'Well, I came home to see if somehow Mabel had got the wrong end of the stick and Alice had caught the bus back here or something, but she's not here.'

'Oh, G.o.d. What should we do?' Susan's mind was racing now. She knew Alice had had her thick herringbone coat with her, but what about her gloves, her hat, her scarf? She couldn't remember checking when they had left. She'd probably thought they were unnecessary Alice was only going to Mabel's and from there straight into Roger's warm car, then home. What if she'd fallen and was lying somewhere on the cold, hard ground?

At the other end of the line Roger read her mind: 'I've been back and traced the route from Mabel's to the surgery it's only about five hundred yards and there's no sign of her. Can you think of anyone she might have b.u.mped into who would have taken her back to their place?'

'Not really not after dark. Oh, Roger, I don't know what to do.'

'I think I'd better call the police. Do you think you oh, hang on, that's the doorbell. It'll be her, love. Hold on a minute.'

For a few long seconds Susan listened to Roger's m.u.f.fled voice, straining to hear Alice's higher tones. Then he was back.

'Suze? It's a policeman. Don't worry they've got her. She was lost or something. Look, why don't you stay with Polly? I'll get to the bottom of it and tuck her up on the sofa. You can talk to her yourself when you get back. You won't be late, will you?'

'Oh, I'm coming now. That's scared the life out of me. I won't be able to relax until I've seen her.' She pulled a face at Polly, who smiled back, and raised her hand to attract the waiter.

After Susan had gone, Polly took her Switch card out of her wallet to pay, then fiddled with her naked ring finger. She let her mind meander back to Christmas morning. Jack had stayed over, for the first time, on Christmas Eve. They'd slept all night together before he had taken her on a weekend trip to Edinburgh but never in her house, not with the kids there. Cressida had suggested it. 'Go on, Mum. What's the big deal? Me and Daniel both know what's going on.' Then, in a mockingly stern parody of Polly, '"We'd rather you were sleeping together somewhere safe than up to G.o.d knows what G.o.d knows where. At least this way we'll know where you are." ' Daniel sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'And we like Jack, don't we, Danny? He's a good bloke. What's the point of sending him home sober at midnight so he can get up and come back in the morning?'

A few weeks earlier Polly had broached the subject of Jack spending Christmas Day with them. Since Dan had left the three of them had always celebrated Christmas alone Polly had figured that making Christmas happy for the children proved she was a success as a single parent. Both Cressida and Daniel had leapt at the chance almost insultingly keen for company, Polly considered. 'We're not kids any more, you know.' My G.o.d, didn't she know it?

So her children had persuaded her to ask Jack to stay over, and they had woken up together, in a chaste bed ('Get off, you old devil, the kids might hear,' Polly had giggled), faces close together on the pillows to whisper 'Merry Christmas' and smile conspiratorially at each other. They'd had a golden day. Jack had bought champagne, and they had drunk it round the tree, with smoked-salmon sandwiches, as Cressida and Daniel opened their presents, both suddenly childish again amidst piles of paper and discarded packaging, exclaiming at their booty. Later, liberated by Jack from the duty of mother-sitting, they went out before Christmas dinner: Cressida to the pub with her crowd and her boyfriend Joe, and Daniel, armed with his latest Play-Station game, to his friend Pete's house, where Christmas Top of the Pops was not forbidden. Polly and Jack had gone to bed and made slow, gentle love.

Much later, when the kids were flopped on the sofa in front of the obligatory Christmas blockbuster with a family box of Quality Street, Jack said, 'Come on, woman, let's get this washing-up done. I can't stand weepies. Bring back The Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special, I say. Angela Rippon in fishnets now that's what Santa ordered!'

Cressida threw a cushion at him. 'Dirty old man!'

In the kitchen he slid his arms round her waist as she stood over the sink, rinsing gla.s.ses. 'I really love you, Polly Bradford.' He hadn't said that before. The hairs on Polly's neck stood up. 'Marry me.' It didn't sound like a question. Her heart did double time and she was glad he couldn't see her face. Was he serious?

