"Right. Well, please lock up carefully when you leave."

And she stalked out.

"Oh, Lord," said William.

"William," said Abi. "William, I know it's embarrassing, but you haven't committed a crime. You're having fun. And at least with a girl. Think if I'd been a boy. Or a cow."

"Abi, please!" said William. "It isn't funny."

"Yes, it is. It's terribly funny." And then she realised how genuinely anguished he was and sat down, took his hand. "Come on. What's so bad? The worst is that she's seen me for what she clearly feared I am: no end of a hussy, leading her little boy astray. She'll get over it."

He shook her hand off.

"No, Abi. You don't understand. She won't. It wasn't very ... kind to her."

"What on earth does that mean? What was unkind? You weren't laughing at her."

"You were," he said, very quietly.

She stared at him. "William, I can't believe you said that."

"Sorry. But ... but it's true. She would have been very ... very upset by that."

"Well, she shouldn't have been. What planet is she living on, for God's sake?"

"Abi, please. Don't be so ... so harsh."

"Oh, for God's sake. This is absurd." She stood up, started dressing. "I'm not listening to any more of this rubbish. If anyone's harsh, it's her. And arrogant. Where's her sense of humour; where are her good manners, for God's sake?"

"Good manners?"

"Yes. What she should have done was apologised for embarrassing us, me. Not made us both feel like we were in some kind of a porn show."

"We were, as far as she was concerned," said William. "You don't understand."

"No, I clearly don't. And if this is how your lot behave, I'm glad I'm not one of them."

"What do you mean, my lot?"

"You posh lot. What about thinking of me, William, how I felt-what about defending me? I'm not surprised you're still on your own; that's all I can say." She picked up her bag. "I'm off. Cheers. Hope you don't get your bottom smacked. Or maybe that's how she gets her kicks. And you." She was crying now, aware that she was beginning to show William the real Abi, not in that moment caring.

"Abi! Don't talk like that, please!"

"I'll talk how I like. You should try doing the same; you might find your life got a bit better."

And she walked out of the cottage, slamming the door behind her.

Laura had bought Jonathan a really nice birthday present: he collected antique medical instruments, and she had found an old otoscope in a beautiful leather case, lined with blue silk. She gave it to him the night before his birthday, and he was terribly touched and pleased.

"I'm just thankful you haven't got anything elaborate planned for tomorrow, darling," he said when he had thanked her, and she had said (while crossing her fingers and touching the headboard at the same time), no, just dinner with the Edwardses, as she'd told him.

"Pity we can't be with the kids, really," he said. "I do like them to share in our birthdays." And she said yes, but they were having the big family party next day, with her parents, Jonathan's mother, and various cousins, and the children would be very much part of that.

"Not sure I feel quite up to that either," he said with a grin, and then, kissing her very gently, "I do love you, Laura. You're far too good for me. I couldn't bear any of this without you."

And somehow the ice that had been holding her heart had softened, and she had returned the kiss, and then he had turned the light out, and his hands had been on her, and she hadn't felt anything but tenderness, and he was very gentle, very sweetly insistent, and she had felt herself moving to and with him; and when she came, trembling with the long, long release, she wept. And heard something from him that was half way between a sob and a sigh, and realised that there were his tears on her face as well as her own.

Abi really had expected William to call-to say he was sorry, that he could see her point of view, at least, to say he wanted to see her. But he didn't.

And she was going to miss him ... horribly. Because although she wasn't sure if she actually loved him, she loved being with him. And now she'd blown it. Fuck, fuck, fuck Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jonathan found himself working on the morning of his birthday, at St. Anne's; he was only on call, but at ten o'clock one of his mothers went into premature labour and he had to go in.

"Ladies shouldn't have babies on your birthday, Daddy," Daisy said indignantly.

"I know, sweetheart, but as you'll find out for yourself one day, babies don't always arrive very conveniently. I'll try not to be long."

They were all excited. Once Jonathan and Laura had left for supper with the Edwardses, the children-and Helga-were to move into action: admit the caterers and the florist, explain where everything had to go ... and then receive the guests as they arrived, show them where to hide (in the darkened conservatory). Helga was to telephone the Edwards house at eight, and ask Jonathan and Laura to come home, to say that there had been a power cut and she didn't know what to do (thus explaining the unlit house when they arrived).

