"And this one doesn't?"

He smiled and stood up, removing the tray to the sink and running water into it. "I'm not sure I want to move away." He glanced about the transformed room. "I rather like living in a backwater where the odd suggestion makes a difference."

Her eyes fell. "Oh, I see."

He rinsed the emulsion out of the brush in silence, wondering if she did, and if "I see" was going to be her only response. He propped the brush to dry on the draining board and seriously considered whether fighting his way through half a mile of razor wire wouldn't be the more sensible option after all. "Shall I come back tomorrow? It's Sunday. We could make a start on the hall."

"I'll be here," she said.

"Okay." He walked across to the scullery door.

"Nick?"

"Yes?" He turned.

"How long do these courtships of yours usually take?"

An amiable smile creased his eyes. "Before what?"

"Before..." She looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Never mind. It was a silly question. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll try not to be late."

"It doesn't matter if you are," she said through gritted teeth. "You're doing this out of kindness, not because you have to. I haven't asked you to paint the whole house, you know."

"True," he agreed, "but it's a courtship thing. I thought I'd explained all that."

She clambered to her feet with flashing eyes. "Go away," she said, pushing him through the door and bolting it behind him. "And for God's sake bring some brandy with you tomorrow," she yelled. "Courtship stinks. I've decided I'd rather be seduced."

The television was on and Celia, remote control in hand was chuckling to herself when Maggie tiptoed into the drawing room to see if she was all right. Bertie had abandoned the stifling heat of the bed and was stretched out on his back on the sofa, legs akimbo. "It's late, Ma. You ought to be asleep."

"I know, but this is so funny, darling."

"You said it was wall-to-wall horror movies."

"It is. That's why I'm laughing."

Maggie fixed her mother with a perplexed frown, then seized the remote control and killed the picture. "You were listening," she accused her.

"Well..."

"How could you?"

"I needed a pee," said Celia apologetically, "and you weren't exactly whispering."

"The doctor said you weren't to walk around on your own."

"I had no option. I called out a couple of times, but you didn't hear me. In any case"-her eyes brimmed with humor-"you were getting on so well that I decided it would be tactless to interrupt you." She appraised her daughter in silence for a moment, then abruptly patted the bed. "Are you too old to take some advice?"

"It depends what it is," said Maggie, sitting down.

"Any man who invites the woman to make the running is worth having."

"Is that what my father did?"

"No. He swept me off my feet, rushed me to the altar, and then gave me thirty-five years to repent at leisure." Celia smiled ruefully. "Which is why the advice is good. I fell for your father's overinflated opinion of himself, mistook obstinacy for masterfulness, alcoholism for wit, and laziness for charisma..." She broke off apologetically, realizing that it was her daughter's father she was criticizing. "It wasn't all bad," she said robustly. "Everyone was more stoical in those days-we were taught to put up with things-and look what I got out of it. You ... Matt ... the house..."

Maggie leaned forward to kiss her mother's cheek. "Ava ... Martin ... theft ... debts ... heartache ... a wonky hip..."

"Life," countered Celia. "A still-viable livery stable ... Bertie ... a new kitchen ... a future..."

"Nick Ingram?"

"Well, why not?" said Celia with renewed chuckles. "If I was forty years younger and he showed the remotest interest in me, I certainly wouldn't need a bottle of brandy to get things moving."

end.