'Mr Shaw is rarely cross,'comments Craig.

'True, he's lovely,'I comment.

Craig shoots me an inquisitive glance. I realize he's probably aware of Mr Shaw's heart-throb status and I don't want to leave the wrong impression. Mr Walker probably has my name down as some sort of nympho after my inappropriate confessions regarding internet dating. I have to clarify that I don't fancy Mr Shaw, even at the risk of sounding a little overly familiar again.

'It's such a shame he's blond, I prefer dark-haired men,'I add, and then I stare at Craig's thick black hair. I start to blush, what in the world am I thinking of? I'm flirting with the headmaster. Has Daisy been spiking my hot chocolate?

It's peculiar that on a conscious level I know all the reasons Craig is unsuitable as an object of my, shall we say, affection or interest? But if ever I were to have feelings for a man then it would be a man like Mr Walker. No, in truth it would be Craig. I know that he's the boys'headmaster and it would be terrible to have a relationship with him for about a gazillion reasons (as Henry would say). If it didn't work out I'd have to drag the boys out of Holland House and start them at another school. The boys would be devastated to leave Holland House and if it went well the consequences would be just as upsetting for them. They are mortified if a teacher nods to us in Tesco's; they'd be spun straight into therapy if they ever had to deal with seeing Craig eating cornflakes at our breakfast bar. Besides, he's younger than me. And it's not as though he's even hinted that he has any interest in me at all beyond the purely platonic. He wants me to help him find someone on the internet, he sees me as a facilitating cupid. Once he registers I bet he'll be beating off women with a stick; he's attractive, very interesting, moral, decent, kind. I enjoy chatting with Craig.

Oh, OK, I admit it; I fancy the pants off him.

On and off, for the past sixteen nights, I've had erotic dreams about Craig. Me! Erotic dreams! I was so sure that my libido had shrivelled up and turned to dust. Apparently it's just been hibernating. Since I've discovered that he's single I've started to think of him as something other than a headmaster. Something quite other. Last Sat.u.r.day I dreamt that we were picnicking on alpine mountains (innocent enough). One moment I was admiring the view, the next I was b.u.t.t naked and he was eating strawberries off my body. I had to wake myself up. It is so inappropriate to have thoughts like that, even unconscious ones. The thing that disturbed me the most was that I was still a size sixteen, even in my dream, and neither Craig nor I seemed to mind.

On Tuesday I dreamt that we were both in a cla.s.sroom, discussing the boys'school work (with particular emphasis on the s.p.a.ce topic that Sebastian is so excited about right now). One moment we are sitting on those silly cla.s.sroom chairs that are designed for diddy men and the next we are rolling around on the story carpet, b.u.t.t naked. In reality, sitting on those chairs is one of the most fearful moments of my life and the main reason I dread parents'meetings. For a start, as I ease into the chair, I always fear I'll break it. Then, once I am in it, there is no way to get out. Even Houdini would struggle. When I stand up the chair is always clasped to my bottom and I have to back out of the cla.s.sroom. But in my dream there was no sign of that potential embarra.s.sment and humiliation. I felt comfortable.

On Wednesday I dreamt we were climbing trees, b.u.t.t naked. On Thursday I dreamt we were swimming in a lagoon, b.u.t.t naked. Do you see a theme? Last night I wasn't bothering to wake myself up. I reasoned that yes, the dreams are inappropriate but what harm? No one knows what I'm thinking I keep my silly fantasies to myself. I might as well enjoy them and they are so very, very enjoyable.

I look at Craig. The fine mist of drizzle has settled all over his coat, gla.s.ses and hair. But instead of looking gloomy and damp he looks iridescent. He's staring at me with mild amus.e.m.e.nt and a slightly quizzical grin. I don't believe he is laughing at me he's not the sort to do that. I always feel very secure and snug in Craig's company, as my b.u.t.t-naked dreams testify. I lock those thoughts away in a big treasure chest and then mentally bury them under fifty foot of sand. I search for something neutral to say.

'Wasn't it glorious weather yesterday? Who would have thought it would turn out so cold today? I love bright autumnal days like yesterday, don't you?'

'It's my favourite kind of weather,'agrees Craig.

'I mowed the lawn. I hope that tides me over for the winter now. Although it's a job I rather enjoy, especially when it's bright.'

'There's nothing like the smell of fresh air combined with newly cut gra.s.s, is there?'he says.

'Absolutely delicious. Makes me feel young. Foolish thought, although not an illusion I rush to push away.'Craig smiles, but he can't fully understand; after all, he is young. 'Make believe, now and again, is a marvellous thing. Isn't it?'I add. I grin to myself. If only he knew.