It was hard to see what might go wrong.

Abi was driving back from Bristol when her phone rang. At last! William! She pulled into a side road, took the call. Dear William. How sweet he was.

"Abi? This is Jonathan."

It was made much worse by his not being William, by being thrown back into a different, uglier life; it really hurt her, shocked her even.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to make sure you'd heard about the lorry driver. That his windscreen had been shattered. That's why he veered across the road. So there won't be any charges of any kind."

"Yes. Yes, the police did tell me."

"Good. So that draws the line very neatly, I think. It's over. The whole ghastly nightmare."

"I don't suppose the lorry driver thinks that. Or the man whose wife was killed. That is such a typical thing for you to say. 'I'm all right, so everything's all right.' Pure bloody Jonathan Gilliatt."

There was a pause; then he said, "That was an extraordinarily unpleasant remark."

"Oh, really? Maybe you don't inspire pleasant conversation, Jonathan. How's Laura?"

"Laura is fine."

"Did you ever ... ever have to confess about me?"

"That's nothing to do with you."

"I think it might be, actually," she said, rage and pain rising up to hit her. Here he was, doing it again, putting her in the box marked, "Rubbish," set well apart from his real life, as no doubt he saw it, with his perfect wife and perfect family.

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

He sounded wary. Well, good Well, good.

"I mean that of course it's to do with me. I'd quite like to know, actually, if she knows about us. Or if you've managed to sweep me under the carpet, pretend I never existed. I'm not sure why, actually, but it matters to me, where I stand in Laura's life now."

"And what's it to you one way or the other?"

"If you can't see that, Jonathan, then you really are even more stupid than I thought," she said, wondering why he could still hurt her so much. "Because she ought to know there's something rotten in her marriage, that it's not quite the perfect thing she imagines, that she's got it, and you, horribly, horribly wrong, poor cow."

"Abi," he said, and the venom in his voice quite frightened her, "you have no right to talk about Laura and my marriage."

"Well, I think I do, actually. You dragged me into it. You had everything-perfect bloody life, with a wife and children-and still you chose to fuck around with me. Not my idea, Jonathan. Yours. And then ... then you have the fucking nerve to tell me your marriage is nothing to do with me."

"It isn't," he said. "My marriage is mine, mine and Laura's ..."

"And pretty unsatisfactory, I'd say, judging by your behaviour."

"How dare you say that to me?"

"I dare because it's true."

"It is not true."

"Well, I think Laura might see it rather differently."

"Abi," he said, "you even think about coming near me and my family, and you'll regret it horribly."

"Of course I'm not coming near you and your family. Why should I?"

"Because you're rotten enough. Disturbed enough even, I'd say. You have considerable problems, Abi. Personality problems. Maybe you should take a look at yourself, rather than throwing accusations at other people. Anyway, I have to go. I had intended to have a perfectly pleasant conversation, reassuring you that you had nothing more to worry about. You've made it very unpleasant, predictably enough. Pity."

And the phone went dead.

Abi sat there for quite a long time, staring at her phone; she no longer felt angry, just rather tired and drained. And then the pain began. It was awful, the worst she could ever remember. She had never liked herself; in that moment, she loathed herself. She kept hearing Jonathan's voice telling her she had personality problems, that she was rotten, possibly even disturbed, and she found herself agreeing with him. She was indeed absolutely rotten; she was amoral, promiscuous, dishonest. And all right, he had pursued her, but she had at no time refused him; she had encouraged him, enjoyed him, despised his wife, dismissed his family. She was a completely worthless person; she had no right to expect decent treatment from anybody.

She had been conducting a relationship with a man who was quite simply good, transparently nice and kind and honest; how could she have possibly thought that could work? That he could want to be with her if he knew even a little about what she was really like?

She deserved never to see him again. She never would see him again. She didn't deserve him. She deserved rotten people, rotten like her. Rotten like Jonathan.

He'd strung her along very nicely. But ... God, she had let him. That was one of the most humiliating things. Allowed herself to believe him when he told her she was special, hugely intelligent, that he enjoyed her company quite apart from the sex.

She'd been hurt by a great many men, but Jonathan had won the game easily. He had demanded a great deal of her-and not only since the crash-and had given her no support, shown her no concern, offered her not a shred of kindness, merely bullied and threatened her. And had abandoned her totally, without pity or thought. She hated him beyond anything ...

