But today ... well, today was quite different. She felt really refreshed, and able to cope with it all.

She finally settled on a pair of white patent high-heeled mules, which went with the red shift she had decided to wear-it was one of Toby's favourites; he said she was his own personal lady in red in it-and ran downstairs barefoot, holding them in her hand.

"It was so awful," she said later, sobbing in her father's arms in the car park. "I thought he'd be sitting up in his pyjamas, you know, and I could give him the strawberries and everything, and he was just lying there, looking all pinched and white, and there were lots of drips and things, and one of them was blood, and goodness knows what the others all were, and then he had this cage thing over his leg, with sort of pins going through his skin-it made me feel quite sick, actually-and he turned his head just very slowly and said my name, but he could hardly get that out, and he tried to smile, Daddy, but he couldn't quite manage it, and then his eyes closed again, and he tried to give me his hand, but it sort of flopped before it reached me. And it was so upsetting I just started to cry. And then some beastly nurse said that if I'd like to wait outside, the doctor was coming to see him, and I said couldn't I stay, and she said no, she didn't think that was a very good idea-that's the NHS for you, treating everyone like idiots-and I had to wait outside for ages, and then when the doctor came out I nabbed him, said how was Toby, and he said not very well, but he'd be back in a couple of hours and he'd have a better idea then. He seemed to think I could just wait. So I went back in to Toby and he just seemed totally out of it. And then the nurse came back and said she was sorry, but that was enough for now, and if I liked I could come back this afternoon. I'm just so ... so disappointed and upset, Daddy, and so worried; he's obviously much worse than anyone was letting on last night."

"Oh, darling, try not to worry too much." Gerald Richmond passed her his handkerchief. "Come on, blow your nose. You've been so brave up to now; you've just got to keep it up a bit longer. Shall we go and have a nice lunch somewhere and then come back this afternoon? Would you like that?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know. I mean honestly, Daddy, if you'd seen him, you'd have wondered if there was any point in my going. It was quite ... scary. He hardly seemed to be there."

"Well ... if the nurse told you to go back and the doctor's been to see him, I'd have thought it was worth it. I'll come with you, if you like. Just to hold your hand. As Toby can't." He smiled at her. "Come on, poppet, dry your eyes. We'll go to the Bear, have a really good lunch, and then come back and see how he is. I'm sure he'll pick up very quickly; he's young and very fit."

"Yes. All right. Thanks, Daddy, I expect you're right. Oh, now look at me!" she said, half laughing as she studied herself in the mirror. "My mascara's all run, and I don't have any makeup with me. Maybe we could buy some stuff in Marlborough after we've had lunch."

"Of course we can. You're being very brave, darling. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Daddy. I don't feel very brave. Oh, it's all so sad. Pretty cruel, fate, isn't it? Why did it have to happen yesterday? And to me?"

CHAPTER 15

Abi was in the gym; she felt absolutely dreadful, sick and exhausted, aching in every limb-and seriously stressed. She'd rung her phone repeatedly, in the hope someone would have it and answer it, but it remained stubbornly switched off.

Clearly she needed to speak to Jonathan; the police had told her they would want a statement from her, as she had been in the forefront of the crash, and she presumed they had said the same thing to him.

The thought most frightening her was an odd, almost shadowy anxiety that she had in some way contributed to it. Jonathan had been on the phone-and she had been shouting at him, swearing at him, even; she'd provided a pretty serious distraction. And she and Jonathan had been right beside the lorry; suppose he'd swerved, made the lorry swerve too? It didn't bear thinking about. And they'd surely be required to recount very precisely what they had seen. And if all she could tell them was that it was a blur, that she couldn't really remember, they wouldn't be very impressed. They might even think she was covering something up.

And then-she presumed-Jonathan would require her to go along with whatever story he planned to tell Laura: the reason for being on the wrong motorway, and her presence in the car. It was extremely unlikely, she felt sure, to be the bald truth; and that shifted the balance of power between them just a little. Yesterday, Laura could have been kept in ignorance of Abi's existence-unless Abi herself confronted her with it. Today, she almost certainly could not. So if he wanted Abi to go along with any lie he might concoct, she held quite a few more cards than she had done; and that was, actually, rather pleasing.

Abi was not vindictive; in spite of her threat to Jonathan of confronting Laura, she actually had no intention of doing so. Rather perversely, she was on Laura's side. She didn't admire her; indeed she viewed her-and other wives like her-with something near contempt: for their dependency, their willingness to do what they were told and be what they were bidden.

Kept women, Abi regarded them as: lacking in courage, personal ambition, and self-worth. She had no wish to join their ranks; she would not consider moving into a large house, wearing expensive clothes, and driving a flashy car if it wasn't due at least in some large part to her own efforts. She wanted her own stake in life, not one bought by simpering at dinner parties and providing sex on demand.

