'I know more every day. And the more I know, the more I like.' Ellen brushed aside any potential objections, as she'd promised Oliver she would. If she let a chink of doubt appear in her armour, Mary would pounce, then worry away until it was much larger. 'I know you're concerned for Matt and Em, but so am I. I won't do anything to hurt them. Promise.'

'What are you promising?' Matt stuck his head round the door. 'Hurry up. I want to beat you at Scrabble.'

'Why? Has the TV broken?' Matt was usually impossible to prise away from the screen.

'Ha ha! No, but Em and Lucy are watching some stupid film. What were you promising?' Like his grandmother, Matt had a nose for what he wasn't meant to know. There was no point in trying to fudge because he'd just go on until he'd succeeded in worming a satisfactory reply out of her.

'I was just promising that you'd like a new friend of mine.'

'Why? Who is she?'

'She's a he. And he supports Arsenal.' At least, she was sure he could be persuaded to, in the interest of good relations.

'A he!' Matt yelled, as if a male friend was the last thing he'd expect his mother to have.

'Yes. He liked the paintings in the gallery and we've made friends. You'll like him.'

'He's not a boyfriend, is he?' The disgusted emphasis put on the word 'boyfriend' was enough to warn Ellen not to say more. As was Mary's sharp elbow in the ribs.

'No, no. Don't be silly.' Time to change the subject. 'Come on, then. Scrabble it is. But you know I'm unbeatable.'

The challenge was enough to put everything else right out of Matt's head. 'No, you're not,' he objected. 'I won at least the last two times.'

That's boys for you, thought Ellen and she clenched her fist Andy Murray-style. 'OK, then. Bring it on.'

'You won't beat me, you know. Let battle commence.' With the gauntlet thrown, he dashed down the corridor to the living room, Ellen in hot pursuit.

By the end of the week, Ellen was exhausted and ready for home. She'd played all the games in the toy cupboard with varying degrees of success Scattergories, Monopoly, Articulate, The Nasty Horse Racing Game and Cribbage all old favourites that were brought out every year. She'd walked the cliff path, straining up the steep bits, legs aching, but relishing the open spaces, the wind in her face and the time alone. She'd played tennis (badly), golf (even worse), been out in the dinghy, and even been persuaded to catch fresh mackerel for a barbecue supper. She'd visited her two artists: one had already been snapped up by a gallery in Bristol but the other was interested in her proposals. They'd been through the work he had in his studio, selecting the best of the figurative oils that had so readily captured her imagination with their clever use of space and composition, and their suggestions of half-told stories. They agreed he would paint another four over the following few months so there would be enough for a coherent exhibition in the back room of the gallery next spring.

Most importantly, she had had time to catch up with her children and re-forge her relationships with them if not always in exactly the way she would have liked. Matt was still the boy she had waved off on the train at the beginning of the holiday. He remained a child of wild enthusiasms, with the charm of his father and a love of physical activity, cleaving to the band of male cousins and their friends as if he'd never been away from them. Seeing the gusto with which he joined in with everything they did, however challenging for a boy of thirteen, always made her smile. She knew his older cousins would watch out for him whatever they got up to. However, there was something about Emma that had changed during her three weeks away. Watching her with the others, Ellen could see how she hung on the words of Josh, a blond surfie who'd become a regular in the house. Whether or not he was the 'boyfriend' Matt had mentioned was unclear, but the lingering glances she had given him from under her eyelashes whenever he spoke, the alacrity with which she followed him about, made it obvious that she might not object if such a relationship were suggested.

Whenever Ellen tried to talk to her about Josh, Emma had avoided the conversation by either having something else to do or somewhere to rush off to. In fact, she spent as little time with her mother as she could, as if embarrassed by her presence. There was no doubt she was growing up fast, thought Ellen, wistfully. She wondered how Kate had coped with Megan at the same stage. Although Josh seemed nice enough, Ellen could see that his evident lack of reciprocal interest meant Emma might get hurt. All Ellen wanted to do was to help cushion the blow. This new lack of communication between them also meant that she didn't have a chance to talk to her daughter about Oliver either but, after a few days of being there, it hadn't seemed appropriate. Mary's measured reaction had confirmed the need to be more circumspect about him. As she relaxed into the holiday, enjoying not having to worry about her appearance and letting the diet slide for the week, she decided to wait until they returned to London. Better not to rock the boat just yet.

Chapter 14.

Ellen jumped off the TruroLondon train, hefting her case down the steps to the platform. Joining the slew of people who were rushing towards the barrier, she craned her neck to see Oliver. The last time they'd talked, he'd said he couldn't bear to be apart from her any longer than he had to so he'd be waiting for her at the barrier.

