through it-it was full of home-spun wisdom and comforting cliches. Expect the best, plan for the worst; self-knowledge is the first step towards contentment. 'It looks very consoling.'

'Yes,' he said. 'That's the idea.'

I went home, glad that I'd been able to help the man, but feeling cross with his pet shop for not giving him the budgie basics. As I parked, I glanced in the mirror behind me and again saw that strikingly pretty blonde girl walking out of the Mews. I'd seen her several times now and I couldn't help wondering who she was. She had a sheet of white-blonde hair, pale skin and enormous blue eyes. In fact, she looked like the Timotei ad. I saw her so often I guessed she must work here, though she never smiled like the others did. I opened the door, and as Herman trotted up to greet me, his brows knitted in consternation as usual, I saw the answerphone flashing. I pressed play.

'h.e.l.lo, Miranda. Dad here.' Although he uses American expressions, he still sounds so English. 'I'll be arriving on Sunday, but just to let you know that I'm going straight down to Suss.e.x. But I'll be coming to town in the next few days on club business so I hope to see you soon.' Then, with a 'whirr', the tape spooled on.

'Hi, Miranda,' said an unknown male voice. Who was this? He was American. Maybe he was a new client. 'This is David White here.' My heart stopped. 'I'm just calling to arrange the shoot for next week. I know you're being interviewed Tuesday at four...' He p.r.o.nounced it 'Toosday'. 'So I'm hoping to drop by after that. Anyway, here are my contact numbers so please give me a call.' He p.r.o.nounced it 'gimme'. I pressed play again, then again. By the time I'd listened to the message five times I knew that I'd made a mistake. This wasn't the same David White-it couldn't be. The David White I was looking for was definitely British. I felt disappointed, then suddenly relieved. I phoned the number he'd left and briefly spoke to him-he sounded pleasant, but slightly brusque.

'See you six o'clock then,' he said.

'Hi!' said Daisy, as she opened Nigel's front door on Sat.u.r.day evening. 'You're the first to arrive.'

'Good-that's why I've come early, so I could talk to you. He was the wrong one,' I said quietly. 'He's American. Or maybe Canadian.'

She looked crestfallen. 'Oh. Well, that's the problem, it's quite a common name.'

'Plus the fact that the David White I'm looking for might not even be a photographer any more. That information is from years ago. He could be a pilot now, for all I know, or a personal trainer-or a concert pianist. No, probably not a concert pianist,' I corrected myself bitterly.

Daisy winced. 'Then we'll have to try another approach. Maybe you could get a private detective to find him.'

'It would be expensive and I don't have the cash. Hi, Nigel!' He'd suddenly come upstairs from the bas.e.m.e.nt. He's a bit taller than Daisy with short, fair hair-which is thinning on top-and pale blue eyes. He's attractive, but a bit paunchy, or rather rea.s.suringly 'solid'.

'How nice to see you,' he said.

As I say, I like Nigel. I always have. But I'd like him more if he proposed to my friend. 'Daisy would quite like to know whether or not you're ever going to marry her,' I ventured as he walked towards me. 'After all, she's been with you five years. Five and a half years, actually, which is quite long enough, and it's getting critical because she'd like to have kids. So if you don't want to share the rest of your life with her it'd be kind of you to tell her because, sadly, she's too romantic-and too scared-to ask.'

I didn't really say that; I just said, 'Nice to see you too, Nigel.' He gave me a fraternal kiss.

We went downstairs into the large bas.e.m.e.nt kitchen, with its limed wood units and terracotta tiles, and its smart conservatory dining extension in which a variety of bonsai trees were displayed. As Daisy prepared the Pimm's, I politely admired them. Nigel smiled with an almost paternal pride.

'I must say they are doing well,' he said. 'I'm particularly proud of this Cedar of Lebanon.' I looked at it. It was perfect-with its black-green foliage and graceful low boughs-and it was about ten inches tall.

I felt sad. 'Multum in parvo, I suppose,' I said ruefully, remembering a phrase I'd read in One-Minute Wisdom.

'Oh, precisely. That's the appeal. It looks exactly like it would in nature, except that it's been...'

'Stunted,' I said. I couldn't help it.

'Miniaturized.'

'And how old is it?'

He smiled. 'Well, actually, it's not polite to ask the age of a bonsai tree.'

'Isn't it?'

'But, as it's you-thirty-three.'

'Gosh, that's how old we are,' Daisy snorted as she sliced a cuc.u.mber.

'I've had it since I was seven.'

'Tell me how you get them to grow like that,' I said.

Nigel pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose as he prepared to expatiate upon his favourite subject. 'The key is to keep them in a state of partial stress. That's why I put them here, in the conservatory, because strong sunlight restricts leaf size.'

'Oh.' I felt sorry for them. 'I see.'

'Bonsai trees grown in bright ultraviolet tend to dwarf better,' Nigel went on enthusiastically, as Daisy went outside to collect some mint. 'It's about controlling their development, you see. By using a variety of techniques-giving them barely enough water, for example-slightly depriving them of what they need-you subtly get the tree to do what you want.'

'Uh-huh.'

'The main thing is to avoid luxuriant growth. Now, this Chinese elm has been a particular success...' And as Nigel rhapsodized about 'root-pruning' and 'pinching' and 'correcting design', I thought, he's stunting Daisy too-stopping her growing. Keeping her in a state of partial stress.

By now the doorbell was ringing as Nigel's friends arrived. He'd invited about fifteen people-some old friends, his neighbours, and a few other lawyers. We stood chatting on the lawn in the pretty walled garden and, as the barbecue began to smoke, and the Pimm's flowed, we all began to relax. One or two of them asked me about Animal Crackers, so I told them about the previous day's filming; I'd had to sort out a cat which leaped on its owner's head, claws extended, every time she came home.

'It descended on her like a Fokker,' I said.

'Which is probably what she called it!' someone hooted.

'What it does,' I explained, 'is to sit on top of the hall cupboard, waiting for her, then it pounces. She'd taken to wearing a crash helmet when she walked through the door.'

'And why was it doing it?'

'Boredom-because it was kept inside all day. It was simply trying to fulfil its hunting instinct. That's the thing about so many behavioural problems,' I went on. 'In most cases, the animal doesn't have a behavioural problem at all, it's just being itself in a way which its humans don't like.'

'So what was the answer?'

'A kitty gym with ropes and scratching posts and things to play with-so she's having one built. We'll be filming it again in a couple of weeks to see if it's worked.'

Then the conversation turned to the law. This chap Alan, a criminal barrister, who'd been at school with Nigel, was prosecuting someone for GBH.

'But the interesting thing,' he said, 'was that the offence was actually committed twelve years ago. It was impossible to prove at the time, but now we've got him through DNA. Twelve years,' he repeated wonderingly as he chewed on a chicken leg.