'Where?' Ellen didn't look up as she rummaged in her bag for her purse.

'There's a man standing on the doorstep, waving.'

Despite Oliver's attempts to persuade her, she had refused to let him come with her to Paddington to meet Emma and Matt and had asked for a couple of days alone in which the kids could settle back home. Reluctantly, he had agreed to be introduced into the household by degrees, without any fanfare. At the same time, Ellen enjoyed the thought of stealing out for secret rendezvous in the flat, keeping him a delicious secret for a little while longer, preserving the family's status quo. Deceit might be bad but it was surely better than telling the children too soon. She was at last confident in her control of the situation and relieved she had found the right way at last. That was what her friends and family would want.

But despite all they'd agreed, here he was.

'So, who is he, Mum?' Emma emerged from the gloom she'd been in ever since she'd set foot in the taxi. She had spent the entire journey home staring bleary-eyed out of the window. Ellen thought she'd caught her wiping away a tear but felt it better not to say anything. If Josh the surfie was the problem, nothing she could say would make a difference. The summer was over, they had to come home and Emma had to learn to live with disappointments thrown up by life, however painful. When they had time alone, she would try to console her.

'Have you been having something done to the house?' Emma looked anxious that her instructions to leave her garish Indian/hippie-themed bedroom might have been ignored and that she was going to find the tasteful lilac or gardenia walls that Ellen sometimes threatened.

'No. He's a friend, that's all. Come on, get out.'

'Not the one you told me about?'

Ellen cursed the sharpness of Matt's memory.

'Not the boyfriend?' He brought all the scorn of a thirteen-year-old to the last word.

'Boyfriend!' Emma was immediately all attention. 'You never said anything, Mum.'

'He's not a boyfriend. Oliver's just someone I met while you were away.' She struggled to pocket her change, before bending over to pick up the two cases, leaving the kids to their backpacks. 'You'll like him.'

Doubt was writ very large indeed on Emma's face. But she said nothing.

Torn between her fury at Oliver's turning up, her desire to tear down the path and fling her arms round him, and her anxiety as to the best way to introduce him, Ellen stood by the gate, a case in either hand. She breathed deeply, trying to control the sudden thumping of her heart. Instead, Oliver took the initiative and came towards them. He looked relaxed in his cream chinos and a dark blue open-necked shirt. She saw him as if for the first time, taking in his aquiline features, the startling blue eyes and dark flop of hair. His familiar slightly uneven smile gave a sharp nudge to all the emotions that she'd thought she had under control, sending them skittering through her. If she took a step towards him, she felt her legs would give way. As if he understood, he turned to the kids, giving her time to gather herself.

'Hello. You must be Matt and Em. Your mum's told me all about you. Good holiday?'

'Yes, thank you.' Emma's voice was tight with dislike.

'I thought you might all be starving after such a long journey, so I've brought some supper over.'

They looked at him in surprise, unsure what to say. Why on earth would a stranger bring them supper? Ellen could almost hear the cogs turning.

'How lovely. What a kind thought.' Under the close scrutiny of her children, she chose her words with care, not wanting to expose her cartwheeling heart. Matt could probably be deflected but Emma would pick up on the slightest clue. As they led the way to the front door, she lagged behind with Oliver. She fought back the urge to put her arms round him. 'What the hell are you doing?' she hissed instead.

'I couldn't wait for two days.' As he touched her hand, her stomach flipped. 'You don't mind, do you?'

'Yes, I do. And after everything I said.' A look of such abject disappointment crossed his face that she weakened. 'Well, no, not really. Oh, I don't know. You're impossible.' Whatever she said, it was too late. He was there and she was going to have to deal with it in the best way she could.

They'd reached the front door. Emma was already inside and had shot upstairs to check her room. Oliver leaned down to pick up his bag of shopping.

'What have you got there?' A sure way to Matt's heart was through his stomach.

'Only spaghetti carbonara.'

'Nice one! How did you know I liked it?'

