The first meeting about the concert had been ... well, it had been extraordinary. An absolutely violent tangle of emotions. She'd expected the tangle, of course, had expected it to be awkward, had expected it to be painful seeing William; in fact, she'd been so scared the few days before she'd almost decided to pull out of the whole thing, to put Georgia-and him-in touch with a friend who was a party planner. But she didn't.

They'd agreed to meet in a pub in Bristol on a Saturday afternoon; Abi had arrived far too early and had spent at least fifteen minutes in the loo to avoid sitting waiting for them and looking like a complete loser. When she came out William was sitting at a table with a very pretty black girl, which rattled her considerably at first, until she realised she must be Georgia. And she stood there, just staring at him, drinking him in; and she felt a wave of emotion so violent, so charged with regret and love and intense physical memory, it quite literally took her breath away.

She must just stay really cool, she thought, refuse to see it as anything but a business arrangement, as William being kind and good and wanting to help both her and Georgia in a venture that would clearly seem relevant to him as well as to them.

And then, as she stood there, still watching, he saw her; and he stood up, with those bloody old-fashioned manners of his, pulled out a chair, and beckoned to her to join them.

"Hi," she said, walking over, hearing her own voice, calm and steady, not weak and breathless as she was afraid it might be, smiling at him, kissing him briefly, coolly on the cheek-how could she do that when she wanted to kiss him endlessly, desperately?-and then turned swiftly to Georgia.

"You must be Georgia. Hi. I'm Abi."

"Hi, Abi. It's so good of you to come. William-Mr. Grainger-has been telling me all about you. How you've done this sort of thing before, and how you can tell me how to go about it ..."

"Well ... I hope so. It's a huge project, Georgia; I hope you realise just how huge."

"I probably don't. But I'm ready for anything. I'm so, so determined to do it."

Georgia smiled; she was sweet, pretty, rather earnest. It would be fun working with her. "Good," was all Abi said.

Gradually, the emotional situation eased as they discussed the form of the thing-"I did once suggest a rock festival to William, didn't I? But I think maybe you've got more of a single concert in mind"-possible lead times, possible dates, the vast amount of time and planning it would absorb, how, with the best will in the world, they would need many more people on board-"Don't look so frightened; it's for charity-we can get mostly volunteers. It's a wonderful project, Georgia; I'm really excited about it."

Not about working with William, not about having endless access to William; that was out of the equation. Entirely.

Georgia said they could at least look at a festival.

"Tell us more what it might entail ..."

Abi told them more: much more. Probably too much more, she thought afterwards. When she started outlining the need for security guards, parking facilities, police involvement, and the infrastructure required, William became visibly worried.

"A road! Abi, I can't start building roads."

"Well, you might have to. The contractors-"

"What contractors?" said Georgia.

"The ones building the stage, setting up the sound systems, all that sort of thing. You've got to think big, or it won't work. Anyway, the contractors and the punters, come to that, need to know they're not going to get stuck in the mud. You do realise it will rain, don't you?"

"No, why?" said William.

"It just always does. Part of the package."

"Oh," said William.

Georgia looked at him and then said rather nervously that maybe they should just stick to the idea of a concert. "An open-air one, in the evening, next summer-it could be lovely."

Abi said a concert would be all right, but it would be hard to make nearly so much of it. "I think a festival would be much more exciting. You'd get far more publicity, for a start, and a much bigger crowd, something where families could come, bring their kids, camp just for one night, have a few bands playing, dance. People really love that sort of thing; it's like a miniholiday, and it's so cool at the moment. That way you'd probably end up with a couple of thousand people ... and make a fair bit of money. Even quite big bands bring their fee down if they know it's for charity. Anyway, whatever the size of the thing, you have to have a stage and audio equipment, and loos, of course. William, are you really up for all this? And are your parents all right about it?"

William said rather airily that they'd been persuaded to do it: he didn't add that he'd been pretty evasive about the implications, had sold it to them as a charity concert, which sounded rather charming; he knew they'd be totally opposed to the idea of a festival, with all its unfortunate implications of deafening noise, drugs, and general squalor ...

"No, they're fine about it," he said now.