She knew Oliver was hurt she hadn't spoken to the children about him. He interpreted her silence as a lack of commitment to him. However hard she tried, she couldn't get him to understand the situation from Emma and Matt's point of view, which to her was what mattered.

'If you loved me as much as I do you, you wouldn't be able to resist telling them about me,' he complained. Or 'If you were as proud of me as I am of you, you would be bursting to tell them.' And then, 'If you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, you wouldn't hesitate.'

Hearing him say those things, she had wavered again. But she had found necessary strength in being with Simon's family. Despite her intentions, she'd been so busy that there was little time to dwell on Oliver. But once she was on the train home, she'd realised how much she was looking forward to seeing him again. They had spoken every day while she was away and every day she had struggled to explain how she was trying to sort out the confusion in her head, but he just didn't get it. He didn't understand why she had veered from their original plan. But being sucked into family life again, seeing fifteen-year-old Emma's new vulnerability, Ellen's priorities had shifted back to where they'd been for the last ten years. The familiar realities of Cornwall meant their seven-week affair had taken on the strange insubstantiality of a dream. If she didn't know better, she could almost believe she had imagined the whole thing. Every night, lying with her eyes shut, she had tried to conjure Oliver's face onto the back of her lids, but she could never hold it there. No sooner had she pieced his features together than they floated apart again. The intensity of their passion was just as elusive. She could remember what they had done together but it was more like an out-of-body experience, watching herself having the hottest sex of her life but without being able to call up the emotions that went with it. Without the reality of his presence, she had slipped back into her perennial role of daughter-in-law and mother, where she always came second.

Suddenly there he was. Ellen's heart did a somersault. He pushed his way through the crowd to her and almost swept her off her feet, so big was the bear hug, so intense the kiss. 'God! I've been longing to do that.' His smile was broad. 'I can't wait to get you home. The car's this way.' He took her case and led her out of the station. 'So, was it a success?' The words tumbled from his mouth with the excitement of seeing her again.

She tucked her arm into his, happy to be able to touch him again. 'Terrific. The kids are on great form, having the usual brilliant time with their cousins. They were glad to see the back of me for another week!'

'I'm sure they weren't.'

'Not really. But they were definitely pleased not to be coming back to London just yet. I wish you could have come with me.'

'But there was something I wanted to do here. I had the idea a few weeks ago and your being away gave me the perfect opportunity.'

'Why won't you tell me what it was?' He had been peculiarly mysterious about what he'd been doing in her absence. She hoped he was about to surprise her with news of a job.

'Wait and see.'

During the journey home, she regaled him with descriptions of the artists she had met, where they lived and the pieces she'd seen. Uncle Sidney had rarely expanded his existing stable of artists except by recommendation but she had soon developed a nose for the sort of pictures that the gallery could sell and believed that by widening their roster they would attract new customers. Oliver didn't offer much conversation in return but listened, occasionally asking the odd question, his hand on her knee whenever he could put it there safely.

Her stories were only interrupted by his swearing whenever a light changed against them or thudding his fist on the steering-wheel when another driver got in his way. Ellen pretended not to notice these squalls of unnecessary temper and just carried on talking.

When they arrived home, Oliver switched off the engine and turned to her, taking her face in both hands and kissing her deeply.

'Let's go in.' Ellen reached for the door handle.

'Hang on a minute! There's something I need to tell you.'

She stopped and looked at him. 'What?'

'It's your birthday next week, isn't it?'

'You know it is. We talked about going to the theatre. Why? Have you got tickets for something?'

'No.' He looked as if he was about to burst with excitement. 'But I have got you a surprise.'

'Don't say that. I'll be dying with curiosity for the next four days.'

'No, you won't. Let's go in. I just wanted to . . . well, warn you.'

'OK. Consider me warned.' Ellen got out of the car and ran up the steps. 'I love coming home. More than ever now that you're here. And we've got one whole week to ourselves.' She turned and put her key in the lock, immediately feeling guilty for taking pleasure in her children's absence.

'Hang on. Let me go first.' He edged past her. 'Let me take your bag upstairs. Then, while you freshen up, I'll go down and crack open the bottle of champagne.'

Having washed and changed from her jeans into her loose navy silk trousers and a beaded pink Indian kurtee that he had once said he liked, she came down the stairs into the kitchen. A slice of evening sunshine came through the side window, lighting the darkened room. Oliver gave her a chilled glass of champagne before leading her to the kitchen table.