Just the same, she felt that they did deserve better than being cheated on. She despised Jonathan for what he was doing to Laura: he was the real wrongdoer, in her eyes, the villain of the piece, playing with Laura's happiness and love, and that of his children. It was he, and not Laura, who deserved to be punished.

But to punish Jonathan would be to punish Laura too, and not to be contemplated in the normal run of things. This run, however, was not normal ...

"How're you feeling, mate?" Barney smiled determinedly at Toby.

Toby opened his eyes with an obvious effort, said, "Cheers, Barney," and managed a rather feeble smile. He closed his eyes again, grimaced, tried to shift his position. "Christ, this leg hurts."

"The nurse said you were on morphine; thought that'd fix it."

"I am. I certainly know when it's wearing off, but it still doesn't kill it. I've got a sort of pump thing; I can give it to myself, but it knows when you've had enough, so you can't OD, unfortunately." He tried to smile again.

"I hear you've had lots of visitors."

"Yeah, Mum and Dad. And Tamara, of course. She's been such a brick, so good about cancelling the wedding. Didn't complain at all."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She wanted to set another date, but I just wasn't up to it. She seemed a bit disappointed about that, but ... maybe tomorrow."

"Well, no rush, eh?"

"No, s'pose not. But it would make her feel better, she said."

The thought of Tamara pestering Toby in his hospital bed about another date for the wedding made Barney feel slightly sick.

"How's the food?" he said after a pause.

"Don't know. I'm just getting stuff through these things." He indicated the various drips and lines.

"Amanda sent some grapes. Here. But if you can't eat them-"

"Thanks. How is Amanda?"

"She's fine," said Barney. "She says she'll come in with me tomorrow if you like, if you don't have too many visitors."

"Yeah, course. Well, let's see. Give her my love."

He was clearly exhausted and certainly in no condition to talk about the things Barney was worrying about. More than worrying. He was haunted by them.

He patted Toby on the hand, told him he'd be back later, and went down to the main entrance, where Amanda was waiting for him.

"How is he?"

"Not good. In a lot of pain. Poor old Tobes."

"Oh, dear," said Amanda, "it's just so, so sad. And so unfair."

Her blue eyes filled with tears; Barney put his arm round her.

"He'll be all right," he said. "Promise. Come on, let's start driving back, maybe have something to eat on the way?"

As they started going down the steps, Emma came running up them; she smiled.

"Hi. Nice to see you. How's the patient today? I haven't been up there yet, but I was planning to check."

"Oh-not too good. Seems in a lot of pain."

"Try not to worry," she said. "It's almost the worst day, this. Lot of trauma: medical trauma, I mean, swelling, bruising coming out." She smiled at Amanda, held out her hand. "I'm Emma King. One of the A and E doctors. I met your ... Mr. Fraser ... on Friday night, when he was leaving your friend's ward."

"I heard you'd all been wonderful," said Amanda, taking the hand. "Thank you so much. I'm Amanda, Barney's fiancee."

"Well ... you know. We do our best."

And they stood there in the sunlight shaking hands: two pretty girls with blond hair and blue eyes, worlds apart in education, class, lifestyle, and aspiration, slightly wary of each other without having the faintest idea why.

There was a silence; then Emma said, "Well, I mustn't hold you up. And I will go and see ... Toby, was it? As soon as I can. Try not to worry. Bye now."

"Bye," said Amanda. "Come on, Barney, we must go too."

So he did have a girlfriend, Emma thought, looking after them as they walked towards the cars; and what a suitable one. And she had a boyfriend, didn't she? So ... why was she even concerned about Barney? She wasn't. She so wasn't. And she was so so late. She must go ... late. She must go ...

Mary sat in her bed in the cardiac ward, feeling physically better, but increasingly agitated about Russell, begging to be allowed to go home.

They kept saying no, that she had to stay another forty-eight hours, that Dr. Phillips was very pleased with her, but he wanted to keep an eye on her.

She'd had what they told her was a cardiac catheterisation the night before. "It measures the pressure actually inside your heart's chambers," Dr. Phillips had said. "Nothing to worry about; we just want to make quite sure everything's OK."

It had sounded rather alarming, but they had gone into her heart through an artery in her leg, and although she was a bit sore, she felt fine. And it had been established that her heart was still doing a pretty good job.

"So why can't I go home?" she said, and they said, well, she was in her eighties, it had all been a considerable trauma for her, and she needed to be kept under observation. And indeed to rest.

The last thing Mary felt she could do was rest. She supposed that once Russell had got the message, he would simply wait until she got in touch with him. Just the same, she needed to know that he had got it; and she could do that only by telephoning his hotel. But she didn't have the number; that was also in her address book in her suitcase. Well, she could find out the number from directory enquiries.