"Well, that's great," Abi said. "Let's just hope they stay on that side, because they won't be able to switch very easily. Now, you need a sponsor. To make it financially viable. Put up something like a couple of grand, say, in return for publicity. You might start thinking who to approach."

"What, like one of the TV companies or something?"

"Well, more of a commercial concern, some local manufacturing company or other. I'll think too. Anyway ... what do you think? Now's the time to say no."

Georgia emitted a sort of squeak. Abi looked at her. Her eyes were shining and her hands were clasped together, making a sort of fist. Abi was to get to know that gesture well in the months to come.

"I think it sounds wonderful," she said. "We've absolutely got to do it. If ... well, that is if William ... Mr. Grainger's really up for it. It's ... it's obviously a very big undertaking."

"Please call me William," said William. "Mr. Grainger makes me feel like I'm my dad."

He looked at the pair of them, two sassy, sexy girls, girls he would never have known a year ago, and thought of spending a lot of time with them over the next six months or so. It made him feel dizzy. "I'm up for it," he said. "Yeah, course."

It was just as well, Georgia thought, that she had the concert to distract her. She viewed the inquest with absolute terror. At the thought of having to stand up in a courtroom, in front of a crowd of people, several of whom were still grieving, and describe under oath how she had abandoned Patrick Connell in his cab and disappeared, failing to provide the evidence that only she could and that had been so crucial to him, she felt violently sick.

She knew there was no way out of it-it had to be got through-but it was still there, driving her back into her guilt and remorse.

Moving Away was in the final stages of filming, and the first episode was to be screened in the spring. was in the final stages of filming, and the first episode was to be screened in the spring.

It was awful to think she wouldn't be seeing Merlin more or less every day; it had been such an incredibly exciting element in the whole thing, just getting ready in the morning, wondering what to wear, whether he'd be there, what he'd say to her. She was still slightly baffled as to what his feelings about her were: nonexistent, she thought on her bad days, but then she would think, on the good ones ... Why ask her to go for a drink so often after they'd finished for the day; why spend so much time with her; why make sure she was all right in Jazz's house?

He'd even-once or twice-asked her to the cinema, to see some incredibly intellectual foreign films at what he called his local, the Hampstead Everyman, which she hadn't understood at all, let alone enjoyed-although she'd pretended to, of course-and one wonderful Saturday he'd called her and said he was going to do some Christmas shopping in the Portobello, and if she was around, would she like to join him? She'd loved that, wandering along the stalls, and when they'd finished he asked her if she'd like to have lunch at Camden Lock-"I can't believe you haven't been there yet, all this time in London"-and she'd said, trying to sound totally cool, that she'd like that, and had sat in one of the bars alongside the canal, convinced this was really it, that he was going to say he really liked her. But he didn't; he said he had to get back quite soon after lunch: "The parents are having a party tonight; I have to go back and help."

"Will it ... will it be a big party?" she said, trying to sound casual, half wondering if he might be going to ask her.

"About a hundred. Anyone else would have proper help, but Mummy won't-against her principles, like not having a cleaner, so she's run herself ragged cooking for weeks, and Pa just hides in his study and pretends he hasn't noticed."

"And lots of famous people there?" she said.

And, "Yeah, lot of Beeb types, Humphreys, Paxman, Benn, I imagine, the Millibands, possibly Charlie Falconer, but not the Blairs."

"God," she said, "I call that pretty impressive."

"Not really. You're so sweet, Georgia," he added, smiling at her, "so totally unspoilt still. Stay like it, for goodness' sake. Don't get spoilt. I must dash; can you find your own way back?"

"Yes, of course. I want to look in some of those shops anyway," she said quickly.

And that was how their relationship-or rather their non -relationship-proceeded: two steps forward, two steps back. Exasperating, frustrating, baffling.

Most of the time she managed to think it was just luvvie stuff, no more than that, along with the hugs and the brotherly kisses; but she still found grounds for thinking it was more.

She had never talked about him to anyone involved in the production-deliberately. There was no way she was going to risk being laughed at for having an unrequited crush on him. And in any case she wasn't on those sorts of terms with any of them, except for Anna.

She tried to find out a bit about him from Linda, who always knew all the gossip about everybody, but she just said vaguely that she really didn't know much about him except that he was incredibly talented and would soon be a first assistant, probably in the next production he worked on. "You don't fancy him, darling, do you?"