'Your mum told me, of course. I've brought a salad as well.' He winked at Ellen. 'And I tell you what, Matt, England are playing tonight and my TV's broken. I wondered if I could watch with you. Only if you're watching, of course.'

'Oliver, I'm not sure this is such a good idea.' His brand new TV couldn't possibly be broken. How dare he try to win over her kids without consulting her on the method first? 'Shouldn't you get back home? We'll have to unpack and get ready for school.'

'Come on, Ellen.' His voice was like the smoothest honey, impossible to resist.

'Yes, come on, Mum. We don't need much at the start of term anyway.' Matt's eyes were shining with excitement at the idea of being able to watch the match. Normally Emma shouted him down if he dared even suggest such a thing.

Ellen was torn. She wanted Oliver to stay but she wanted him to go. At the same time she felt a guilty sense of relief steal over her. For ten years she'd been running this household, having responsibility for every decision, smoothing out every disagreement. Being able to share some of the daily grind suddenly seemed almost unbearably attractive. Despite all her anxieties, he had got Matt onside within minutes. Perhaps, with a little extra effort, he could work the same magic with the more resistant Emma. Why shouldn't she indulge him? What harm could it possibly do? She led the way downstairs to the kitchen. 'OK, I give in. Em and I can always do something else or watch TV in my bedroom, I suppose. Just this once,' she added, to stamp on any impression that this might be a precedent for things to come.

'Yes!' yelled Matt, his fist punching the air. 'I'll go and tell Em.' He shot upstairs before Ellen could stop him.

'Oh, God,' she groaned. 'Wait for the fireworks.'

Oliver slipped an arm around her waist.

'They'll be down in a moment,' she said. 'You really shouldn't have come, you know.'

'It's OK.' He looked at her, before just brushing her lips with his.

She was glad he realised how inappropriate it would be to do more.

'I'm going to make sure it all works out. Trust me. Let me get on with the cooking while you help them unpack.'

Lugging the cases up the stairs, she could hear raised voices from Emma's room. Unable to make out exactly what was being said, she decided to leave them to it, dumping the cases on the landing before she retreated to the safety of her own room. Sinking onto the bed, she fell backwards into its embrace. She automatically turned her head towards her bedside table. For the last ten years she had gone to sleep and woken up beside Simon. He had remained a constant in her life even though he hadn't been here to share things. Somehow she'd always drawn support from seeing him there, as if he was guiding her. Before she had a chance to think further, there was a shout, a slammed door and the sound of Matt laughing.

'Well, we are and you can't stop us,' he shouted, above the noise of his footsteps clumping down the stairs.

With a sigh, Ellen got to her feet. Peeling off her jeans, she once again cursed the weight she'd put on during her week away as she squeezed herself into a green stripy skirt that Oliver liked, leaving the top inch of her zip undone and crossing her fingers that it would stay put, then rummaged for her long cream top in the cupboard. Slipping her feet into her most comfortable flip-flops, running her fingers through her hair, she emerged for the fray. As she passed Emma's room, she noticed the door was ajar.

'Mum!'

Unable to gauge the tone, imperious or upset, she pushed the door open, careful not to bring down the red-and-yellow sari fabric threaded with gold that was draped over the entrance. Inside, Emma had thrown herself face down on the gaudy Indian bedspread embroidered with tiny mirrors that twinkled in the light. In her left hand lay Lolly, a once yellow now grubby and almost threadbare pig that had gone everywhere with her until about five years ago when he had been relegated to pride of place on the mantel-piece. Ellen watched her daughter's thumb working back and forth over the scrap of ribbon round Lolly's neck, just as she had when she was a toddler needing comfort. She tiptoed in, taking a detour round the colourful spiky star lampshade, which was at exactly the right height to poke her in the eye, and sat on the bed.

'Em. What's up?'

'What's he doing here?' Her daughter twisted round to face her, propping herself up on an elbow. She'd obviously been crying.

'Oliver?'

'Who else?'

