What is love anyway? she finds herself thinking. Maggie talked today of loving Peter, of being in love with him, of losing it temporarily and then being able to fall in love again. But how are you supposed to fall in love again when you have never had anything there to begin with?

Holly knows she wasn't in love with Marcus, not even in the beginning, but she thought she would grow to love him and that would be enough. She knew she didn't have passion, didn't have the excitement, but thought those things spelled pain and discomfort, and life seemed safer without.

But her life is so safe now as to be deeply dull. And there is nothing about Marcus that she loves, little that she even likes. She realizes that those words she spoke to Olivia about her marriage are so true. They are not partners. They are not friends.

And if they are not partners, if they are not friends, if they are not lovers although she does have sex, reluctantly, when she has to, when Marcus refuses to take no for an answer then what are they?

And what, after all, could possibly be the point?

Olivia stands in line at Boots and clutches the pregnancy test to her chest. She's convinced someone she knows is going to walk in and see her, convinced someone will catch her in this miserable, awful situation a situation that she already knows can lead to only one possible outcome.

This test is merely a formality.

She hadn't used protection, hadn't known quite how to bring it up. Being in a relationship for seven years, she had forgotten the rules, forgotten how to play them. Plus she had been on the pill with George, never had to think about contraception. And somehow bringing up condoms at the point of entry hadn't seemed quite, well, appropriate.

And it had been the day after her period ended so she'd been pretty damn sure it would be fine. Who gets pregnant on day eight, for heaven's sake? A physical impossibility, surely...

But she now knows that it's not. Heading home with a sinking heart, she pees on the stick and attempts to read a magazine for a minute while she waits for the test to take hold, but she can wait only a few seconds, and already, as she stares, she sees the beginning of a blue line.

Oh God. Please let this be a mistake. Please let this be a false positive, let there be such a thing. She rips the other packet open, pees on the stick and, again, there it is. No doubt about it. Olivia, who has never wanted children, who is single and doesn't have enough money to raise a child even if she wanted to, is pregnant. There it is in blue and white. Undeniable.

With child.

Chapter Nineteen.

Saffron reaches for the phone, bleary-eyed, knocks it out of the cradle, curses as she reaches down by the side of the bed and finally finds it.

'Hello?' She is still half asleep, and half opens one eye to see the time flickering on the digital clock on her bedside table. Five thirty-six. Who in the hell is calling at this ungodly hour of the morning?

'Saffron Armitage?'

'Yes?'

'I'm calling from the National Enquirer National Enquirer. We're running a story in the next edition about your affair with Pearce Webster and wondered if you'd like to make a comment.'

'What?' Saffron sits bolt upright in bed and shrieks, then slams down the phone, shaking.

The phone rings again seconds later.

'Hello, this is Jonathan Baker from E! Online E! Online. We'll be running a story on this morning's edition about your relationship with Pearce Webster. Would you give us a...'

Saffron slams down the phone again and huddles in bed, under the covers, as the phone rings. And rings.

And rings.

Each time she hears the machine pick up and journalists leaving messages, and then, horrifyingly, ten minutes later her doorbell rings. She gingerly opens one wooden slat of her blinds and gasps in horror as she sees news crews parked all the way up her street, journalists huddled together with microphones tucked under their arms, drinking Starbucks, waiting for her to emerge.

'Oh fuck,' she whispers, sinking into a corner of the room and rocking back and forth. She grabs her mobile phone and dials the only person she can think of to get her out of this mess.

P.

'Do you know how lucky I am to have a husband who is like you?' Anna opens her arms as Paul carefully sets her tea down on the bedside table, then sinks into her, planting a great, squashy kiss on her lips.

'And do you know how lucky I am to have you?' he says, turning his head to lick the marmalade off his fingers.

'So, oh lucky man of mine, how do you feel about White Barn Fields?' Anna has been lying in bed waiting for Paul to come home with fresh croissants and the Sunday papers, entertaining thoughts of how they could do up the house using the little money they have left.

'You're thinking it's a project, aren't you?' Paul smiles at her knowingly.

'I am thinking, my darling, that I want to take a break from thinking about pregnancy and adoption and babies. I just want to live for a little while without thinking about how incomplete our lives are, when they are not really so incomplete at all, so yes, in that respect, I am thinking it would be a great project. Do you understand, my love? I need to centre myself again before diving back into Babyville, and focusing on this house could be just what I we need.'

'I'm glad,' Paul says after a long pause. 'And I think you're right. I feel like everything in our lives has revolved around possible pregnancies for months, and we need a break. The question is, can we do it ourselves?'

