'You have no idea how painful it's been trying to fathom out what's going on in that capricious head of yours, while all the time my father has been sharing a bed with your mother.' He was waving the straw hat about like Lear in the storm ranting about his ungrateful daughters.

She pressed her forearms tighter to her head, face buried in the crooks of her elbows, hating herself. 'I know, I know. And now Hector has gone back to Poppy, so nothing we could have done would have made a jot of difference anyway.'

He let out an ironic grunt, part anger and part regret. 'That's good at least.'

'And you and Kizzy split up because of me-'

'Actually I'm very relieved about that.' Another conciliatory grunt. 'So is she.'

Legs couldn't reign in her dam-burst of penitence. 'Then you were so kind looking after me when I was ill, and I've been so ungrateful.'

'I rather enjoyed it,' he admitted, sounding quite surprised. 'It meant I reread some favourite works and it spared me enduring Poppy.' He sat back down in the crook of the tree, anger already spent, like a Labrador exhausted from barking on Bonfire Night. 'Although I must say you behave even more unpredictably when you're ill than well, running off to find gold rings in the woods.'

'Oh, God, what have I put you through, Francis?' She peered out at him between her forearms. 'You thought I was dead. That must have been awful.'

'After the initial shock that bit was quite cathartic,' he confessed. 'But the publicity would have been appalling.'

She laughed hollowly. 'Woe betide my death were to cast a negative light on the festival.'

'Indeed. Gordon Lapis is really going to put us on the map this year. You did Farcombe an enormous favour there.' Francis was looking increasingly cheery. 'Even the insurance fiasco has turned out rather well thanks to our star attraction. We have no premium to pay at all. Vin Keiller-Myles is underwriting the lot, saving us thousands.'

Legs remembered the banker's draft that had gone into the safe before dinner and Francis's gloating expression. She felt as though she was swallowing dust. 'If the Freud is recovered.'

'Of course it will be. The police are supremely confident of bringing this to a swift conclusion. And Vin's not going to see the festival called off while that's happening.'

'That's very charitable of him.'

'Au contraire, Vin's also taking a hefty share of any profits, and a private supper with Gordon Lapis for himself and Gayle as reward.'

They've already eaten together, Legs found herself thinking wildly. 'But Gordon's not ... that is, he's ...'

'Entrenched in Ireland, we know.'

'You do?' she baulked, knowing he couldn't have even caught a flight yet.

'Conrad got a text from Gordon tonight saying he's planning on staying in Ireland until the very last moment and is not to be disturbed. Apparently he's working on something big. A pop-up dinosaur story or lift-the-flap monster book, one presumes,' he sneered.

Legs swallowed hard, realising that Byrne had texted his agent while counting up the eighteen 'I love yous' in her letter to Francis, plus one from Donne. Her voice crackled with emotion: 'Are you sure he'll come here?'

Francis narrowed his eyes. 'Conrad's given Poppy his word that our star act will not back out of his Farcombe appearance. He's got his most trusted girl on the job, he tells us.'

'I am no longer his trusted girl or whipping boy,' she huffed indignantly.

'Not you, Legs,' he scoffed. 'Kizzy's booked flights to Dublin already; I think we can rest assured Lapis will be policed all the way here. That girl would do anything for Poppy and the festival. She'll seduce him if she needs to.'

'But they're-' about to say 'brother and sister!' Legs managed to stop herself and splutter 'lesbians!' She wasn't sure the statement had as much punch, despite an element of truth.

For a moment, Francis looked stunned, but he swiftly regained his composure. 'I shouldn't think Kizzy would let a minor detail like that put her off her career trajectory. Con-man has her under strict instructions to deliver Gordon to Farcombe at any cost; I overheard the pep-talk. One can't help admiring his bravado.'

Legs felt as though the branch beneath her was whipping around like a serpent's tail. She sat up, gripping on tightly. 'Conrad is an utter bastard!'

Francis chuckled. 'Say that again.'

'Conrad is an utter, utter bastard!'

He smiled up through the tree's branches at the clearing night sky. The clouds were rushing off as fast as socialites moving on to a better party now, allowing the half moon to stage a shy epilogue, casting a faint light on his amused face.

'Perhaps you have suffered enough,' he reflected, tilting down his face to look along his perfect nose at her. 'After all, neither of us is going to die of a broken heart, are we?'

Her battered but unbroken heart was bursting with relief. 'I'm so glad you feel like that.'

'I won't pretend I'm not hurt, but the truth is, darling, I'm not sure you were clever enough for me. You have such a carpe diem mind.'

Relief turned instantly to outrage. 'What?'

He flashed his handsome, condescending smile. 'When you were ill, I was reminded of the thing that used to irritate me about you most: your inability to concentrate, to engage; to care for the written word beyond its first reading.'

'You only say that because you talk in quotes all the time!' she defended, hot tears of indignation chasing away all those of guilt. 'Even your letter was full of Joyce.'

'You weren't supposed to read it yet; I haven't finished the appendices.' He looked indignant, but then a hint of vanity crept into his voice. 'What did you think of it?'

'Flammable.'

'You mean inflammatory?'

'I mean inflammable.'

He let out a long, patronising sigh. 'Which just goes to show how much you know about literature.'

'Does that make me a lesser person?'

'Frankly, yes.'

Legs fell silent. This time she would let him take victory. She recognised his need for a deadly verbal blow, that final word she must nobly concede, especially when it was accompanied by the sort of expression Francis now bore, which in most other men she knew would relate to a hat-trick scored in injury time followed by an orgy of two-girl-on-one-hatrick-scorer bedroom action. He had won the match. And while he didn't exactly rip his shirt off and thrust his groin at the crowds for adulation, he still needed to make his victory salute.