Ellen was alarmed by how angry she looked. 'He's just a friend making us supper. That's all.'

'I don't want him here.'

'Why ever not? Nothing's changed, you know.'

'It has.' Emma threw herself on to her side and curled into a ball.

Ellen sighed and reached out to stroke her daughter's hair back from her face. Neither of them spoke. But deep down, Ellen knew that Emma was right. Something had changed in both of them this summer. They had taken an irreversible step in a new direction, she towards a new life with Oliver, and Emma towards adulthood.

'Listen, Em. Sit up and talk to me.' Ellen tried to engineer her into a position where she could at least see her face. But she wouldn't co-operate.

'I am talking to you.'

'I mean properly. I want to try to get you to understand.'

'I understand completely.' Emma turned herself over and pushed herself towards the bed head so that she could sit up against the pillows. 'The moment we go away you get some man who you think will take Dad's place before you're too old to find one.'

Wounded by the venom in her daughter's voice, but infuri ated by what she had said, Ellen had to muster every ounce of self-control. 'Em, you know that's not true.' She edged herself up the bed until she was sitting beside her daughter. 'How could you say that? This wasn't something I meant to happen . . .'

'Then why did you let it?'

'I know it's hard for you to understand but as you and Matt grow up, get your own friends and start to go out more, I sometimes feel lonely.'

'What about Kate and Bea?'

'Of course they're my friends but they have their own lives too. Their friendship means everything to me but it isn't the same as this.'

'You mean sex.' Her tear-stained face twisted in disgust and she stiffened.

Ellen hadn't wanted to have this discussion, but having come this far, she had to show Emma respect by finishing it. 'Well, partly, yes. But it's also having someone I can trust, having a friend at home to share things with when you're out more and more.'

'Mum, you don't even know the man. You can't do.' Her voice sounded like a little girl's. Then she sniffed hard.

'Come here, Em.' As Ellen put her arm round her child, she felt her give a little. They sat together for a few minutes in silence again, leaning into one another just as they had always done. 'Why don't I go downstairs and make us some hot chocolate? Then I'll come back and we can talk about it together.'

'Well, OK.' Emma's tone was grudging but Ellen could tell she'd begun to soften. Not that that meant she would necessarily change her point of view.

Just at that moment she heard footsteps in the hall.

'Supper's ready,' Oliver shouted up the stairs.

'I don't want any,' Emma muttered, her thumb working away at Lolly's ribbon.

'Come on, Em. I know it's hard but do come down.' She sat there for a moment longer, then stood up. 'For me?'

Emma put Lolly on the pillow and looked up at her mother. Ellen couldn't read her expression, but decided to make one more appeal. 'Please.'

'OK, OK.' She stood up. 'If Freya did it for her mother, I'll have to try. But don't expect me to like him.'

Ellen remembered gloomily that Freya was one of Emma's schoolfriends whose mother had moved in a new lover before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. It had been the talk of the school for months. 'It's hardly the same thing. Freya's dad had only just moved out. And Oliver certainly isn't moving in.' She hoped she'd be forgiven for the lie.

'Isn't he? I'm not a fool, Mum. It looks pretty much like the same thing to me.'

They went downstairs together. Supper was not a happy affair. Oliver passed Ellen a noticeably smaller helping of pasta than anyone else and piled the rest of her plate high with leaves. She knew he was only doing it for her own good, having learned she had the will-power of a slug, but she wished he could have been a little less obvious about it. The conversation, such as it was, revolved around Matt and Oliver's assessment of various football players and teams, something in which she and Emma had absolutely no interest. Emma sat in silence, playing with her food, picking out the bits of ham and piling them on the side of her plate before announcing that she had become vegetarian. The minute they finished she said she was going round to see Freya. Ellen didn't stop her, hoping that Freya might make her see some sense.

When she finally found herself alone, a protesting Oliver having been chased out to his flat and Matt up to bed, she sat down to wait for her daughter with a cup of tea and a slice of cake that Oliver didn't know existed. This was going to be much harder than she had thought.

