The following morning he was called to the fifth floor to explain himself. 'Trouble at home,' he'd lied.

'Then sort it, William. And sooner rather than later.'

For a few weeks he continued to play the game, keeping a tight lid on his cynicism and temper. Somehow he managed to be deferential when necessary and ruthlessly determined when fighting on behalf of his client. 'No hostages allowed' was what the firm believed in, but before long, Will realised there was a scared-witless hostage in their midst: him. He was a hostage of his own making and he couldn't go on. The price was too high. He wanted his life back. He wanted to spend time with his daughters, to sit on their beds at night and read to them, or in Suzie's case, sing her her favourite lullaby, 'Scarlet Ribbons'. But more than anything, he wanted to stop feeling so knackered he couldn't make it in bed anymore.

However, Maxine saw things differently. 'It's just a bad patch you're going through,' she said. 'You're tired, I expect. Why don't we go on holiday without the children?'

They went away together to a relaxing hotel in southern Italy, but all it did was give him some courage on his return to the office: without telling Maxine, he handed in his notice. He was immediately put on 'gardening leave' and for a full month he managed to keep Maxine in ignorance of this. He'd get up in the morning as usual, put on his suit, drive off in his BMW (a bag of clothing in the boot, ready to change into at a motorway service station) and then spend the day anywhere but in Manchester. He'd go across to North Wales, the Peak District, or up to the Lakes. He'd browse round bookstores and stately homes - Chatsworth House was a particular favourite. He also visited antique shops and attended a couple of auctions; to his surprise, he began to understand how addictive they were. No wonder Maxine got a thrill out of her work. Up until then, he'd been politely refused entry to the circles in which she moved. Dealers and valuers, he reckoned, were a bit like masons: secretive and prepared to close ranks if anyone tried to muscle in. Through regular attendance at the salerooms and with his keen observational eye, he soon learned about the dodgy goings on, like taking bids off the wall. Some places did it as a matter of course; others, the posher firms, frowned upon the practice of b.u.mping up the sale price of a lot by acknowledging imaginary bidders but occasionally did it all the same.

He grew fond of playing truant and would return home with a faint spring in his step. Maxine was delighted to see the improvement in him; as far as she was concerned they were now back on track, the glitch dealt with. There was even some bedroom action again.

But inevitably she found out, and when she did - he was spotted at an auction by one of her colleagues - she went ballistic. 'What's happened to you?' she screamed. 'You're not the man I married.'

He tried to explain how he felt, how futile and pointless everything had become for him at Carlton Webb Davis, and how ill he'd begun to feel. He couldn't bring himself to admit to his panic attacks, which forced him to go and sit in the loo until he calmed down. But all she was interested in was how they were going to manage financially.

It was a real enough concern. And while Maxine was prepared to ride out the storm sheltering in the safety of her father's cavernous wallet, Will was not. Christopher Stone was a formidable man, who had originally welcomed Will into the Stone family with a haughty coolness that gradually warmed to tepid approval when he realised what a clever, ambitious son-in-law he had. But when, overnight, Will turned into an indolent good-for-nothing, his hostility knew no bounds. The gloves were off and Will was told in no uncertain terms that Christopher Stone's biggest regret in life was that his only daughter had wasted herself on a thoroughly bad lot.

So fierce pride on Will's part had him steering his family further into the eye of the storm. They sold their expensive house and made drastic economy measures. The nanny was sent packing and he became a house-husband. Temporarily, he a.s.sured Maxine. Secretly, though, he enjoyed doing the school run, helping the girls with their homework, taking them swimming, and cooking the tea with one eye on Blue Peter. But it was no job for a real man, as Maxine would imply with one of her steely power-suited looks when she came home after a hard day's graft at the saleroom. One evening, when she was feeling particularly bitter that his selfishness had disrupted their lives so dramatically, she said, 'As far as I can see, you're of no use to the girls or me like this.' She was all for him getting off his backside and submitting his CV to whichever law firm would be desperate enough to have him. She missed the perks of having a husband who spent his every waking moment killing himself through stress.

That was when the affairs started. And for the record he'd like it to be known that he was a monogamous man by instinct, and only ended up in the mess he did by circ.u.mstances beyond his control. But maybe that's what all men say. The first affair was with one of the mothers he got to know at the school gate. Simply put, she was bored and he was desperate. If he had to defend himself, and he had tried to do so many times, his actions were those of a man trying to gain a modic.u.m of self-respect: if his wife could no longer bear to look at him or regard him as attractive then he was sure as h.e.l.l going to find the affirmation he needed elsewhere.