William had spent a wretched day. He had shot into the kitchen at breakfast time, grabbed some bacon and a slice of bread and made himself a sandwich, filled a thermos with coffee, and headed out for the farthest point he could: East Wood, a six-acre spinney. He was felling some of the younger trees; it was exhausting and noisy, and made thought fairly impossible. He didn't want to think. It hurt too much.

Abi made her decision almost without realising it. She felt more positive suddenly, and that she needed to see this thing finished. Properly, formally, unarguably finished.

She dialled his number. It was on voice mail. His smooth, actory tones told her that he couldn't answer her call just at the moment, but that if she left a message he would get back to her as soon as possible.

Abi shut him off; she wasn't going to leave a message-she was sick of leaving messages that he didn't respond to. But the clinic-in bloody Harley Street, where he had all those bloody pampered princesses worshipping the ground he walked on-now, she might do a little mischief there. He might even be there; she knew he was often on call on Saturdays ...

She dialled the number, asked to be put through to him.

"I'm so sorry; Mr. Gilliatt has left for the day. Can one of the other doctors help you?"

Resisting a temptation to say, only if they were up to Mr. Gilliatt's standard on text sex, she asked if they knew where he was ...

"I'm afraid not. He's not in tomorrow. Perhaps you could ring on Monday?"

As the day wore on, William thought increasingly about Abi. And with increasing remorse. She was right-in a way. His mother had behaved quite ... well, quite inconsiderately. Unkindly even. She couldn't actually have thought they were burglars or intruders ... Burglars and intruders didn't normally light candles.

And having discovered it was him, him and a girl, the tactful thing would have been to say something noncommittal and withdraw. He wasn't sixteen; he was thirty-four. Did she really think he was going to get married before he had any kind of a relationship?

Yes, perhaps he should have warned her-and his father, of course-that he was using the cottage occasionally; maybe he should have gone further, asked their permission. Except that they would have wanted to know why, and how could he have told them?

Not for the first time, William became aware of the absurdity of his domestic situation; not for the first time did he wonder what on earth he could do about it. And then it came to him that perhaps he could move into cottage number one, or number two or number three. Make his home there. So that he could claim some independence, privacy, grow up at last. It seemed not unreasonable. He worked on the farm for a very modest income; he could surely claim the cottage as being some kind of a perk. He would ask them that evening; the thought quite cheered him up.

She decided to ring first. She didn't want to waste a long journey. He didn't know she had the landline number, would probably change it if he did.

The phone didn't ring for long; then: "Hello?" It was a little girl's voice: one of his flowers. God, that always made her want to throw up.

"Is that Daisy? Or Lily?"

"It's Daisy."

"Hello, Daisy. Is your daddy there?"

"No, he's gone out. But he will be back soon."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. Quite sure. It's his birthday. We're doing a surprise party for him. Mummy's bringing him back here at about eight o'clock."

"Oh, really? How lovely. Wish I'd been invited. Well ... never mind. Bye, Daisy."

"Good-bye."

Such a beautifully expensive, posh little voice. Well, lucky Daisy. She'd been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, all right; and it had stayed there. Like Lily and the beloved Charlie. Jonathan was so proud of Charlie. He never seemed to think she might not want to hear about him. Or about the girls. So sensitive, aren't you, Jonathan? So sensitive, aren't you, Jonathan?

The more she thought about him-being given this party by his family, a lavish affair, no doubt, no expense spared-the more she wanted to throw up. Or kill him. Or both. There he'd be, smiling that awful smooth smile of his, receiving gifts and kisses and compliments, everyone wishing him well, and no one, no one at all, certainly not Laura, knowing what a complete shit he was. He'd managed to lie his way out of everything: how did he do it, the bastard?

Well, not tonight, he wouldn't.

"Sorry, Jonathan," she said quite cheerfully as she dressed for the occasion, in some new leather jeans and a very low-cut black top-well, it was a party, after all-"but you'd better make the most of the next two hours. Because after that ... bingo!"

Not since Sleeping Beauty's christening was a guest going to wreak so much havoc at a family gathering.

It didn't go terribly well. His parents said they would of course consider his request, but the cottages were a valuable source of income, and they couldn't quite see how he imagined making the money up.