Anna props herself up on the pillows and spreads butter and marmalade thickly on a croissant. 'Here is the thing,' she says, chewing slowly. 'There is no way we could do what we originally intended. As lovely as Phil's plans are, we have not got the money to spare now after the treatments, and I do not know if I think that now is the time to do a big renovation anyway. But,' she pauses, 'it would not take that much to make it liveable, and just because it will not look like it is out of the pages of House and Garden House and Garden does not mean it will not make a wonderful retreat for us.' does not mean it will not make a wonderful retreat for us.'

'What do you think it would take?'

Anna counts off the list on her fingers. 'The one thing that we do need to spend money on is the bathroom.'

'You mean you don't want to move in and use the outhouse?' Paul grins.

'Exactly. So if we could find a plumber to do the plumbing in that useless bedroom next to the master bedroom, we could have a bathroom; and we could also put one in downstairs. If a plumber does the work and installs the stuff, we could tile and paint it and put new floors down.

'The kitchen needs more of a facelift than anything else. I would love to replace everything, but we do not have the money, so for now we could paint the kitchen cabinets and replace that horrible Formica worktop with butcher block, then put simple white subway tiles on the backsplash. New hardware on the cabinets would transform them. And I found this place online that sells industrial stainless-steel worktables for nothing, which would be perfect.

'After that,' she continues, almost breathless with excitement, 'we pretty much could get away with sanding and painting the floors, maybe staining them a lovely ebony.'

'What "we" is this?' Paul looks at her in amazement. 'All this talk about sanding and tiling and staining. Since when have you ever tiled anything in your life?'

'Since before I started Fashionista, my darling. I used to do everything myself. I did my first flat in London with Bob the builder.'

Paul laughs. 'Tell me that wasn't really his name.'

'It actually was.' She grins. 'He did everything and I would watch and help out, and by the time I bought my next flat I could do everything myself. I have just never had the time since starting the business. Plus there has never been anything here that really needs doing.'

'So given that time has always been a problem, when could we do it?'

'That is what I have been thinking about. I think a plumber could do the bathrooms in a flash; and once they are ready, you and I could go down for a couple of weeks and get most of it done, I think. The biggest key is having everything ordered and there so we are not waiting for anything.'

'I know you,' Paul says slowly. 'You've already ordered everything, haven't you?'

Anna shrugs and looks away. 'Um... actually, I am not quite sure how to tell you this, my darling, but...'

Paul rolls his eyes. 'You're going to tell me it's done, aren't you?'

'Well... not all all of it. But I did get a plumber in, and the bathroom stuff has been done, well, the big stuff anyway. Not the tiling, which means we could actually stay there now and get the rest of the work done.' of it. But I did get a plumber in, and the bathroom stuff has been done, well, the big stuff anyway. Not the tiling, which means we could actually stay there now and get the rest of the work done.'

'God, Anna. Don't you think you might have discussed it with me? I suppose you've bought everything else too?'

'Well... Oh Paul. Please do not be angry with me. I only went ahead with the bathrooms because everything was on sale, and there were only two days left, and it was all very cheap. I thought I would surprise you.' She pouts. 'I thought you would be pleased.'

Paul shakes his head. 'I'm just surprised that you'd make such a big decision without talking to me.'

'Are you angry at me?' A little-girl voice.

Paul shakes his head. 'No. Not angry. I'm just upset you didn't tell me. It feels dishonest.'

Anna looks aghast, then hangs her head. 'You are right. You are absolutely right. I am so sorry. I did not mean to deceive you, I just got carried away with the excitement.'

'It's okay,' Paul says. 'I suppose it's good that we can use it now.'

'So can I show you the rest of the stuff I've chosen?'

'So it's a fait accompli? Where is all the stuff?'

'Hopefully sitting in the barn, waiting for me to confess so we can plan a trip down there to start the work.'

And with that she reaches into the drawer of her bedside table and pulls out a stack of catalogues earmarked with Post-it notes.

Half an hour later Paul is having a shower while Anna lazily flicks through what she jokingly refers to as her 'secret shame' the News of the World News of the World.

As she turns to the centre pages, she gasps in disbelief. 'Paul! Quick! Come here... it's Saffron Saffron!'

The story is everywhere. First broken in America, every news channel has picked up on it, everybody is talking about it, everyone wants to know everything they possibly can about Saffron Armitage, Pearce Webster, and how the two of them got together.

Saffron has spent a horrified couple of days holed up in a hotel whisked there by Pearce's manager as soon as the news broke flicking through every TV station, feeling more and more sick as she hears what they are saying.

A lot of it is false. She froze in horror when one of the entertainment shows had as their guest that bitch Alex from the meeting, introduced as a 'close friend' of the couple. The more she listened to Alex, the more she suspected that she was the one who gave the story away.