It was a mistake, of course. His self-respect had no intention of showing up while he was cheating on his wife. Even without knowing about the affairs, Maxine's loathing for him was growing on a daily basis. When he announced that he was going into business, and confessed exactly what line of business he was considering, she threw hot, scathing scorn at him. 'You, an antique dealer!' she crowed. 'You don't know the first thing about it.'

'Actually,' he said, 'I do. You've taught me all you know. For which I shall be eternally grateful.'

It was a cheap shot, but by this stage of their relationship there were few sweet endearments.

When their divorce was finalised and the money shared out, he took a gamble and opened an antiques shop, rapidly discovering that only throwing his gelt at a three-legged horse in the 2.30 at Uttoxeter would have been riskier. Nonetheless, he lived above his rented shop in Maywood, and began a new life of buying and selling. Given the right motivation he'd always been a fast learner, so he read up, did his homework and got lucky when he stumbled across an expert willing to share his knowledge. His name was Jarvis and he took a liking to Will, becoming his self-appointed mentor. He still was.

All these years on, his life could not be more different. But for all the aggravation and all the friends he'd lost - only Marty had hung in there with him - nothing would make him go back to those days of sitting behind a shiny desk in the soulless air-conditioned offices of Carlton Webb Davis. Not unless he was armed with a machete.

He was sprawled comfortably on the sofa that evening, having decided to take a break from unpacking, and was listening to R.E.M.'s Up - not the critics' choice, admittedly, but a favourite of his - when his mobile rang. He recognised the number at once. It was his eldest daughter, Suzie.

'Hi, Dad. How did the move go? How's the new house? And can you lend me some money? Pleee-ase.'

'The move went well,' he said. 'Marty helped. The house is horrible. And how much do you want?'

'How much can you spare?'

'For you sweetheart, my very last shirt b.u.t.ton. What do you need it for?'

'My c.o.ke dealer's raised his prices.'

'Then tell him to stick it up his b.u.m. You're paying through the nose as it is.'

'Oh, Dad.'

'No Suzie, I'm holding firm this time. No amount of wheedling from you is going to work. Can't you try something cheaper? Cannabis, for instance.'

Suzie laughed. 'One of these days I'm going to shock you and not be the respectable daughter you've always taken me for.'

He laughed too. 'So why do you want the money?'

'Promise you won't hit the roof?'

'Have I ever been that sort of father?'

'I've b.u.mped the car and want to get it fixed before Mum sees it.'

'When you say b.u.mped, you mean that literally, I hope? You're not about to tell me the car's totalled and you're in hospital covered in bandages, are you?'

'No, nothing like that. I reversed into a metal post and, well, the b.u.mper kind of dropped off.'

'Mm ... how fast were you going?'

'I was hardly moving at all. So will you lend me the money?'

'Why don't you do what the rest of us do? Get it sorted on your insurance. If I'm not mistaken, I already pay for that anyway.'

'Um ... thing is, it ... it wasn't my car. It was Steve's.'

'Steve's?' Will sat up. 'Hang on, let me get this straight. You mean to say that when you were hardly moving at all, and the b.u.mper just kind of dropped off, you were driving PC Plod's brand new Jag? The s.h.a.guar?'

Suzie's answer was so faint, he scarcely caught it. Or perhaps it was the sound of his laughter bouncing off the sitting-room walls that drowned out her voice.

'Dad, it isn't funny. They're back from Paris next week with Gemma and I need to get it fixed before Steve sees it. You know he'll be as mad as h.e.l.l about it.'

Will was still laughing when he ended the call. He was picturing the expression on the face of his ex-wife's second husband when he saw what had happened to his precious new car. Steve Dodd, a.k.a. PC Plod because he used to be something big in the police force, had tried hard to be a model step-father to Suzie and Gemma, but he suspected that Steve was going to have his work cut out keeping his cool over this. Unless, of course, for Suzie's sake, Will could get it sorted before anyone was the wiser.

Ten minutes later, when he was hunting through the Yellow Pages for a suitable body shop, his mobile chirruped with a text message from Sandra saying the coast wasn't clear for the next few days. Sandra was a fellow dealer and had one of those open marriages that he thought only ever existed in people's heads. Seemingly her husband would be around for the foreseeable, so any nocturnal visits from Will would be inappropriate. To be honest he was relieved. He was too tired for one of Sandra's s.e.xual marathons. She might not demand any form of commitment from him, but physically she was the most exhausting woman he'd ever been to bed with. There was no such thing as a quickie for her.

Putting his mobile aside, he returned his attention to more important matters: finding a body shop for PC Plod's pranged car.

Chapter Seven.

It was raining when Harriet arrived in Oxford. She let herself into her flat, went through to the kitchen, hung her keys tidily on the hook beside the breadbin and stood for a moment in the gloomy half-light, listening to the silence. The flat felt cold and empty, as if it had fallen asleep in her absence. Or ... as if it had died.