'Mmm. What a welcome. Why don't we go out into the garden? It's a beautiful evening.' Ellen went over to the french windows. 'Why have you got the curtains drawn, anyway?' As she reached out to pull them back, Oliver grabbed her arm, making her spill some champagne. 'Ouch. Careful.'

'Wait a minute, darling.' He pulled her back to the chair, and pushed her down on it. 'Before we do, have a sip, then close your eyes.'

'What? You are funny but OK.' She did as she was told and heard the curtains being pulled back.

'Keep your eyes shut.' Oliver came to stand behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. He took a breath. 'OK. You can open them now.'

As she looked out to the garden, her eyes widened and she gripped the sides of her chair.

'Well?' he said. 'What do you think?' She could hear the note of pride in his voice. 'Happy early birthday, darling.'

'Oh, my God, Oliver. What have you done?'

'Don't you like it?' Ellen could hear the click of his thumb-nail against another.

'I . . . well . . . I . . .' Words failed her.

'It's specially purpose-built so that you can use it as a studio. You said that you always wanted one of your own and now you've got one.'

'But the garden . . .'

'It's a bit of a mess, I know. They had to work so fast to get it finished on time. But there's nothing that can't be tidied up. We can do it together.'

'A mess . . . yes.' Ellen's voice faded.

Outside, her beloved garden that had seen her through her bereavement, providing so much pleasure and comfort over the following ten years, had been destroyed. The small lawn had been trampled over, and no heed given to her precious plants on which she had lavished so much time and attention. Two planks lay on the grass, their ends crushing the scented French lavender. The central bed and the two borders were devastated, the hellebores bent and crushed, her precious shrubs knocked about, her favourite lilac with a broken branch. And at the end, just hiding the greenhouse, stood an enormous new garden shed, painted a deep Scandinavian red. Facing the house were two glass doors through which she could see a skylight illuminating an easel inside.

'Don't you like it?' Oliver's voice came from somewhere miles away. 'The glass is special Pilkington double-glazed so you'll be warm in there, even in the dead of winter. Perhaps I should have asked you. But I was so sure you would.'

Ellen felt as if she had been plunged into a pool of water that was closing over her head. A rushing noise filled her ears as she struggled for breath. Her garden! How could he not have understood how important every plant out there was for her? He had watched her pottering about outside in the evening, dead-heading, straightening wayward stems, picking posies for the dining-table or the bedroom. He had sat beside her in bed while she planned the changes she would make for the new year, experimenting with new planting schemes, outlining a different shape for a flowerbed. He knew how long she spent poring over her plant books, her pencil poised over the graph paper on which she sketched her ideas. She remembered talking about the possibility of putting a tool shed on that bit of hard standing, but she had dismissed the idea in favour of a pergola. The space she had earmarked for it had disappeared under the footprint of his present.

'It's such a shock.' Ellen was desperately searching for something positive to say. After all, his motives had only been the very best. She had sometimes talked about having nowhere to paint but never would she have envisaged a studio at the expense of her garden. She stood up, walked over to the french windows and stared out.

Oliver put his arm round her waist. 'I know. The garden. I didn't imagine it would take such a battering or that the studio would look so big. I was stupid not to see that.'

She twisted to face him, wishing the extra four or five pounds that had effortlessly slid on while she was away would disappear instead of organising themselves exactly where his hand lay. 'But how could you afford it?' The words came out before she could stop them.

'I maxed out my last credit card and made up the difference by selling Starship the day you left for Cornwall. I looked through your customer index and phoned that collector, Dan Frost.' He smiled, pleased with his own ingenuity. 'He was thrilled to have the opportunity to buy another Caroline Fowler and gave me a very good price for it.'

'You sold Starship?' she repeated. How could he have sold the picture that had brought them together and go through her confidential papers to do so? She backed away from him, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was protecting herself.

'But you don't mind, do you?' He seemed surprised by her reaction. 'Didn't you give it to me? And I made sure I found it a good home.'

'Well, yes, of course I did. But I thought it would mean more to you than that,' she mumbled, not caring how petty she sounded.

'Well, it did when you gave it to me, of course. But then I had the idea of doing this for you, and selling the painting was the only way I could afford to. It's just a picture, after all . . . Have I made a terrible mistake?'

The anxiety in his voice made it impossible for her to say yes. 'No, of course not.' She tried to sound happy and failed miserably. Her present, the painting that she'd believed he appreciated for its beauty as much as she did, had been 'just a picture' to him. In exchange for something that held so much significance for her, she had been given this shed. She swallowed. 'I just need a bit of time to . . . well, to get used to it.'