"Can I get up, go down the corridor?" she asked the nurse. "Use the telephone?" But she was told perhaps tomorrow, not today. "But we can bring the phone to you, Mary; that's no problem."

"Oh, that's very kind. Thank you so much."

And all might yet have been well had not Mary's daughter, Christine, and her husband, Gerry, arrived at that moment.

"There, now," the nurse said, "they'll make your phone call for you, Mary."

"What phone call is that, Mum?" asked Christine, setting down the cyclamen plant she had brought.

"Oh, to a friend of mine. It's not important. Don't worry; I can do it when you've gone."

She still couldn't face telling Christine about Russell, not if everything was going to go wrong now. She'd look even more foolish.

And she submitted to an inquisition about the crash that was so long and detailed that she became exhausted; and one of the nurses noticed and said that she thought Christine and Gerry should leave her to rest. After which she was finally able to make her phone call; and was told that Mr. Mackenzie had checked out of the Dorchester a couple of hours earlier.

Jonathan had got extremely drunk at the barbecue. He was surprised by how drunk he was; he hadn't actually consumed that much-a couple of beers, two or three glasses of wine-but by the time everyone was on the tiramisu, he could hardly stand.

It was Charlie who noticed, Charlie who put his arm round his shoulders, asked him if he was OK, Charlie who brought him the bottle of mineral water that he forced into himself before knowing the absolute humiliation of throwing up on the path as he ran desperately for the lavatory.

"Darling! Oh, darling, how awful ..." Laura's face and voice showed nothing but concern. "Serena, I'm so sorry; I think it's delayed reaction from yesterday. It must have been such a horrible experience for him-and the heat, of course; he really doesn't do heat very well ..."

And, grateful for the excuse, dimly aware that Mark Edwards was hosing down the path even as Laura helped him into the house, terrified he was going to vomit again, he bolted into the Edwardses' cloakroom and sat there for a long time, holding his head and wondering how on earth he was going to get through the next days and weeks-and possibly even years.

For the dawning of the day had made him realise that he was in a fairly appalling mess. To start with, he was going to have to explain to Laura why he had been on the M4 at all, rather than the M at all, rather than the M40, and moreover with a woman, a young and attractive woman-although maybe Laura would not have to know that-for whose presence he would have to provide an acceptable explanation.

There was also the uncomfortable fact that at the time of the crash he had been on the phone, and the police might well take the view that that made him at the very least not entirely blameless, and that they should investigate his version of events rather more closely than they might have done. Of course, it had not been dangerous, and the moment he had realised the trouble they were in, he had quite literally dropped the phone-but then again, they might not accept his word for that. And maybe-just maybe-it had meant his reactions were not as sharp as they should have been; maybe he'd swerved in his turn into the lorry ...

Forcing himself to relive the whole thing in painstaking detail, over and over again, he had decided that, at least, was not even remotely possible; but the police might well not agree. And there would be a lot of close questioning: and of Abi as well. He was, in fact, in what was known as a terrible bind.

William was having a difficult day. The cowman, returned from his day off, had pointed out a couple of cows looking off-colour: "Could be bluetongue; let's hope not."

William agreed they should hope; it was not in the language of farming, with its day-after-day routine of problems, some huge-like foot-and-mouth or TB-some smaller-like mastitis, or the delivery of a sickly calf-to express emotion verbally. But if the cows had blue-tongue, it would be pretty disastrous. They would survive because they had to, and because there was, actually, no alternative. All their money, all their assets, their entire future was invested in these acres of Gloucestershire; they might own the land, two thousand acres of it, they might be rich on paper, but it was of doubtful value if farming as an industry failed.

Right at the moment, though, farming was having one of its rare ups rather than downs; the price of milk had risen, along with everything else; there were reports of a coming food crisis, of a world shortage of wheat and rice, a higher demand for dairy products-which was improving the outrageous, profit-leeching price of milk-and food prices too were higher than they had been for years. But costs were still very high, the price of fuel was eye-watering, and the farm overdraft was still way over the agreed limit.

And they were under siege from the Greens, constantly and rigorously inspected by people who seemed to know almost nothing about the realities of farming, but who would ruthlessly cut subsidies if a new and entirely necessary building entailed cutting down trees or cropping hedges. The government urged them all to diversify, which William was absolutely in favour of, except that diversification inevitably led to more people, more construction, more waste products. Which led to more complaints from the Greens.

And then his parents were very opposed to change. His proposal to jack up the commercial shoot business had fallen on very stony ground; his father loathed seeing what he called the city boys tramping over his land, in charge of guns many of them were scarcely qualified to use. It was a miracle, he said, none had been injured.

And then just before lunch today, hours before he'd been expecting them, his parents had arrived back from their holiday, and his father had been heavily critical about the state of the yard and the fact that the cows had not been moved to the other field, despite his instructions; and his mother was full of complaints about the state of the house.