She briskly chased the thought away and went round switching on lamps, filling the kettle, and checking there was nothing amiss, that a pipe hadn't sprung a leak or a window been jemmied open. Constant activity, she'd come to know, was the only answer.

She'd set off early that morning, trying to beat the worst of the traffic, but had still got caught in a two-mile tailback just north of Birmingham. Her father had offered to come with her, but knowing how tired her mother was, Harriet had suggested he ought to take the children out for the day to give Mum a break. It was obvious to them all that Eileen wasn't getting enough rest, and if that went on for too long, Harriet knew her mother would be stuck in bed for days. It was such a frustration for Mum; just as soon as she started to feel well and her energy levels increased she invariably overdid it and was back where she'd started, feeling ill again. She needed to avoid emotional stress and too much physical work, but they were there for her every day of the week. There seemed no let-up. Harriet knew that her mother would carry on until she dropped. 'Don't worry about me, Harriet,' Eileen had said to her only last night, 'none of us has the luxury of going to pieces, least of all me. I wouldn't do that to the children.' It seemed wrong to Harriet that the focus was all on the children, but maybe that was because she didn't have a maternal bone in her body.

The first room she tackled was the bedroom. It didn't take her long. Most of her things from this room were already up in Cheshire; only a few winter clothes were left, which she had known she wouldn't need straight away. What little furniture she had was being packed up this afternoon by a removal firm and put into storage - there was no s.p.a.ce left in Mum and Dad's garage.

From her bedroom she moved to the bathroom: the linen and towels from the airing cupboard took up no more than a couple of bin liners. The sitting room was next, and with the first shelf of her books packed, the buzzer for the intercom sounded.

Spencer.

She wanted to feel pleased about seeing him again, but her pride wouldn't let her. Let's not forget why he's really here, she reminded herself. During the journey down in the car she had wondered about getting in first, ensuring she was the one to end it between them. 'Look, Spencer,' she'd imagined herself saying, 'let's be adult about this. We had our fun, now it's time to move on.' She then imagined winning an Oscar for the most cliched performance ever given in the history of hammy break-up scenes.

She buzzed him up and, fixing a smile to her face, opened the door. 'Hi, Spencer,' she said. If nothing else, he was going to remember her for being positive and upbeat. But the moment he leaned in for a kiss and she felt the dampness from the rain on his hair and cheek, and smelled the familiar scent of him, she wasn't so sure of herself. A flood of happy memories came back and she kissed him for a fraction longer than she'd intended. Hope surfaced, too. Maybe he would stand by her after all. Maybe he'd be there for her.

'You've been busy,' he said, taking off his wet coat and eyeing the narrow hall that was crowded with boxes and bin liners.

'You know me. If a job's got to be done, best to get it over and done with.' Like ending their doomed relationship, she thought. Noticing the carrier bag he was holding, she said, 'What's that?'

'Lunch. I knew you'd be too busy to go out, so I called in at your favourite deli. Take your choice: avocado and bacon baguettes, coronation chicken sandwiches and a smoked salmon bagel.'

'How intuitive of you.' Of course, ending it in a restaurant would have been much too dangerous. An embarra.s.sing scene might ensue.

'You carry on with what you were doing,' he said, 'and I'll set things up in the kitchen.'

Down on the floor with her boxes of books, she listened to Spencer as he unwrapped the parcels of food in the kitchen. He definitely seemed quieter than usual. They always do when they're about to pull the rug out from beneath you. They need to concentrate. You know what men are like, can't multi-task like us girls.

Stop it! She warned the crazy, paranoid woman inside her head. Perhaps he was just unsure how to treat her these days. Be too relaxed and jaunty with her and he might think she would accuse him of being insensitive.

'Ready when you are,' he called.

They sat opposite each other at the circular table. 'I'm going to miss Franco's Deli,' she said, helping herself to a baguette and ripping it in two. 'Do you want half?'

He shook his head. 'What else do you think you'll miss?'

'Just about everything.' She looked about her, indicating her precious home of the last fourteen months. 'This. Work. Oxford.' She paused and looked at him meaningfully. 'And you. Especially you.' She was throwing him a line. Cueing him up. But all he did was smile and take another bite of his sandwich.

That was when she knew for sure that it was over.

They ate in silence, like an ancient married couple who no longer had anything to say to one another. When she couldn't take the awkwardness any longer, she put down her baguette and said, 'I think we need to talk.' She cringed.

And the Oscar for most cliched break-up opening line goes to Harriet Swift!

He gave her a nervous look.

'You said on the phone yesterday that there was something you wanted to say to me.' Once again she was throwing him a line.