But enough of it is true. Enough of it makes her shrink with horror at the people coming out of the closet to talk about her, to give their opinions, to share some minor piece of information about Saffron that she hasn't thought about for years.

Her parents have offered her refuge at their house, but given that they too are surrounded by the press, as is her flat, there seems to be little point. Nowhere feels safe. Never has she felt so exposed. The only thing she wants to do is bury her head under the ground and come out when it has all been forgotten.

Pearce rings and says, 'I love you. And it will all be fine. This will pass.'

'Are you saying anything?'

'Nope. My managers have advised me to keep quiet. Marjie and I are doing this ridiculous fake romantic dinner tonight to try to calm things down.' Saffron feels her heart sink as he says this the last thing she expected was for him to pretend to the world that everything was normal, that Saffron didn't matter, that his marriage was far stronger than the public now believed.

'Are you okay?' Pearce can tell from her silence that she is not.

Saffron takes a deep breath. This is what she's learnt in recovery. Not to say I'm fine, I'm fine. But to explain how she feels. Clearly and kindly.

Say what you mean, mean what you say, don't say it mean.

It's still hard, though. Even after all these years, it's still so hard to tell someone how she really feels, especially someone she loves. The fear has always been, still is, that they won't like her. That somehow she will end up being abandoned for expressing her needs.

'To be honest,' she says quietly, 'I'm hurt that you're telling the world that you and Marjie are fine. I feel...' She stops to think about how she does feel. 'Well, apart from feeling frightened and overwhelmed and upset, I feel completely irrelevant in your eyes.'

Pearce sighs. 'I'm so sorry, Saff. I never want you to feel that way, and it has never been my intention to hurt you.'

Saffron lets out a bitter laugh. 'Even though this is such an awful thing to happen, there's a part of me that thinks this will allow you to leave and be with me.'

There's a long silence. 'Saff,' Pearce says eventually, 'I do want to be with you. More than anything in the world. I also have my career to think of, and my life. I believe you and I will be together, but my managers say there will be nothing more destructive than me leaving Marjie now to be with you.'

Saffron forces her voice to stay calm, light, unemotional. 'So where does that leave us?'

'The same place we've always been. I love you and I want to be with you, but you need patience, my darling. The one thing I'm certain of is that we can't be seen together until all this blows over.'

Saffron pouts in silence. He's right. Of course he's right. It's just not what she wants to hear.

'So how is Marjie taking it?' she asks finally, curiosity getting the better of her.

'She couldn't care less about you and me, but she feels she's been publicly humiliated, and she's pretty damn furious about that.'

'I'm sorry,' Saffron says sadly.

'So am I. But I'm most sorry I can't be with you now, making you feel better. Did someone from my management team talk to you about England?'

'Yes. They're putting me on a plane in the morning and I'm going to hole up there for a bit until it dies down. Mum and Dad have been besieged by the press, but I just left messages for old friends. Hopefully one of them will come through.'

'Just make sure you stay in touch and let me know where you are. I'll call you later, my darling, and remember: whatever happens, I love you.'

'Saffron? Are you okay? We've left messages, we tried to call. We just read... Well, we were a little bit worried about you.' Anna bites her tongue quickly, stunned to have picked up the phone to find Saffron on the other end.

'I'm sort of okay, if being holed up at the Beverly Hills Hotel with bloody bodyguards outside the door while millions of press try to break into my room by pretending to be room service, counts as okay. It's pretty fucking horrific, that much I will say.'

'Oh you poor thing. And you must want to speak to Paul, but he has gone out and he has left his mobile behind. I can get him to call as soon as he is home.'

'So are there no press outside your house?'

Anna snorts with laughter. 'No! Should there be?'

'They've managed to infiltrate pretty much everyone else. Look, Anna, I know you and I don't know each other, but I'm desperate for somewhere quiet to stay until this blows over. Is there any chance I could come and stay with you and Paul? I know it's a huge imposition, and I promise I wouldn't ask unless I was completely desperate, but I don't know where else to go.'

'Of course you can come and stay. As it happens, you could even stay in the country if you wanted some serious peace and quiet. We have got an old barn we are doing up in the middle of nowhere in Gloucestershire, which would be much better for you, although at the moment it is a bit of a dump. We are just starting to do it up, but at least there is now a nice bathroom. If you stayed with us here, the press would find you very quickly north London is not exactly the easiest place to hide, but Gloucestershire, I think, would be perfect.'

'Oh Anna! I don't know you but I love you already. Thank you, thank you, thank you!'

'So when are you coming?'

Now it's Saffron's turn to sound sheepish. 'Actually I'm hiding in the first-class lounge at LAX about to get on a flight.'