'Mmm,' she said, 'interesting.' It made sense in terms of him as a person. He was thoughtful, a little introspective perhaps, and perceptive. 'Who's your favourite author then?'

'Martin Amis.'

'Oh, too clever for me,' she grimaced. 'I like something more accessible. Like Colm Toibin, Margaret Atwood, Joseph O'Connor, Barbara Kingsolver.'

'I like all them too,' he said earnestly. 'I read everyone and everything. But you did ask me who my favourite was.'

'True. Ever try Umberto Eco?'

'Oh, yes.'

He was an intellectual then, for try as she might, the books were unintelligible to her.

'But I didn't succeed.' His bracken-coloured eyes twinkled mischievously.

She giggled. 'I'm so relieved you said that! I'm glad it's not just me.'

When their laughter had died down she said, thinking of Alan Crawford and Carnegie's, 'Seriously though, what's someone with a degree in English Literature doing in the hospitality business?'

He shook his head but this time there was no smile on his face. He swilled the wine around in his gla.s.s, then took a long gulp as if fortifying himself for something. At last he said, 'That's a very good question, Jennifer.'

She waited. He turned the gla.s.s slowly, staring at the pale yellow liquid like it might hold the answer to the question. 'I started working for my father six and a half years ago, just after I graduated from Queen's.'

Jennifer blinked, while her brain processed a swift mental calculation. English Literature was a three-year degree course he would've started at eighteen, graduated at twenty-one. He must be twenty-eight now. She felt a horrible sinking feeling in her tummy, like hurtling downhill on a roller coaster. She'd known he was a lot younger than her, obviously, and she'd originally estimated that he was in his late twenties. But over the past few weeks she'd found herself recalibrating this estimate, speculating that he could be in his early thirties, not only because he seemed mature but also because she wanted it to be so.

Now she had to face the fact that not only were there sixteen years between them, the yawning gap straddled three decades.

'What about you?' he said, interrupting her thoughts. The waiter arrived with two cups of coffee and set them carefully on the white damask tablecloth. He smiled his thanks and added, 'Did you go to uni?'

She poured milk in the coffee and told him all about her degree course in Design and Textiles at the University of Ulster and her first job designing products for Ulster Weavers, a family-owned home textiles company based in Holywood, County Down. 'I loved my job but it only lasted a few years. I gave up work when I had Lucy.'

He frowned. 'So, you must've been quite young when you had her.'

She smiled at this and said, 'I was twenty-four when I had Lucy, twenty-six when I had Matt.'

He looked away and blinked. She wondered if he was doing maths, as she had done only a few moments ago. 'That's quite young,' he said, and he paused to take a swig of coffee. 'I mean most of my friends aren't even married, never mind having children.'

There was a pause and Jennifer said, scratching the tablecloth with her nail, 'It was too young. I feel as if I didn't have time to live before the kids came along. And once you have kids, well, life is never the same again.' She cleared her throat and brightened, not wanting to dwell on past mistakes. 'Anyway, enough about me. Can I ask you something?'

'Go ahead,' he said, without looking up.

She placed her coffee cup carefully on the saucer. 'Who's Ricky?'

He looked so startled when she said this almost knocking over the gla.s.s of wine and grabbing it just in time to prevent a spillage that she blushed, ashamed of her eavesdropping.

Hurriedly, she provided an explanation. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. It's just that I overheard your Dad call you Ricky. That day in the restaurant when I came to look round. I just wondered if it was an affectionate nickname, perhaps?' she added feebly, watching the colour leach from his cheeks.

He swallowed and looked at the back of his hands laid flat on the table. 'Ricky was my elder brother.'

'Oh,' she said and put a hand to her mouth. It wasn't so much the use of the past tense, as the toneless sound of his voice that filled her with dread of what he would say next.

'He died in a car crash.' He smiled grimly and nodded several times, as if these brutal words required a gesture of confirmation to reinforce their truth.

A waiter carrying a sizzling metal platter at shoulder level walked past, the hot, smoky spices catching in her throat. She should not have pried. The back of her tongue swelled up and she said thickly, 'I'm so sorry, Ben.' She had a sudden urge to embrace him, to place her lips on his and kiss away the pain so clearly etched in the grim set of his face. 'I had no idea.'

'Of course you didn't,' he said evenly, sliding his hands off the table onto his lap. 'But I'd rather not talk about Ricky tonight. I ... would you mind if I told you another time?' He raised his eyebrows like a question mark and he seemed, in spite of the pained expression on his face, much more in control of his emotions than her.

She coughed. 'You don't have to tell me at all. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any distress.' She put the corner of the napkin to her mouth and took a sip of water.