"God, no," said Georgia.

"Good. Because the words little little and and shit do shit do come rather to mind." come rather to mind."

Georgia ignored this; it was such a typical Linda comment.

And then the mystery was solved-painfully.

The wrap party was taking place just a week before Christmas; Georgia had bought a sequinned dress that was virtually nonexistent, so short and low-cut it was, and some incredibly long, sequinned fake eyelashes to go with it.

The party was at Bryn's house in Putney, a wonderful glass-fronted place on the river. He'd been incredibly generous, provided champagne by the crateful, and Mrs. Bryn, who was a glamorous actress called Jan Lloyd, provided fantastic food. Particularly generous, as she then went out for the evening: "She says no one should be at the wrap parties of other people's productions," Bryn said, laughing, when he made his little speech, and actually, as Anna said to Georgia, it really wasn't very pleasant; you felt like a complete outsider, understood none of the in-jokes, and were deeply wary of discovering any illicit relationships.

Georgia could feel herself going over the top, flirting with everyone, including Bryn-and Merlin, of course-making people dance with her, but it was the last time she'd see most of them, and she was enjoying herself so much.

Merlin was a fantastic dancer, and he was looking absolutely amazing, all in black-black skinny jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket. She thought he must be rather hot in the jacket, and suggested he take it off more than once, but he said he liked it, and he liked being hot. She hoped he meant what she thought by that.

And then suddenly the front doorbell went off, and Georgia, who was in the hall, opened it. A girl stood there, a really beautiful girl, tall, with long blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes; she was wearing a short black dress and black knee boots with very high heels. She smiled at Georgia just slightly dismissively and looked her up and down and said, "Hi. Is Merlin here?"

Georgia said he was and that she'd go and find him-the girl was the sort who inspired such behaviour-and had just turned to go into the party when Bryn appeared and said, "Ticky! Darling! What a surprise. Merlin didn't warn us."

The girl kissed Bryn and said, "He didn't know I was flying in today. I promise, Bryn, darling, I haven't come to crash your wrap party. I just thought I might steal him away in a little while."

"You can crash anything of mine, sweetie. Let me go and find the boy."

Merlin, it seemed, and Ticky-whoever was called Ticky, and what was it short for? Georgia wondered-were an item. Had been since drama school. Only Ticky, who had a very rich daddy, was now attending the New York University film school. And came back to London only for the vacations.

Merlin clearly adored her; so did most of the cast. Davina threw her arms round her and told her she looked divine. Which she did, Georgia thought miserably; she was the sort of girl who was on the cover of Tatler Tatler, or even Vogue Vogue. Understated, superconfident, totally classy, she had become, briefly, the centre of the party.

And when she and Merlin left, after half an hour, looking like a Prada ad, Georgia sat down next to Anna and said, trying to sound cool, "What happened to not being at other people's wrap parties?"

"I guess if you look like that, you can be anywhere you damn well like," Anna said, and then, looking rather hard at Georgia: "Listen, sweetie, I've had enough. Want to come home with me? Lila's on her own and she'd love to see you. And catch up on the concert. If there's anything to catch up on ..."

"That'd be great," said Georgia. "Thank you."

All she felt now was a consuming terror that the whole production had been laughing at her behind her back.

Anna, who had clearly put two and two together, and confronted the issue in the cab home, told her they hadn't.

"I swear to you, nobody ever mentioned it. Listen, even I never guessed. You played it really cool, Georgia. Well done. And good riddance, I'd say. Leading you on like that, never mentioning her. Ticky! What a name."

"No, no, not really," said poor Georgia, the tears beginning to flow now, "and he didn't lead me on; he was just ... really kind. Oh, I'm sorry, Anna, I think I might change my mind, go home after all."

"All right," said Anna, "of course I understand. But please, please, sweetie, believe me. I never heard a whisper about you and Merlin. Honestly."

It was comfort of a sort.

Linda had an incredible Christmas. She always enjoyed it; she loved the theatricality of it, spent many hours decorating her flat, went to endless parties, bought a mountain of presents for everyone, and went for the day to the home of Francis and his partner, who was an incredible cook. None of that was altered this year; except that Alex, who had spent the day with the children and his now ex-wife, came up for the evening and, as Linda put it, they fucked their way into Boxing Day.