Jack must have felt her stiffen with shock, because he took away his arms and picked up a gla.s.s, which he dried slowly and carefully. Polly spun around and flicked him across the arm with a tea-towel. 'Marry you? And you with an Angela Rippon fetish? You must be joking. You'd have me reading the headlines during s.e.x.' She looked at him, her smile tinged with a desperate plea. Don't make me answer that. Not today.

Jack took his cue. He grabbed her flicking arm, pulled her closer and began to tickle her armpit. 'Go on, hurt me again! Be very, very strict with me, Miss Rippon. Please!'

In bed that night, Polly was half asleep, with Jack's whole length warming her back and his arm heavy across her, when he said again, 'I mean it, Polly. Marry me. This is what I want. You and me. It's good. I'm happy. And you are too.'

'Oh, Jack, of course I am. It's just-'

Jack pressed his arm against her chest. 'Ssh. I'm not asking for an answer tonight. Just think about it. Please.'

She ran her hand down to his and held it, squeezed once. Within minutes his breathing had changed: he was asleep. It took Polly a lot longer.

Eight mornings later, on 2 January, her car was covered in a thick layer of ice; Polly stomped inside to retrieve the de-icer spray from the hall cupboard. Beside it lay a small, royal blue leather box on top of a plain brown luggage label on which Jack had written, Alice in Wonderland-like, WEAR ME.

When Polly got home Jack was asleep in an armchair. She leant over the back and kissed his nose. He started awake, and the newspaper he had been reading fell from his lap. His half-moon reading gla.s.ses had slid low down his nose. 'Christ, Jack. You just need the Archers Omnibus on the radio, a pair of fingerless gloves and a box of snuff, and you'll be everyone's picture of the average OAP.'

'Can't a fellow fall asleep at his hearth after a hard day's grind without being ridiculed?'

'One, it's my hearth. Two, you're a solicitor, not a coal-miner. Three, you're meant to be in charge of my kids. Where are they?'

'No one's actually been in charge of your kids since, oh, about 1993, my sweet. Cressida's off with Joe, I think, said something about a new band playing at the union. And Daniel, riveted though he undoubtedly was by my company, went to bed about half an hour ago. Geography test tomorrow, you know.'

'I do know they may be latchkey kids, but they're well-quizzed ones. He told me this morning. Did you make them some supper?'

'Bought fish and chips. Did have a stinker of a day, as it goes. Some twisted individuals going ten rounds over the custody of their kids.'

'Oh, darling, I'm sorry. That sounds a bit grim. Want to talk about it?'

'Not really. I'd rather not let them into this house. Jinxes.' He stood up and folded her into an embrace. 'Besides, I'd much rather hear what you ladies got up to.'

'It was me and Suze at the Caffe Uno, Jack, not an Ann Summers party.'

'Never underestimate the fascination that girlie gossip holds for men, Pauline Bradford. I learnt everything I know about women from eavesdropping.'

'Pity you didn't do more, then, isn't it?' Polly laughed.

'Oi!' Jack pinched her bottom.

'Actually, hold on, I just want to give Susie a ring. She had to go early. Something about Alice... won't be a minute. Do you love me enough to make me a cup of tea?'

'Susan? It's Poll. I thought I'd check on Alice. Is everything okay?'

'I wish I knew. It's mum. She's had a funny turn.'

'Is she there? With you now?'

'She's on the sofa, with a hot toddy, wondering what all the fuss was about. She wandered off, you see, from Mabel's. The police found her our address was in her handbag so they brought her home.'

'What was she doing?'

'She told them she was going home. They asked her where to. She said sixty-eight Eaton Close. That's what's so weird. It was where she and Dad lived after the war. Where Margaret and me were born. She moved out years ago, after Dad died.'

'G.o.d.'

'She said the strangest thing when I was tucking her up on the sofa. She said Dad would be worrying about her.'

'Oh, Susan. Oh dear. What does Roger say?'

'He says we've got to get her checked out. Could be all sorts of things, something or nothing. He says she's slowing down a bit. But Poll, she's only seventy-one. That's not old, these days.'

Susan sounded tearful. Polly wanted to tell her that she was sure it was nothing, but she couldn't. It didn't sound like nothing. 'Call me, will you, Susie, when you've taken her somewhere? Promise? And try not to worry.'

'I'd better get back to her. I will call. Thanks for ringing.'