Crouching over her now, he bestowed a kiss of such tenderness on her cheek, the heat of her tears creeping out to meet his lips seemed to melt her skin.

'Is it utterly pointless hoping for friendship?' she asked in a fractured voice.

His coldness took her by surprise. 'Utterly pointless.'

Thus, without warning, she found the scream bellowed from her like a toddler staging the mother of all hissy fits: 'I WANT my CAR back! NOW!'

He took several seconds to comprehend what she was saying. 'I'm hardly going to get it right this minute.'

'Yes you are! I'm going to Ireland.'

Francis's ancient Land Rover racketed along the tracks through the moonlight, pulling up outside a Dutch Barn located amongst the cluster of neglected piggeries and sheep holds in one of Home Farm's outer yards.

As soon as she saw her little silver dream machine stored inside, Legs threw her arms over its firm back like a small girl with her pony, visualising herself galloping away.

Francis watched her from the big double doors, silhouetted in brightening moonlight, 'You can hardly call the AA at two in the morning and expect them to be here within half an hour.' He stepped forwards.

'No need.' She scouted around, spotted an ancient rusting scythe propped up against an old corn thresher, and grasped it, holding it aloft victoriously.

With a terrified wail, Francis leaped out of sight, clearly believing the Grim Reaper had arrived.

Taking no notice of him, Legs hurled the weighted base of the handle at the driver's side window, which smashed obligingly, the car alarm shrieking straight away.

Leaning inside, she extracted the car keys and silenced the alarm with the fob button. Across the Home Farm fields, dogs barked inside tents.

'I would have knocked out the passenger's side,' Francis said helpfully, peering around the barn door again. 'Less wind in the face.'

'I can't wait to smell fresh Eire.' She shivered happily, jumping in.

As soon as she started the engine, the sat nav burst into life, still seeking its last requested destination.

'At the next available opportunity, take a U-turn,' came the bossy voice.

'This lady's not for turning,' Legs shouted back just as bossily, and pressed her foot on the accelerator.

She drove straight to Spywood Cottage, which was now in darkness.

Ros was dozing on the sofa, and woke with a start to find her sister hurriedly writing a note at the kitchen table.

'I've left the spare bed free for you.' Still half-asleep, yawning and rubbing her stiff neck, she sat up stiffly. 'I made it up with fresh sheets and put out my spare pyjamas.'

'I'm not staying.'

'You can't leave Francis!'

'I don't love him any more. I did when I wrote that letter you sent, but it was just aftershock, afterthoughts, after burn ... after Byrne.' The words caught in her throat. 'The writing was on the wall; I should have had "Live for the Moment" tattooed across my brow before I came back here to bang it against Farcombe's brick walls.'

'They're stone,' Ros pointed out, regarding her suspiciously. 'You're not thinking of getting another tattoo?'

Legs could hear Byrne's voice in her head, What's written, once read, is like ink on skin. She hit upon a sudden idea. It would be the ultimate love letter. 'You know, I just might.'

Her sister's grey eyes marked her as she screwed up the note, 'You're running back to Conrad, I assume?'

She shook her head: 'I'm going to County Laois louse leesh,' she struggled with the pronunciation.

'You will find nothing but louses, leeches and letches out there, Legs,' Ros stood up and headed wearily into the kitchen. 'I'd better make you a Thermos of coffee if you're driving.'

'Is Mum asleep?' Legs craved a Lucy hug, longing to explain what she was doing to the one person she was certain would understand.

'Cognac coma,' Ros switched on the kettle then stretched out her arms between the handles of two wall cupboards crucifix-style, drooping her head at forty-five degrees. 'I can't believe you're swanning off, leaving me to pick up the pieces as usual.'

Legs ignored the martyr pose. 'Get Mum and Dad face to face ASAP. They can sort it out for themselves. Just don't let them trust to letters. You know what they're like; they only open post once a month to avoid the scary bills.'

Her sister looked up quickly, appalled. 'Is that your expert advice in marriage guidance?'

'What do you suggest then?'

Ros could only focus on the detail as usual. 'Mum told me tonight that she's had "intimate waxing".' She dropped her voice, glancing up. 'Dad can't see her until it's grown out, don't you agree?'

'He might like it.' Legs pointed out, then remembered the miniature fake Freud, whose nude model had definitely not had any intimate waxing before she was painted.

'Don't be absurd,' Ros was going redder by the second. 'He's far too old.'

Legs quickly scaled three quarters of the stairs to retrieve the folded pillowcase. 'Can you do me a massive favour?' She thrust it at her sister. 'I need you to get rid of this.'

'Is it drugs?' Ros held it by her fingertips like a bomb that might explode at any second.

'No.' She picked up the Thermos gratefully; 'Just a naked truth that needs covering up.'

Ros handed it straight back, 'I'm all for covering up nudity, but I draw the line at smuggling. Just post it into the nearest police station's letterbox.'

'I am no longer a woman of letters,' Legs sighed as she carried it out to the battered, breezy car to stash it in the boot. 'This time I'm going to say what I need to face to face, even if I have to write crib notes on my skin first.'

Chapter 46.

'Legs!'

'Daisy!'

'At last! Where have you been?'

'Long story.'

'What's that noise?'

'I'm on a ferry.'

'Brian or Otis?'

'Ha ha. Going to Ireland. How's Inkpot?'

'Actually, I'm in Farcombe. Your tyre tracks are still smoking outside Spywood, you minx. I heard you were on the run. What have you done here? Even Ros stopped to tell me about it, she's so shocked.'

'What do you mean?'