'It's okay,' he said. But she knew, from the way his jaw muscle flexed and the corner of his left eye twitched, that it wasn't. Desperately, she clambered for safer ground.

'Well, to go back to our earlier discussion,' she said, trying to inject some light-heartedness back into the conversation while her heart pounded against her ribcage, 'the life of a champagne-swilling Ulster socialite sounds like a glamorous one to me. All those b.a.l.l.s and parties and black-tie dinners. I could get used to that.'

'You'd be surprised,' he said drily, peeling the gold foil off the small square of plain chocolate that had come with the coffee. 'The novelty soon wears off. Though not for my father, apparently. He does a lot of socialising, well, networking really. He never stops. Not for one minute. I don't know where he gets the energy.' He shook his head and popped the chocolate in his mouth.

'And you?' she asked, more comfortable now that they'd dropped the topic of Ricky.

'It's not really my scene,' he said out of the side of his mouth. He finished the chocolate and then stared hard at her. 'I'll be honest with you, Jennifer,' he went on, making her feel like he was confiding specially in her. 'I can't bear the falseness of it all, pretending to be friends with people you don't even like. It's all very ... superficial and compet.i.tive. And for all my father's wheeling and dealing it's never brought him much happiness. My parents divorced when I was twelve and my father's remarried twice. Mum's had plenty of admirers but I don't think she'll ever marry again. She says once was enough and I kind of understand where she's coming from, having been married to my Dad for fifteen years.' He gave a hollow laugh. 'Truth is, we stopped being a family a long time ago.'

Listening to this observation Jennifer's heart contracted in empathy. She thought guiltily of Lucy. Was this how she'd felt when she and David divorced? For while Matt had coped, Lucy had taken it very badly, reverting to tantrums and other behaviours more befitting a toddler.

'And being rich isn't all it's cracked up to be,' he went on, looking at her with a direct, searching gaze. 'It is a blessing, but it's a curse too.'

'What do you mean?' said Jennifer doubtfully. As far as money was concerned, too little had always been far more problematic than too much.

'Well, sometimes you wonder if people only like you just because of who you are. Like Rebecca.'

At the mention of his girlfriend, the muscles in Jennifer's back tensed. He rolled the foil into a hard little ball and threw it into the empty wine gla.s.s with a ping, while she arranged an indifferent expression on her face. 'Your girlfriend?' she managed to get out, and she held her breath.

'She's not my girlfriend any more.' He looked straight at her and Jennifer felt the tension across her shoulders evaporate, the good news momentarily overshadowing her misgivings and allowing her hopes to rise.

'What happened?' she said eagerly, pushing the coffee cup away.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'She was a ... she was immature.' He thought for a moment and then added, diplomatically, 'No, I take that back. It's not fair. We simply weren't suited, that's all. It just took me a while to realise it.'

The waiter came with the bill, folded in half on a small round metal plate, and Jennifer rummaged around in her purse for some cash. She admired his self-restraint in refusing to be drawn on Rebecca a lesser man might've indulged in a character a.s.sa.s.sination.

By the time she'd found her purse, Ben had already paid the bill.

'I'd like to pay for mine,' she said, a little indignantly.

He stood up, the faint smell of aftershave wafting across the table, and slipped his wallet into his back pocket, the front b.u.t.tons of his shirt straining against his well-defined chest. She couldn't take her eyes off this or his slim, black-trousered hips. 'Tell you what. Why don't you pay next time?'

'Next time? Oh, I'd love to do this again,' she blurted out, a little too eagerly and bit her lip. Embarra.s.sed by a sudden wave of desire that made her face burn, she dropped the purse into her bag and suppressed a secret smile, rejoicing in the fact that there would be a next time. She liked so much about him already the thoughtful, honest way he answered a question; his quiet humour; his modesty; the fact that, like her, he loved books. And his transparency was a startling, welcome, surprise.

But these attributes were not what stirred the yearning in her and made the skin on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kle with electricity. When he stared at her so intensely with his melted-chocolate brown eyes, and gave her one of his shy, half-c.o.c.ked smiles, the right corner of his deep red mouth turned up like a question mark, her body ached for his touch. She took a deep breath, stood up and met his smile with a confident one of her own, while she tried very hard not to visualise what lay beneath the blue shirt and the black trousers.

Chapter 9.

Lucy sat at the kitchen table happily slathering soft garlic and lemon b.u.t.ter into diagonal slits in a French baguette. Outside the wind howled round the corners of the house like a banshee October, which had come in like a lamb, was going out like a lion.