She told Jack what Susan had said while he finished making her tea. She leant against the kitchen unit watching him squeeze the teabag, making it as strong as he knew she liked it, and stir in the milk.

'Why don't you pop over and see her tomorrow?' he asked. 'It doesn't sound good, though, does it?'

'No. Susan adores Alice. I've always been a bit jealous of what the two of them have my mother was Watford's answer to Joan Crawford. G.o.d knows what she'd do without her.'

'It's the cycle of life, isn't it? Mother, daughter, mother. She's got Roger and the boys. And you. I just hope if it is serious that it isn't one of those long-drawn-out nightmares. So undignified, and so hideous for the family to have to watch. It's weird, though, isn't it, her going back to the sixties. It happened to my dad. He was alive and well, and living in North Africa with his fellow Desert Rats, but it was actually 1985, and he hadn't been further than Brittany for forty years. One doctor told us that sometimes, when that happens, you go back to the time in your life when you were happiest. Great compliment to Alice's husband, I'd say, for her to return to when they were together. Amazing thing, the brain.' He put the milk back into the fridge. 'So, Ms Bradford, which time would you go back to? Hm?'

Polly smiled. She'd had a lot of good times. And some really cruddy ones. But she wasn't chasing better ones any more, she realised. She was contented. That was a good feeling. Comfortable. That was pretty nice too. Safe. Who wouldn't want to be? And, she thought, watching his long back busy at the sink, more than a little in love. 'I reckon it would have to be 2002. That's a b.l.o.o.d.y good year so far. Jack?'

'Digestive biscuit?'

'I will marry you. I will. Yes.'

The expression on Jack's face when he swung round made her feel fantastic. Imagine making someone so happy with just one word. He punched the air in a gesture of triumph. 'Yeeesss!'

Cressida 'What's wrong, Cress?' Joe shouted, against the extraordinary noise of the band on stage behind them. She'd been in the loo for ages, and now she was back she looked really weird, like she'd been crying, or had had a bad fright. 'Something happened?'

Cressida shook her head furiously. Then, leaning right into him, she shouted in his ear, 'Outta here,' turned and pulled him towards the illuminated exit sign. It took a couple of minutes to get through the crowd, but she held tight to his hand all the while. Outside they leant against the wall, drawing in deep breaths of the fresh air, letting their ears become accustomed to the relative quiet.

'You okay, Cress? You look a bit funny.'

'I didn't like the crowd much or the band. That lead singer thinks he's Kurt Cobain but he sounds more like Danny in the bath. Actually, Danny's better than that. What an ego!'

'Yeah, well, I'd had enough too. Let's go and get a drink.'

Cressida looked at him. 'I don't really fancy one.'

'I know what I fancy.' Joe leant in to her, kissed her earlobe. His hand went round her back, pulling her hips towards him. He moved his mouth to hers. Cressida stood back, and pulled her jacket tightly round her, hands retracted within the sleeves. She jumped softly from foot to foot. 'Not here, Joe. It's b.l.o.o.d.y cold, apart from anything else.'

'We could go back to mine, then. Mum and Dad are out. Show you my etchings?' He ran his hand over her bottom.

'Oh, Joe, is that all you can think about?' Her tone was harsh, exasperated.

'Sorry! What's wrong? You know that's not true, Cress, but I'm going back to Warwick on Sunday, and I thought, you know... It's just that we haven't spent much time alone since I got back from uni. Is something up? What have I done?'

Cressida gazed squarely at him. He looked hurt, and somehow younger. When she spoke again, her tone was softer. 'Nothing, Joe. You're right, I'm sorry. It's me. What a cow. Time of the month, I expect. Look, I just want to go home, be where other people are not. Grab an early night. Okay?'

Joe was off the hook. He smiled, linked arms with the girl he had loved since he was fourteen, and pulled her down the street. 'Right you are. Home, James, and don't spare the horses. And we don't have to speak all the way, m'lady.'

Later, as she fumbled to find the key in her jeans pocket, he pulled her round to look at him under the light by her front door. 'Cress? Everything is okay, isn't it?'

'Oh, Joe, of course it is. Why all this heavy stuff now? This isn't like you. Got a guilty conscience or something?'