'You'll feel better once you've been inside.' His excitement had returned.

They picked their way across the garden to the door. He passed her a key on a loop of red ribbon. 'Happy birthday.'

'You open it, darling.' She didn't want him to see her hands shaking. As the door slid to one side, she saw how he had prepared for her. The sun lit up the pale cream walls and the scrubbed wooden floor, illuminating the few pieces of furniture that Oliver had provided.

'I picked up the plan chest on eBay. Look, it's perfect for you.' He pulled open the top drawer. 'I've put all your paperwork from the gallery in here so you've got somewhere to keep it rather than spreading it all over the house.' But that was how she liked to work, she objected silently. 'There's watercolour paper in the drawer underneath and you can put all your sketches in the others. Come over here.' From one of the two shelves on the wall, he took a small cardboard box containing tubes of watercolour paint. She took them from him so he could reach for the jam jar that he'd stuffed with various paintbrushes. 'I didn't really know what you'd want but they told me in the art shop that these should be enough to get you started. Well?' He was looking at her with such expectation, she couldn't possibly disappoint him. How much he must love her to do all this in secret. Just for her. 'I really am sorry about the garden.' He sounded so forlorn.

'We can fix that.' She found words at last. 'And, well, I have always wanted a studio of my own.'

She rifled through the paints, delighting in their colours. She twisted the top off the cadmium red and squeezed it until paint oozed from the end. That small action was enough to bring back hours spent in her studio space at art school. She began to feel more positive. Oliver was giving her the chance to reclaim a lost part of herself. And they really could fix the garden.

'Are you sure it's all right?' He still sounded doubtful.

'Of course.' And, at that moment, she almost was. 'The garden could do with a bit of a rethink and this gives me the opportunity to do it.' Standing there, surrounded by what he'd done for her, she felt an enormous rush of love for him. She wrapped her arms round his neck and they kissed, long and hard, until they pulled apart breathless, Ellen once again bowled over by the intensity of her feelings.

Oliver looked down at her. 'There is one more thing.'

'You've spoilt me enough.' She didn't think she could take any more.

'I thought we could put the sofa-bed from the playroom in here too so you've got somewhere to sit and think. Oh, and I forgot to show you these.' He bent down and, from behind the chest, he pulled a small electric travelling kettle, two Tate Gallery mugs and a small jar of Gold Blend. 'Coffee?'

'You know what, Oliver Shepherd?'

'What?'

'You've thought of everything. I do love you.'

'That's all I wanted to hear. Shall we go back inside? Or will you be resuming your artistic career straight away?'

'Mmm. Tempting. But I think I'll wait till tomorrow, if that's all right with you.'

'Perfectly. Since the kids are away, I've got other plans for us anyway.'

'I was hoping you might have something in mind.' She followed him back to the house, forcing herself to look away from the destruction around them.

Much later that night, woken by Oliver's rhythmic but insistent snoring, Ellen tiptoed downstairs and sat in the kitchen cradling a mug of hot milk. With the lights off, she could still see the huge hulk of the shed dominating the garden. She didn't need to remind herself of the damage its installation had caused. Her excitement at having a place to paint had waned, only for her first reaction to return: dismay. Her life was already so busy with the house, the business, the children and, now, Oliver that she couldn't imagine a time when she'd ever use the shed. If she had wanted to paint badly enough, wouldn't she have found somewhere to do it years earlier? What she wanted was actually to enjoy her garden again, to watch her plants grow. She wished the bloody shed was gone. But that would only cause more damage and, worse, it would be like a gigantic slap in Oliver's face. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

But now, the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How could he have sold the painting? she asked herself again, still not quite able to believe he had. How dare he ruin her garden? What had made him think he could do whatever he wanted to her home? Even though he would be living there one day, he wasn't sharing it yet. What was he thinking of, spending what little credit he had left on her while she was paying his rent? But, she had to remind herself, the point was that he had done it for her. It was an act of love wasn't it? She heard the slap of his bare feet on the stairs.

'Ellen? Are you there?'

'In here.'

'What are you doing? Aren't you freezing?'

'Just thinking.' As he entered the room, he looked so tense, so vulnerable. All he had been trying to do was please her. Her anger disappeared. Him being there made all the difference. His presence gave her a feeling of security and a sense of being loved that obliterated everything else. This was what she'd been missing for years.

'Penny for them.'

'Nothing, really.' She drained her mug and stood up. 'Just being silly. You know what it's like in the middle of the night when everything seems worse than it is.'