William explained about the crash and the helicopter in the field, and said he'd move the cows that afternoon, and even managed to apologise to his mother for the mess she had returned to. Which he did have to admit was rather bad; but he'd been out on the farm from six every day, grabbed some increasingly stale bread and cheese at lunchtime, and come in at dusk to feed himself from some tins from the store cupboard.

"I don't know what you're going to do when I retire," his father said, as he had at least fifty-two times a year for the past five years; William longed to tell him that his life would be a great deal easier if he could run the farm on his own, using his methods, streamlining costs as he saw fit, instead of its being one huge, unworkable compromise. But as far as he could see, his father would never retire; he was sixty-two now, and the farm was still his life.

He knew he should have a serious confrontation with his father on the subject of modernisation, but he shrank from pointing out the unpleasant fact that he was growing old and out of touch. Time, he told himself, would solve the problem, along with the related one of his living at the age of thirty-four in his parents' house, his domestic life entirely in the care of his mother. It had its bright side, obviously: there was always a meal on the table, and his washing was done. But on the other hand, he found still being told to hang up his coat and take his boots off and clean up the bathroom after himself quite trying. He should be married by now, he knew, but somehow he'd never found anyone who both knew about farming and whom he fancied-and who would put up with living in a house where time had stood more or less still since the 1950 1950s.

And besides, he really didn't have the time to find her ...

And all through this long, predictably difficult day, he kept returning to the one before, so literally nightmarish in recollection, hardly credible at this point. He kept seeing it all, again and again, almost detachedly now-like something on television or in a film, or even in a radio play, for the noises had been as vivid and horrifying as the sights. He remembered feeling the same way about the events of 9 9/11: he had sat watching the screen, fascinated as much as appalled, and actually thinking what a fantastic film it was, how brilliant a notion. But it had been real, of course; and yesterday had been real-the deaths and the pain and the grief and the moment-by-moment awareness of seeing lives wrecked and ruined. He had seen so much and yet so little of the actual crash; from his grandstand view he had focussed, in appalled fascination, on the lorry, but that had been all. With a gun to his head he could have told no more details, no possible further causes; the police would be requiring a statement, he knew-he was a key witness, given his viewpoint-but he feared he would be a disappointment to them. He felt increasingly distressed by some memories, all still so vivid: the girl in the Golf lifted tenderly out, as if that was important; the hideous sight inside the minibus, the young father weeping over his dead wife; and he was comforted by others, by his ability to provide a safe landing for the helicopter, by the astonishing gratitude of people when he gave them water, by the easing of the misery of the small boys as they formed an attachment to that girl, that tough, brave girl, so gentle with the little boys ...

He was just washing his hands in the kitchen before sitting down to the meal his mother had organised when he saw her mobile lying on the windowsill by the sink; he had left it there the night before, intending to do something about it, but then had gone to sleep in front of the TV and forgotten all about it. Probably the best thing was to trawl through the numbers, see if he could find one he could ring. Most of the names obviously meant nothing to him; he had looked for "Mum" and "Dad" and even "work" and "office" and found nothing. And then he saw "Jonathan" and remembered that was the name of the chap she'd been with; it was a start, anyway.

He walked over to the back door and stood looking at the yard, thinking about Abi as he called the number: her amazing legs and her huge dark eyes with all those eyelashes-bit like the cows' eyelashes, he thought, that long and curly-and her dark hair hanging down her back. She'd been nice, really nice, and very, very sexy; not the sort of girl who'd find him interesting, though, and hardly likely to fit into his life.

A woman's voice answered the phone: a pretty, light voice.

"Hello?"

"Oh, good afternoon," William said. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I think you might know someone called Abi ..."

CHAPTER 16

Luke was waiting for Emma in the Butler's Wharf Chop House, just below Tower Bridge; she was late. Unlike her, that-very unlike her. He'd tried her mobile, but it seemed to be dead; he hoped she was OK.

She'd been a bit funny when he'd told her about Milan. He'd been surprised; he'd thought she'd see it as an opportunity. Lots of girls would, having a boyfriend working in Milan, with all-expense-paid trips over there whenever she fancied them. Milan was one of the shopping capitals of the world, for God's sake.

Of course, she'd miss him; and he'd miss her. But ... it was such a brilliant opportunity for him. Anyway, he was planning to make her feel really good later, with what he'd bought her. There was no way she wouldn't be pleased with that ...

He ordered another Americano, went over and got a paper from the rack by the door. The front-page news was a bit boring: Afghanistan. He turned to the inside page and saw a bird's-eye view picture of a pileup on the motorway. He was about to give that a miss too when he read, "almost all the casualties were taken to St. Marks, the new state-of-the-art hospital in Swindon, where medical staff worked tirelessly all afternoon and through the night."