Joe rubbed his sweater angrily across his face. 'Not me. What about you?' It stood, the question that was really an accusation, in the cold air between them. It had been tough, that first term away from her. University was all new, terrifying but wonderful. They'd been a couple in the sixth form, gone through the exams together and stuff, pored over the UCAS form, laughed at each other's personal statements, and daydreamed. Joe thought she was crazy when she decided to stay at home for her course they'd had a big row, and he'd accused her of being a coward. They'd made up, of course, in the alcohol-hazed summer after A levels: Cressida had promised she'd come to Warwick be the sad girlfriend from home cramping his style at the freshers' disco. He'd said he'd be proud of her, that everyone would recognise her from the pictures on his noticeboard. Joe had imagined the two of them in his small room, in his narrow bed, what might happen with their parents far away. Maybe she would finally let him make love to her, and they could be as close as he wanted them to be. But she hadn't come. All term she'd made plans and cancelled them she wasn't feeling well, she had this huge project to hand in by Tuesday that she hadn't started, Mum wanted her to go somewhere. Joe's mate on the same corridor had joked that Joe had an imaginary girlfriend.

That pretty girl, Issie, from his Wednesday tutorial, with whom he had coffee every week after cla.s.s, had suggested gently that maybe separation had broken the spell for Cressida. Her sister, she said, had been engaged to her policeman boyfriend when she started her first year at college: she had dumped him after two weeks and an encounter with the captain of rugby. Cressida hadn't dumped him. She always sounded so sorry, so gentle, when she broke the news that she wasn't coming. She told him how much she was looking forward to seeing him at Christmas. How nice it would be to have the old gang back from the four corners of the country. That she still loved him. Or maybe she had let him tell her that he still loved her. He couldn't remember now. But Joe was worried. Christmas had been and gone, New Year too, and he was off tomorrow, back for the spring term. A whole term gone, and now a whole holiday. They hadn't made love. They hadn't even spent a whole evening alone together. And now he had asked her if she had something to hide. And she wasn't answering. She was looking at him, and her eyes were full of tears. And she wasn't answering.

Oh, Christ.

'Christ, Cress, what? Just say it.'

Cressida shook her head at him. 'Not now, Joe. It's nothing. Don't be silly. You're leaving tomorrow. Don't do this now.'

Joe felt a shaft of terror, then exhaustion. He knew what was coming. He even sort of knew why he wasn't an idiot, and he understood that a long-distance relationship was always an outside bet. He knew that he could make her tell him what was wrong, that it wasn't the same any more, that it was over, best this way, and that they'd had a lovely time and been really good for each other... Perhaps he'd known that for weeks. They would go in, and make a hot drink, and talk for hours, and cry and hold each other, and mourn the inevitable pa.s.sing of their young love. A tiny part of him, deep down, knew that he would be okay. He imagined himself recounting what had happened over coffee with Issie back in Warwick. But, right now, he didn't have the energy for the death-dance with Cressida. More than anything else he wanted to be inside, alone, not looking at her face. With huge will, Joe kissed her cheek, one hand resting briefly in her curly hair. 'Yep, you're right. You take care. I'll see you soon. 'Bye, Cress.' And he was off.

''Bye, Joe.' They'd made no arrangements to meet in the morning, and Cressida knew he wouldn't call, that this was it. She wasn't relieved at being let off the hook of explanation. She felt like a s.h.i.t. But she had barely a thought in her head to spare for Joe.

Nicole Two thirty a.m. The sheets on Gavin's side of the bed were cold. Nicole rolled on to them for some relief. She had been lying, hot and bothered, on her side for hours. There'd been a message, left beside the phone in faltering English by Cecile. 'Mr Thomas work late. Maybe not come home.' An hour or so later Gavin had rung.

'Darling! Did you get the flowers?'

'Yes. They're indescribably lovely. Thank you.'

'Nic, don't be like that.'

'Like what?'

'All cold and frosty with me. I really am sorry, you know. About the opera.'

'Yes. Where are you?'

'I'm not going to make it back, babe, I'm afraid. The creatives have been having terrible trouble with a pitch they're doing at the end of the week. They needed me. Had to roll up my sleeves and get the old juices going. Quite good fun, actually.'

