'I can't wait.'

'Neither can I.'

'Jack.' We both look up to see Sven at the gate.

'OK,' calls Jack. We stand up and I discreetly look away from Jack's slightly strange posture.

I could ride along in the car and- No. No. Rewind. I did not think that.

When we reach the road, I see two silver cars waiting by the pavement. Sven is standing by one, and the other is obviously for me. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. I feel like I've suddenly become part of the royal family or something.

As the driver opens the door for me, Jack touches my hand briefly. I want to grab him for a final snog, but somehow I manage to control myself.

'Bye,' he murmurs.

'Bye,' I murmur back.

Then I get into the car, the door closes with an expensive clunk, and we purr away.

SIXTEEN.

We'll take it from there. That could mean ...

Or it could mean ...

Oh G.o.d. Every time I think about it, my stomach gives an excited little fizz. I can't concentrate at work. I can't think about anything else.

The Corporate Family Day is a company event, I keep reminding myself. Not a date. It'll be a strictly work occasion, and there probably won't be any opportunity at all for Jack and me to do more than say h.e.l.lo in a formal, boss-employee manner. Possibly shake hands. Nothing more.

But ... you never know what might happen next.

We'll take it from there.

Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d.

On Sat.u.r.day morning I get up extra early, exfoliate all over, Immac under my arms, rub in my most expensive body cream and paint my toenails.

Just because it's always a good thing to be well groomed. No other reason.

I choose my Gossard lacy bra and matching knickers, and my most flattering bias cut summer dress.

Then, with a slight blush, I pop some condoms into my bag. Simply because it's always good to be prepared. This is a lesson I learned when I was eleven years old at Brownies, and it's always stayed with me. OK, maybe Brown Owl was talking about spare hankies and sewing kits rather than condoms, but the principle is the same, surely?

I look in the mirror, give my lips a final coat of gloss and spray Allure all over me. OK. Ready for s.e.x.

I mean, for Jack.

I mean ... Oh G.o.d. Whatever.

The family day is happening at Panther House, which is the Panther Corporation's country house in Hertfordshire. They use it for training and conferences and creative brainstorming days, none of which I ever get invited to. So I've never been here before, and as I get out of the taxi, I have to admit I'm pretty impressed. It's a really nice big old mansion, with lots of windows and pillars at the front. Probably dating from the ... older period.

'Fabulous Georgian architecture,' says someone as they crunch past on the gravel drive.

Georgian. That's what I meant.

I follow the sounds of music and walk round the house to find the event in full swing on the vast lawn. Brightly coloured bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the gra.s.s, a band is playing on a little bandstand and children are shrieking on a bouncy castle.

'Emma!' I look up to see Cyril advancing towards me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow pointy hat. 'Where's your costume?'

'Costume!' I try to look surprised. 'Gosh! Um ... I didn't realize we had to have one.'

This is not entirely true. Yesterday evening at about five o'clock, Cyril sent round an urgent email to everyone in the company, reading: A REMINDER: AT THE CFD, COSTUMES ARE COMPULSORY FOR ALL PANTHER EMPLOYEES.

But honestly. How are you supposed to produce a costume with five minutes' warning? And no way was I going to come here today in some hideous nylon outfit from the party shop.

Plus let's face it, what can they do about it now?

'Sorry,' I say vaguely, looking around for Jack. 'Still, never mind ...'

'You people! It was on the memo, it was in the newsletter ...' He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. 'Well, you'll have to take one of the spare ones.'

'What?' I look at him blankly. 'What spare ones?'

'I had a feeling this might happen,' says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, 'so I made advance provisions.'

A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can't mean- He can't possibly mean- 'We've got plenty to choose from,' he's saying.

No. No way. I have to escape. Now.

I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He chivvies me into a tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of ... oh my G.o.d. The most revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where did he get these from?

'No,' I say in panic. 'Really. I'd rather stay as I am.'

'Everybody has to wear a costume,' says Cyril firmly. 'It was in the memo!'

'But ... but this is a costume!' I quickly gesture to my dress. 'I forgot to say. It's um ... a twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic ...'

'Emma, this is a fun day,' snaps Cyril. 'And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?'

'Oh.' I pull the regretful face I've been practising all week. 'They ... actually, they couldn't make it.'

Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.

'You did tell them about it?' He eyes me suspiciously. 'You sent them the leaflet?'

'Yes!' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'Of course I told them. They would have loved to be here!'

'Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.' He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves towards me.

'I don't want to be Snow White-' I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts miserably being pushed into a big s.h.a.ggy gorilla costume. 'OK.' I grab the dress. 'I'll be Snow White.'

I almost want to cry. My beautiful flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit which makes me look like a six-year-old. A six-year-old with zero taste and colour-blindness.

As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the 'Oom-pa-pa' song from Oliver, and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against the sun, trying to work out who everyone is behind their disguises. I spot Paul walking along on the gra.s.s, dressed as a pirate, with three small children hanging off his legs.

'Uncle Paul! Uncle Paul!' one is shrieking. 'Do your scary face again!'