Watching her, Jennifer smiled. It was nice being indoors, in the warm and cosy kitchen, on this wretched night. It was heart-warming to see Lucy relaxed and happy and to have harmony in the house once more. Over the last few weeks there had been a marked improvement in Lucy's mood. Calmness had replaced her habitual anxiety she'd stopped biting her nails and, though she spent as much time alone in her room as before, she seemed altogether more contented with the world and with herself. And she no longer asked for money. What could be responsible for this transformation? Was it, thought Jennifer guiltily, simply because the weight of financial worry had been lifted from her shoulders? Perhaps her father had been right, after all, to bail her out.

Jennifer tipped some salt into the pot of bolognese sauce. She turned the flame down to a simmer and set about clearing up. They worked companionably in silence for a while and then Jennifer, keen to make the most of Lucy's good mood, spied the book on the table. Though it looked relatively new, it was traditionally bound with a leather-look burgundy cover.

'What're you reading? Tolstoy?'

Lucy looked up and followed her mother's gaze. She smiled, more to herself than her mother, for when she lifted her eyes to glance briefly, almost condescendingly, at Jennifer, the smile was replaced by a secretive smirk. 'No. It's the Bible.'

'Oh,' said Jennifer and she went over and picked up the book. 'That's an ... unusual choice,' she said, examining the King James Bible. She could see now that, though not old, it was a well-worn second-hand copy.

It did not come from any bookshelf in her house and, weighing the tome in her hand, it occurred to her that that was a failing. She herself did not possess a deep personal faith at least not one strong enough to make her seek out the written word of G.o.d on a regular basis and David had taken the family Bible with him when he'd left.

Lucy unrolled a large sheet of metal foil, and ripped it rather savagely against the serrated edge of the box. 'What's unusual about it?'

Her defensive tone warned Jennifer to tread warily. 'Only that you've never shown any interest before?'

'That's because I didn't understand what I was missing.' Lucy wrapped the foil tightly around the bread like a swaddling blanket and set the ceramic bowl, knife and board noisily in the sink. 'Better late than never though.'

'Mmm,' said Jennifer thoughtfully, flicking through the pages and coming to a halt at the bookmark, with the Lord's Prayer inscribed on it, lodged in Corinthians. 'Maybe you're right, Lucy. It is one of the most influential books ever written, there's no doubt about that.'

'That's not why it's important,' said Lucy, and she held out her hand and looked at the book. Jennifer gave it to her and Lucy pressed it against her chest, her hands splayed across the cover like a mother nursing a precious baby's head. 'The Bible is important because it's the word of G.o.d.' She fixed her mother with a steady, sure gaze as surprising to Jennifer as her daughter's self-a.s.sured words. Lucy had always been lacking in confidence and uncertain in her convictions. It was good to see her standing up for something she believed in, but odd too as they rarely, if ever, talked about spiritual matters.

She smiled and, seeking clarification, said, 'Well, yes, of course. But not literally. It's the word of G.o.d as laid down by scribes over the centuries. An interpretation, if you like, of G.o.d's spiritual teachings by man. And as such, it's open to different interpretations too. Look how many versions of the Bible there are.'

Lucy shook her head sadly. 'Jesus and the Apostles took the Old Testament literally. What makes you think you're above them?'

Jennifer opened her mouth but nothing came out, so dumbfounded was she by Lucy's response. It was clear that Lucy had been studying hard over the past weeks, but not maths. Jennifer had been prepared for a lot of things as a parent drugs, alcohol, depression, promiscuity, self-harm even but not a religious conversion, not the adoption of beliefs alien to her own.

She and David had raised Matt and Lucy within a set of morals largely based on Christianity. They'd always agreed that the children should be free to choose their own religious path in life. And now that moment was, apparently, here she was not ready for it. If this new-found faith was responsible for Lucy's recent happiness, then it was a good thing, wasn't it? She should support Lucy's choice, even if she could not embrace her beliefs.

'The Bible isn't an allegorical story, Mum,' said Lucy with fire in her eyes and pa.s.sion in her voice. She held the Bible up in her right hand and stared at it, her eyes shining. 'It's the actual word of G.o.d, clear as the living day. It's a blueprint for how to live our lives today in His image.'

Jennifer swallowed as she watched the s.p.a.ce between herself and her daughter widen, pushed apart like continents on the earth's crust by the rising mantle of Lucy's budding faith. She'd thought over the last weeks that she and Lucy were moving towards the intimate mother-daughter bond she had always craved. But she saw now that the shift she'd perceived had been all to do with a change in Lucy's character, and nothing at all to do with a change in their relationship. Lucy had been pleasant and co-operative because she had much more important matters on her mind, that was all. Aiming to calibrate just how big the disparity was between them on this subject, Jennifer ventured, 'But what about all the inconsistencies in the Bible?'