'I'm sure.'

Gavin appeared to ignore the sarcasm in her voice. 'We're going to grab a bite now, give it one more good going-over, and then I'll bed down at the club.'

No wonder he was so b.l.o.o.d.y good at his job, Nicole thought bitterly. He spoke in double entendres even when he wasn't trying to. She'd given up trying to second-guess him. He might even have been telling the truth. Then again, the flowing juices, bites, going-overs and bedding down might have nothing to do with winning some detergent account. She used to check up, phoning his club very early with some important question about the house or the kids, or try to catch him out with carefully orchestrated small-talk questions over supper. She used to make love to him the night after he had been away. Why? To see if he was still interested? If he had learnt any new tricks, had enough energy? Or was it to prove that she was better than anyone he might have been with? That she still knew better than any one-night stand or office fling where to touch him, exactly how hard and just how long? She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep trying.

'Whatever you like.'

'Thanks, sweets. You're a brick. I'll make it up to you at the weekend. Promise. Why don't you book a sitter for Sat.u.r.day? I'll take you out for dinner. Your choice.'

'Okay.' Nicole hated herself for looking forward to it, but she knew she would. She'd see if Cressida was free to sit. Maybe get her hair and nails done on Friday afternoon. Choose somewhere candlelit, wear something beautiful, and let him talk his way back into her heart and her bed. Like she always did.

'Goodnight, darling.'

'Night.'

A few nights later, Nicole was reapplying a deep red shade of lipstick to her mouth in the soft, flattering lights in the ladies' at one of her favourite restaurants.

By the time she got back to the table Gavin had refilled her gla.s.s with glorious Viognier her favourite. It was the wine they had drunk at their wedding breakfast, no less. She had to hand it to him: he was pressing all the right b.u.t.tons tonight. Trouble was, she only kept score as far as the starters. By the time the waitress put her main course in front of her she was once again a fully paid-up member of the Gavin fan club. A sliver of her own conscience stood next to her, taking in the low, silky dress, the cleavage dusted with shimmer, and shook its head. Encore une fois, it said. Been to this movie. But the lion's share of her was loving being this way again.

'Are you trying to get me drunk?' she asked.

'No, you're no use to me drunk. I just want you relaxed enough to enjoy the rest of the evening.' Gavin put his hand on her knee under the table, stroked a feather of sensation along her thigh. He hadn't touched her like that for days. Hadn't dared to. 'All of it.'

'What did you have in mind?' She was flirting now, brazen. He laid his lips against her cheek. 'Oh, just about anything you like, Nicole.' He sat up suddenly. 'But first, my darling, I have a plan to share with you. I've been busy figuring out how to make it up to you, all these late nights and weekends I've been doing lately.'

Gavin shorthand again. Nicole stiffened as resentment threatened to flood back. But straight away he put his hand into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out British Airways tickets and dropped them beside her plate. Nicole picked them up eagerly, pulled open the top one. Venice. Venice. 'It's all arranged for next month. I've spoken to your mother, and she'll have the kids for the weekend. I even braved Harriet, and she says no problem with the school-run and stuff.' (What she had actually said to Gavin was, 'I should think so too. Hope it's the Danieli. And with a lengthy excursion to Gucci planned.' And to Tim, 'Talk about putting a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, the p.r.i.c.k!') The au pair'll be there. I think. I've thought of everything. I want to spoil us, take us back to the Danieli. Not so b.l.o.o.d.y hot this time, I hope.' Gavin had found Venice, their honeymoon destination, smelly, overrun with clicking j.a.panese tourists, and not a little dull. For Nicole it represented the Narnia days of her marriage. Hot, certainly, requiring regular pit stops for Bellini and Campari-soda on their voyage of discovery of that exquisite city. Steamy in their suite every afternoon. And cooler in the evenings, over those long, languid suppers and strolls and once, when she'd begged, a gondola ride they'd lain back against red velvet heart-shaped cushions and kissed themselves dizzy.

'Gavin! That's brilliant! Perfect. Thank you!'

He looked suddenly serious, sincere. 'I do love you, you know that, don't you, Nic?'

She threw her arms round his neck, whispered into his ear: 'I know. You're forgiven. Let's go home.'