'I want a lolly!' yells another. 'Uncle Paul, I want a lolleeee!'

'Hi, Paul,' I say miserably. 'Are you having a good time?'

'Whoever invented Corporate Family Days should be shot,' he says without a flicker of humour. 'Get the h.e.l.l off my foot!' he snaps at one of the children, and they all shriek with delighted laughter.

'Mummy, I don't need to spend a penny,' mutters Artemis, as she walks by dressed as a mermaid, in the company of a commanding woman in a huge hat.

'Artemis, there's no need to be so touchy!' booms the woman.

This is so weird. People with their families are completely different. Thank G.o.d mine aren't here.

I wonder where Jack is. Maybe he's in the house. Maybe I should- 'Emma!' I look up, and see Katie heading towards me. She's dressed in a totally bizarre carrot costume, holding the arm of an elderly man with grey hair. Who must be her father, I suppose.

Which is a bit weird, because I thought she said she was coming with- 'Emma, this is Phillip!' she says radiantly. 'Phillip, meet my friend Emma. She's the one who brought us together!'

Wh- what?

No. I don't believe it.

This is her new man? This is Phillip? But he has to be at least seventy!

In a total blur, I shake his hand, which is dry and papery, just like Grandpa's, and manage to make a bit of small talk about the weather. But all the time, I'm in total shock.

Don't get me wrong. I am not ageist. I am not anything-ist. I think people are all the same, whether they're black or white, male or female, young or- But he's an old man! He's old!

'Isn't he lovely?' says Katie fondly, as he goes off to get some drinks. 'He's so thoughtful. Nothing's too much trouble. I've never been out with a man like him before!'

'I can believe that,' I say, my voice a little strangled. 'What exactly is the age gap between you two?'

'I'm not sure,' says Katie in surprise. 'I've never asked. Why?'

Her face is shiny and happy and totally oblivious. Has she not noticed how old he is?

'No reason!' I clear my throat. 'So ... er ... remind me. Where exactly did you meet Phillip again?'

'You know, silly!' says Katie, mock-chidingly. 'You suggested I should try somewhere different for lunch, remember? Well, I found this really unusual place, tucked away in a little street. In fact, I really recommend it.'

'Is it ... a restaurant? A cafe?'

'Not exactly,' she says thoughtfully. 'I've never been anywhere like it before. You go in and someone gives you a tray, and you collect your lunch and then eat it, sitting at all these tables. And it only costs two pounds! And afterwards they have free entertainment! Like sometimes it's bingo or whist ... sometimes it's a singsong round the piano. One time they had this brilliant tea dance! I've made loads of new friends.'

I stare at her for a few silent seconds.

'Katie,' I say at last. 'This place. It couldn't possibly be a day care centre for the elderly?'

'Oh!' she says, looking taken aback. 'Erm ...'

'Try and think. Is everyone who goes there on the ... old side?'

'Gosh,' she says slowly, and screws up her brow. 'Now you mention it, I suppose everyone is kind of quite ... mature. But honestly Emma, you should come along.' Her face brightens. 'We have a real laugh!'

'You're still going there?' I stare at her.

'I go every day,' she says in surprise. I'm on the social committee.'

'h.e.l.lo again!' says Phillip cheerily, reappearing with three gla.s.ses. He beams at Katie and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she beams back. And suddenly I feel quite heart-warmed. OK, it's weird. But they do seem to make a really sweet couple.

'The man behind the stall seemed rather stressed out, poor chap,' says Phillip, as I take my first delicious sip of Pimm's, closing my eyes to savour it.

Mmm. There is absolutely nothing nicer on a summer's day than a nice cold gla.s.s of- Hang on a minute. My eyes open. Pimm's.

s.h.i.t. I promised to do the Pimm's stall with Connor, didn't I? I glance at my watch and realize I'm already ten minutes late. Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. No wonder he's stressed out.

I hastily apologize to Phillip and Katie, then hurry as fast as I can to the stall, which is in the corner of the garden. There I find Connor manfully coping with a huge queue all on his own. He's dressed as Henry VIII, with puffy sleeves and breeches, and has a huge red beard stuck to his face. He must be absolutely boiling.

'Sorry,' I mutter, sliding in beside him. 'I had to get into my costume. What do I have to do?'

'Pour out gla.s.ses of Pimm's,' says Connor curtly. 'One pound fifty each. Do you think you can manage?'

'Yes!' I say, a bit nettled. 'Of course I can manage!'

For the next few minutes we're too busy serving Pimm's to talk. Then the queue melts away, and we're left on our own again.

Connor isn't even looking at me, and he's clanking gla.s.ses around so ferociously I'm afraid he might break one. Why is he in such a bad mood?

'Connor, look, I'm sorry I'm late.'

'That's all right,' he says stiffly, and starts chopping a bundle of mint as though he wants to kill it. 'So, did you have a nice time the other evening?'

That's what this is all about.

'Yes, I did, thanks,' I say after a pause.

'With your new mystery man.'