Linda didn't know quite what she felt about her relationship with Alex. In many ways it was extremely difficult; he was moody and bad tempered and introspective to an absurd degree, and what felt like at least half their dates ended in rows, the less serious resolved in bed, the more serious unresolved for days. Several times, after he had slammed out, she decided that she must finish things, that they just made each other unhappy, and would call him to tell him so and more than once he had agreed. But then, somehow, they would resolve things; one or the other of them would make some approach, without actually apologising, and they would agree to meet and then, having met, found themselves almost against their respective wills quite unable to continue with the hostilities. And then they would start again, amusing, charming, pleasing each other, agreeing that they made each other happier than anyone else had ever done ... until the next time.

It seemed to Linda quite impossible that it could be a long-term relationship; it was just too uncomfortable and disturbing. On the other hand, she looked into a future without Alex, without the intense colour and interest and drama, and that seemed impossible to contemplate too.

She was perfectly aware what caused the rows: they were both arrogant, opinionated, and for too long had been able to hold on to their opinions and behaviour and not consider anyone else, Linda because she lived alone, with all the self-indulgence that offered, and Alex because his status at the hospital meant that very few people ever confronted him there either.

On her up days-and Linda was an extremely up person-she would think it was fine, that the drama and passion and difficulty of it all were actually part of the pleasure; but when she was down, she could see that it was not at all what she needed, not the warm reassurance and companionship she had been dreaming of. Alex was about as reassuring as a roll of thunder. He also brought with him the burden of teenage children-whom he had not even allowed her to meet, and that in itself had to be significant, and indeed she found it fairly hurtful-and a demanding career entirely out of her orbit.

The only thing she could do-or try to do, and it went against her nature-was enjoy the relationship for as long as she could, and to continue to look for someone more enduringly suitable. The trouble was that Alex, for all his appalling drawbacks, had set the bar rather high ... Laura had hated every moment of Christmas. She had always loved it so much, looked forward to it for months, the planning the shopping, the decorating, the cooking, creating the perfect performance for everyone, had always thought how lucky she was to be able to do it all on such an extravagant scale; and now she discovered that actually it wasn't the present giving, or the family feasts, or the delight of doing the tree with the children, or even the carol concerts and the children's party that she and Jonathan had always given; it was the sense of being at the heart of her perfect, happy family. Her family this Christmas was not only not perfect, it was not even happy; and she was not at the heart of it. At the heart of it this year was a bitter unhappiness: two little girls crying most nights for their daddy and begging her to make sure he came for Christmas, a little boy who said he hated his father, and that he would walk out if he came for Christmas, and a house that was a cold showcase for the lights and the tinsel and the tree and the presents underneath it. She had lavished enormous sums of money on PlayStations and Nintendo games for Charlie, and dolls and clothes for the girls, and iPods for all of them; they had had the tallest tree and the biggest crackers ever, the most perfect Christmas dinner, and even though the girls had expressed delight and told her they loved their presents and loved her, and had sung Christmas carols determinedly as they helped to lay and decorate the dinner table, and even Charlie had tried to be cheerful and said how cool his PlayStation was, and submitted to his grandfather's endless terrible jokes with a good grace, and they had all managed to play a round of charades and a game of Trivial Pursuit after dinner, there had been an emptiness, a greyness over everything, and when they hugged and kissed her good night and settled into bed with their new books, their iPods clamped to their heads, she knew that above anything else, they were relieved it was over and they could stop trying to seem happy.

The compromise reached over Jonathan's visit had been that he would come on Christmas morning and give them presents (during which Charlie glowered from a corner), and then go away, "because I've got to deliver some babies," and then have them on Boxing Day in his flat, and take them to the pantomime at Richmond in the evening. But Charlie had refused to go at the last minute, which had upset the girls, and there had been the hideous empty seat beside them in the theatre, which they could almost hear shouting, "Charlie should be here," and they had cried all the way home after Laura collected them.

And, left alone in his flat without them, contemplating the ugly, empty day that had passed, Jonathan had cried too.