Chapter 17.

Standing on the balcony, a glass of champagne in her hand, Bea could see below her the race-goers milling like moths around the on-track bookies who were barking the odds, jabbering into mobile phones. She looked down on tweedy jackets, the odd designer outfit that had probably been pulled out of a perfect home-counties wardrobe or bought weeks ago for the occasion. Contrast Bea's the result of a department-store dash two nights earlier. Just when she was being forced to give up, with the store closing, she had found a purple and blue swirled sleeveless silk dress, and a blue slightly fitted hip-length jacket. She just prayed she wouldn't get so hot that she'd have to take the jacket off and reveal what Ben insisted on calling her 'bingo wings'. Minutes later, on her way out of the store, by some miracle she had spotted a blue pillbox hat with a discreet pink trim. The whole outfit made her feel quite the thing, and a little bit Jackie O. Her new-found confidence was confirmed when she had met Mark at the station. From his expression she had seen that she'd made quite an impression.

They had arrived at Ascot early, at which point she could see that his impression might have been that she was completely over-dressed. She'd imagined that the races would be full of women sporting the sort of outfits she'd seen photographed on Ladies' Day. But this wasn't Royal Ascot. The truth was a revelation. Brushing past more Barbours than she could count, corduroy trousers, brown trilbies and an overwhelming assortment of tartans and tweeds, she hoped the dress code would improve once they hit the Members' section. Her prayers were answered. As they made their way through the brand new grandstand, riding the escalator up through the airy state-of-the-art building to the corporate box hired by Mark's co-directors, she began to feel she wouldn't stick out like quite such a sore thumb after all.

In the dining room, a long table was laid with a smooth cream tablecloth, a vase of creamy roses in its centre. She counted twenty-four places laid with gleaming cutlery and sparkling wine glasses while in a corner a flat-screen TV was anticipating the start of the racing. 'I wasn't expecting it to be a sit-down do.' Bea was wishing she'd gone with her original impulse to refuse the invitation.

'Don't worry. I know you'll get on fine with them.' Mark's reassuring best was far from convincing. 'Although I don't really know their wives. Let's grab a glass of champagne and take a look at the course from the balcony.'

She followed him out, trying not to let her nerves make her drink too quickly. It was hard not to be impressed by the modern curved grandstand that looked over the course. Their box was positioned just before the winning post, giving them a clear view of the finish. They chatted easily together as gradually the other guests arrived and Bea was introduced one by one. As she relaxed, she began to think that perhaps the afternoon wouldn't be such an ordeal after all. Mark was turning out to be rather a considerate host who made sure she was never left standing alone but at the same time didn't stick to her side like glue. His frequent laugh as he chatted to colleagues told her that he was never very far away. She could turn to him if she needed to.

Just as they were gravitating towards the table for lunch, the last couple arrived. Bea saw the woman first. She was a head-turner: tall, gamine, with cheekbones to kill for, generous bee-stung lips, wide-set innocent eyes and brown hair pinned up with a yellow silk rose above her right ear. She was wearing a soft yellow figure-hugging dress that was slightly ruched below the narrow waist with a rounded neckline and no sleeves, showing off her perfectly toned, tanned arms and enviably firm cleavage enhanced by a tiny gold cross hanging from a fine gold chain. Standing slightly behind her, in the shadow of the doorway, his hand resting possessively in the centre of her back, was her partner. From a distance he looked slickly suited and as much of a crowd-pleaser as her. As they sashayed into the room together, smiling at the assembled group, Bea realised, to her horror, who he was.

Tony Castle.

She took a step back onto the balcony to compose herself. Thankfully she had seen him before he saw her, so she had the advantage. A deep breath or two later, she returned to the room and took her place beside Mark.

'Are you all right? You look a bit pale,' he said, solicitous as ever.

'Completely fine. I left my bag outside.'