He slowly finished what was in his mouth. 'It'll keep,' he murmured. 'Any luck on the job front yet?'

She would never have thought he was the cowardly type. He'd always seemed so objective and clear-headed. It was one of the things about him that had attracted her. Prepared to give him some slack, she said, 'I haven't had time to sneeze, never mind approach a job agency. No disrespect to my niece and nephew but they're incredibly time-consuming. There always seems to be something that needs doing for them. I'm worn out and in bed by nine most nights.'

'How are they coming to terms with everything?'

She really couldn't work out if he was genuinely interested or still prevaricating. 'They seem okay,' she said, 'but how do we really know what's going on inside their heads?'

'Have you thought about counselling?'

'They've been seeing a woman for a couple of weeks. I've no idea if it's helping them.'

'What about for you and your parents?'

She shrugged. 'Not really our thing.'

'So you'll just tough it out?'

'Isn't that what most people end up doing anyway?'

'I don't know. I've never been this closely a.s.sociated ...' he hesitated, '... this near to death before. Have you thought of keeping a journal?'

'Whatever for?' She could feel herself getting cross with him. If he'd never been this close to death before then perhaps he ought to shut the h.e.l.l up with his half-baked advice.

'I once read about a man who'd lost his wife and he decided to work through his grief by writing everything down. Whenever he couldn't cope, he turned to his diary. I reckon that's what I'd do in your shoes.'

Harriet couldn't think of anything worse. She'd feel too exposed and vulnerable putting down any of the thoughts she'd had since Felicity had died. She also felt that if Spencer knew the first thing about her, he wouldn't have made such a suggestion. Looking at him across the table as he reached for another sandwich, she felt like she was having lunch with a stranger. It hit her then, that that was the reality. Here she was, patiently waiting for him to come clean and say that it was over between them, when the truth was, there was no 'them'. How could there be? They scarcely knew each other. Theirs was a fledgling relationship, still in its early stages. They'd worked together, had been to bed together, but Spencer couldn't possibly know what really made her tick. Just as she didn't know the real him.

Seizing the moment, she said, 'Spencer, I think we should get this over with. I can't think of a single good reason why you would want to carry on seeing me now that my circ.u.mstances have changed so dramatically, so let's not kid ourselves that after today we'll be anything but friends.'

He stopped eating. She saw and heard him swallow. He looked a picture of awkwardness. 'You knew, then, what it was I wanted to say?'

'A smart girl like me? Of course I knew.'

'And you're okay about it?'

'Perfectly okay.'

'Thank goodness for that.' Letting out his breath and visibly relaxing, he said, 'I shouldn't have doubted you, really. You're always so pragmatic. Another girl would have called me every name under the sun for being so shallow and only thinking of myself.'

She looked at him steadily, resisting the urge to slap his face. 'We both know that's not my style.'

'But you do see, don't you? It's the children. I've never wanted any, and ... well, if we're to continue seeing each other, if we were to get seriously involved, the children would be a factor. And I'm not convinced - '

'Please,' she interrupted him, 'you don't have to explain. Believe me, I know exactly how you feel.'

Driving home later that evening, Harriet realised that for all her brave toughing-it-out talk, for all her reasoning of the situation, she was more hurt and disappointed than she'd expected. But what hurt the most was the look of pure relief on Spencer's face when they'd said goodbye. Would it have cost him so much to have pretended to be more upset?

As she headed north, with each mile that she put between herself and Oxford, her anger grew. Rejection was an ugly thing. You could dress it up as prettily and as civilly as you wanted but it still boiled down to the same hurtful blow: the person on the receiving end was left to think they weren't good enough.

By the time she reached Keele Services on the M6 she had to stop and be sick. If ever she had needed her sister at the other end of the phone, or right here with her, this was it. Felicity would have bucked her up; she would have made her laugh and said all the right things. She would have told her Spencer was a shallow toe-rag of the highest order, that she was better off without him.

She emerged from the toilets and joined a queue for a cup of tea to take away the vile taste in her mouth. She had to admit that part of her anger lay in the misguided shred of hope she had clung to. Spencer had been the only thing left that symbolised the woman she had been before Felicity's death - the woman she still wanted to be. Losing him meant she had to sever that tie and submit to the only certainty in her new life: that her days as an independent, carefree woman were over. She was now a parent. A parent whose will had to be subjugated to the needs of the children in her care.

As she sat in the busy service station, surrounded by a coach party of raucous pensioners on their way home after a day out, she finally accepted that her old way of life was over. It was as dead and buried as Felicity. Feeling pathetically sorry for herself she thought of everything she'd lost - her sister, her home, her job, her ident.i.ty, and now her boyfriend. What next? Her mind?