'There aren't any.'

Jennifer blinked and pressed on, even though she feared the answer. 'Are you saying that you believe everything in the Bible actually happened? That G.o.d, for example, created the universe in seven days?'

'Absolutely. It's in Exodus. Twenty eleven,' she said, holding out the Bible in one hand and laying the other atop, like a divine sandwich made from human hands instead of bread. 'For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is.'

'But what about science? What about evolution?'

'There's as much scientific evidence to support the Bible as there is to dispute it.'

'That's simply not true, Lucy,' said Jennifer in astonishment, unable to let this pa.s.s unremarked.

Lucy smiled warmly. 'How can you challenge something you've barely read since childhood, Mum? It's only when you come to really know the Bible that you understand.'

Ignoring this, Jennifer, driven to pursue this field of questioning by morbid curiosity asked, 'Let me ask you something.'

'Okay.'

'So what about the age of the earth? How old is it?'

'Oh, that's easy,' said Lucy flippantly, though Jennifer in her despair could not even raise a smile. 'According to biblical chronology, the universe and the earth was created about six thousand years ago.'

Jennifer put her hands, hot and sweaty, to her suddenly chilled cheeks. How could Lucy possibly think this? She was a scientist, studying Mathematics, a subject of logic and reasoning. It had been proven beyond a doubt that the earth was more than four billion years old. 'Are you telling me that you're a Young Earth Creationist?'

'Oh, labels don't interest me, Mum,' said Lucy airily. 'I'm only interested in the truth. And everything I need to know is in here.' She held the Bible in both hands across her chest and sighed. 'You should read it. I think you would be amazed, if you just got over your prejudice.'

Prejudice! Jennifer's eyes opened wide in disbelief at what she was hearing. As far as Jennifer was concerned, choosing to adopt a literal interpretation of the Bible meant closing your mind to every reasoned argument and scientific advancement of the last century.

The doorbell went and Lucy said brightly, 'I'll get it. That'll be Grandpa.' And she skipped lightly out of the room with the book still clasped in her hands as if she hadn't a care in the world.

They had dinner in the kitchen, the windows steamed up from the cooking and the room filled with the smell of garlic and dog. Jennifer's father, Brian, chatted to Matt about his new job. Lucy served herself salad and dressing out of a bottle while Jennifer brooded silently, trying to come to terms with the monumental discovery about her daughter. She pa.s.sed Matt the parmesan and glanced at Lucy who returned her look with a steady, unnerving one of her own. Jennifer pushed the corners of her mouth into a smile.

'You'll need to get that hair cut,' chuckled Brian who, at seventy-six, had a deep and gravelly voice honed by a forty-a-day Benson and Hedges habit. Though long retired, he still had a thick head of grey hair, a matching close-trimmed beard and the wiry, lean build of a man who'd laboured all his working life. He'd been a bricklayer (until his knees gave out at the age of sixty-four), liked a pint and had outlived his clean-living wife by four years. He adored Lucy and Matt, his only two grandchildren.

'No,' said Matt, shaking the curls that now touched his shoulders. 'Ben says I can just tie it back in a ponytail.'

'Ben this. Carnegie's that,' chimed in Lucy. 'Honestly. Matt, that's all you talk about these days.'

'Well, it's a big step for your brother, Lucy,' said Brian. 'Starting his first proper job. You'll know how it feels when it's your turn.'

Matt gave his sister a smug look, reached over and pinched a slice of cuc.u.mber off her plate. She stabbed the back of his big hand with her fork.

'Ouch, that hurt!' he cried, wincing.

'It was meant to,' she said, her nose wrinkling up in a cheeky grin. Matt, more swiftly this time, grabbed another piece of cuc.u.mber in revenge. Lucy let out a world-weary sigh but did not attempt to retaliate. Jennifer smiled warmly, the playful affection between her children filling her with pleasure.

'What's a fella like you doing with a ponytail anyway?' said Brian, pausing with a mound of chopped-up spaghetti and sauce balanced precariously on a fork in front of his mouth. He had come late to Italian cuisine and never mastered the art of twirling spaghetti round a fork. 'Do you think you're Samson?'

'Maybe,' said Matt, his right cheek bulging with a chunk of garlic bread.

Brian chewed and swallowed. 'In that case,' he said, with a wink at Jennifer, 'where's your Delilah?'

'I'm currently between girlfriends,' said Matt, who had so many girls chasing him Jennifer could barely keep up with them all.

When the laughter had died down, Brian asked, 'And how are you getting on at university, Lucy?'