Mark put his hand on the back of her arm. 'Good. Now, I want you to meet my new colleague, Tom Carter. He only joined the company a couple of weeks ago.' He steered her towards a place at the other side of the table where she could see that she'd be next to the man she knew as Tony Castle. What a crazy coincidence. Or was it some kind of bizarre joke Mark and Tony had dreamed up together? They must know that they both subscribed to Let's Have Lunch, surely. Tom Carter! He hadn't even used his own name. At that moment, to her huge relief, a portly older man insinuated himself into the chair, conveniently scuppering Mark's planned introduction, and tucked his napkin into his shirt collar.

'Damn. That's Brian Anderson, one of the chief execs. I can't ask him to move,' he whispered. 'Never mind. I'll introduce you to Tom later. There'll be plenty of time.'

'Mmm. Can't wait.' Her sarcasm floated over Mark's head as, instead, they found themselves places at the opposite end of the table.

As the starters were brought in, she caught Tom turning his head to look up the table. His expression when he saw her for the first time was a joy: shock and confusion jockeyed with fear, resulting in a dead heat. Bea was quite happy where she sat, opposite Mark and between a couple on his team who were bent on having a good day out. One of them was an old hand at the racing game and, with the benefit of his expertise, she was soon entering into the spirit of the day and marking up her race card. Occasionally, she'd look down the table at Tom, who had lost his initial swagger and seemed frequently preoccupied, toying with his food, paying scant attention to the people on either side of him and barely responding to the attentions of his female companion, whose laugh tinkled down the table as she extended an arm to persuade him to try a forkful of her meal. And at the end of that arm, Bea thought she saw the sparkle of a large ring. Well, she knew from experience how quick a worker 'Tony' could be.

Mark's laugh made her turn back in his direction. Since meeting him for their abortive drink, Bea had managed to arrive on time for their next drinks date and for the couple of dinner dates that followed, as well as speaking to him at length several times on the phone. He didn't send her lust-meter soaring but, each time, she had grown to like him a little more. He had never made a move that suggested he fancied her either, but there was no getting away from the fact that they got on well. Bea had talked to him about herself and her work, describing the strategies she was using to turn her list around, not to mention the attempts of Amanda Winter to get her feet under her desk and lie down under Adam's, judging by the number of times she had shut herself into his office with him. Bea could see that Mark was impressed by her fortitude in the face of stress. God loves a trier and so, it appeared, did he. But, more than that, he was interested, asking questions and making sure he understood.

As the month had progressed, Bea had felt a new energy propelling her through her work. By the time she and Mark had last spoken, she was able to tell him that Stuart had stepped up to the plate and, between them, they had so far persuaded an already bestselling novelist that Coldharbour could publish him better. Bea herself was hot on the trail of one of the great theatrical dames and hoped to convince her that the time had come to write her autobiography. She knew the project had bestseller written all over it. More than that, she was reading a first novel from the States, Bare Bones, which reminded her of Donna Tartt's The Secret History. Everyone, including Adam, was going to read it over the next couple of days. With their support, she was confident they could make the book sell.

She took care not to completely monopolise their conversations and began to listen more carefully to what Mark had to say. She found it hard to follow the ins and outs of his career in a world so very different from her own but she stopped and asked him to explain when she got confused. The result was that she had become interested in the financial rigmarole of his working life. When she got him talking about his marriage and the children he only saw when it suited his ex, they had plenty to talk about. Eventually he had asked her to accompany him to his office jolly at the races. By the time the day dawned, she had surprised herself with the discovery that she was actually looking forward to seeing him.

'Bea!' Mark looked across the table at her. 'Tell me you're not putting your money on that nag, Heavenly Joker. Look at it on the screen. Fit for the knacker's yard, for God's sake.'

'Bollocks, Chapman,' Bea's neighbour and now racing adviser intervened. 'That is a horse in its prime. Take no notice, Bea. Your money's safe.'

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tom getting up from his seat and turning their way. He'd obviously decided how he was going to deal with the situation.