Barney was literally having nightmares about the inquest. Every time he thought about being asked about the tyres and how he would have to say that Toby hadn't let him check them, he thought he would throw up. The fact that there had been a nail in one of them, initially an immense relief, now seemed of less importance. He should have insisted on doing all he could to ensure the car's safety; that was the whole point.

And he would think about Emma and how happily and quickly they had tumbled into love; and then how much he missed her still. And he would even, in spite of everything, realise how much he missed Toby too, missed having him there to have a laugh with, to send stupid e-mails to, to get drunk with ... Toby would be back at work after Christmas; he was bound to run into him in bars and so on, and Amanda was bound to ask why they weren't seeing each other. She knew about Tamara, of course, and the broken engagement, and she'd been very upset, her great blue eyes filled with tears. "But I suppose it's for the best; Tamara said they'd just fallen out of love-how awful is that?"

How awful indeed ...

Emma spent much of Christmas trying not to wonder what Barney was doing, which large country house he and Amanda would be staying in, and whether there would be discussion with their families- Christmas being the sort of time such conversations did take place-about their wedding plans.

It was a relief to get back to work.

Mary and Russell had a perfect Christmas. Tadwick House was absurdly overdecorated, with fairy lights in every room, round every fireplace, and entwined round every stair rail, and strung along every hedge outside as well. A vast Christmas tree stood in the hall, a second in the drawing room, complete with a mountainous pile of presents, mistletoe hung in every doorway, huge log fires burned in every grate, and the house was filled with the irresistible mingling of wood smoke and baking. And it was wonderfully, noisily full.

Not only were Christine and Gerry, Douglas and Maureen and their children, Timothy and the lovely Lorraine there for Christmas Day, together with Lorraine's parents, but to Mary's absolute surprise and delight, Coral and Pearl and their respective spouses asked if they might join them as well, an English Christmas having long been a dream of theirs.

Russell was delighted as well. Christine's initial rejection of him had hurt him badly, and he felt rather proud that his own daughters were more generous-hearted than Mary's. He still found Christine rather hard to embrace-both physically and emotionally. She had failed to say anything to him by way of an apology, and every time he looked at her rather self-satisfied, plump face he wondered at her dissimilarity from her mother.

The weather was most obligingly Christmassy, crisp and sunny; the entire party went to morning service on Christmas Day, came back for a vast lunch (with a break for the Queen's speech), and then went for a short walk before having presents in the drawing room. After that everyone withdrew for a short rest and then reassembled for games and to sing carols round the piano. The piano had been Russell's Christmas present to Mary, who had always longed for one ever since learning to play on her own grandmother's when she was a small girl, and had never been allowed one since. Rusty at first, by sherry time she was sufficiently adept to play "Jingle Bells" and "Away in a Manger." Russell was a superb pianist and took over for the evening performance, finishing with a flamboyant, concert-style rendition of Rhapsody in Blue Rhapsody in Blue that reduced Lorraine's mother and both Coral and Pearl to tears. that reduced Lorraine's mother and both Coral and Pearl to tears.

The party broke up at about ten, apart from Timothy and Lorraine and the Canadian cousins, who were watching an old Bond movie; Christine walked to the bottom of the stairs, then turned and went back to Russell and kissed him.

"It's been wonderful," she said. "Thank you very much for having us here today ... and I'm very sorry about my ... about ... well, I can't tell you how pleased I am that you're here. You've made my mother happier than I can ever remember. Since Dad died, that is, of course."

At which Russell kissed her back and said, "Of course," and added that he was proud to have succeeded someone who had clearly been so remarkable a gentleman as Donald.

Later, as they sat in bed, Russell leaned over and kissed Mary and said, "I meant it about Donald. I'm going to have a tough job living up to him."

Mary kissed him back and told him he wasn't doing too badly so far.

CHAPTER 46

She supposed she should have realised, really: if they squabbled as much as they did when they were living in different houses-and different cities, come to that-what hope for them when they were sharing the same room with no escape in any form, even into work?

Actually, and perversely, she had enjoyed the first part of the trip, the conference in Cape Town, a great deal more than she had expected. She had thought it would be tedious in the extreme, and it had actually turned out to be rather fun. Not least because she was quickly established as something of a star, certainly among the men, not just because of what she looked like and how she dressed, but because of what she did: a glossy, entertaining creature from another world altogether.