I spot my family and quicken my pace, as I'm always in a hurry to be with them. However, while I'm delighted to see them, they are not all similarly pleased to see Craig and me. The boys are mortified that I've brought the headmaster over to socialize and glare at me for a minute or two. Luckily, Auriol and Fran are too young to be intimidated and after a short time they encourage the boys to concentrate on twirling sparklers. Connie also seems somewhat abashed by Craig joining us. I put this down to new-mum-at-school syndrome. She'll be desperate to give the right impression (interested, proactive parent but not too pushy). She stays very quiet and holds Luke's hand throughout. Daisy doesn't see anything other than a fellow professional and someone to talk curriculums with, and so manages to desist from asking Craig if he has any designs on me. We write our names with sparklers, visit the hall of mirrors and have a go at knocking the coconuts off their perches. All too quickly time speeds by; Connie and Luke say they have to get the girls home and Daisy offers to take the boys home for me and put them to bed so I can stay behind and help with the clear-up. Craig and I find ourselves paired off, dismantling the toffee-apple carts so that they can go into the van conveniently. It's notable that most of the other committee members have scuttled home, skiving off the heavy work.

'I'd have put money on the fact that it would be you and me left with the clean-up,'comments Craig. He's smiling as he says it and doesn't seem to mind too much, although his nose is red with cold and he isn't wearing gloves so his fingers must be raw with the bitter temperatures.

'At least we know that the equipment will be returned to the hire company clean and in good condition. We'll be ent.i.tled to a return of our deposit,'I say.

'You're very conscientious, aren't you, Rose?'

'Yes, always have been. We're made the way we're made, don't you think?'

'I'm not sure. That sounds quite fatalistic. I believe in choice. Don't you think we make our own choices?'

'Yes, but usually in ignorance,'I laugh. 'The thing is I'm a swot, can't help myself. I'm programmed that way. I always impressed the teachers at school.'

'I bet you did.'

'To avoid alienating my cla.s.smates I would sometimes throw the odd question, and while I desisted from sleeping with boys to curry favour, I was prepared to let them copy my homework.'

'Very sensible,'laughs Craig. 'I was just the same. Well, not that I considered sleeping with boys to curry favour.'He blushes as he makes the joke. 'I just hung out with the cool guys and did their homework for them. I was first-generation university.'

'Me too, a dubious honour. Parents so proud '

'Lecturers so unimpressed.'

We laugh at the shared experience. I don't know if it's because there is smoke in the air (that is somehow intoxicating) or whether it is the belief, real or imagined, that Craig understands me which prompts me to add, 'Sometimes I wish I could rewrite my youth.'Craig looks alarmed. I rush to rea.s.sure him. 'Not major decisions. I'd still marry Peter and have the twins but I'd do some things a little differently.'

'Like what?'

'I'd have been cooler, less eager to please. There are at least half a dozen major occasions when I'd have worn something different, including my wedding day. I'd have worked a bit harder at learning to swim.'

Craig empathizes. 'I'd have faked an interest in football at school. That would have saved me a lot of hardship.'

'I'd have told Phil Hawood I loved him.'

'Who's Phil Hawood?'

'My childhood sweetheart. He was a rare soul, someone who knew what he wanted from a very early age. He wanted to settle down, have a family, be happy. I wasn't a very decent girlfriend to him. I was too immature to deal with his foresight.'

'What happened to him?'

'He settled down with someone else, had a family and is happy,'I say with an accepting shrug.

'Oh.'

'Well, there are certain men who are the falling in love type and the woman they fall in love with is largely irrelevant.'

Craig chuckles. 'I wish I was one of those types.'

'Still, Phil Hawood was my hope throughout my divorce. Not that I thought I'd meet him and tear him away from his wife and family or anything crazy like that, you understand I know when a ship has sailed. It was just that knowing that once upon a time someone loved me very much, well, it was comforting. It seemed reasonable to believe that one day someone would love me in that way again.'

'I'm sure they will, Rose,'Craig says with an encouraging smile.

I grin back at him. 'Oh, I hope so, because if my sister has her way I'm likely to die trying.'

Craig checks his watch. 'd.a.m.n.'He glances around the field.

'What's up?'

'I wanted you to meet my friends and I think they might have gone. They've probably sloped off to a pub.'

I grin like a helpless teenager, thrilled with the thought that Craig wanted to introduce me to his friends.

'I particularly wanted you to meet Tom and Jen. The thing is, they are getting married next weekend and I wondered 'Craig breaks off mid-sentence and looks to the sky. I follow his gaze. Has a final lone firework caught his eye? I can't see anything. 'And I wondered if you'd like to come with me. To the wedding. I'm best man, you see, and I haven't got a date. I think it should be a lovely wedding. It's in a sixteenth-century chapel, right in the heart of the City. Beautiful building, very interesting structurally, and the reception is at...'

'Yes.'

'Sorry?'

'Yes, I'd love to accompany you,'I say with a grin.

'Oh good, I wasn't sure...'

'What time?'

'I'll pick you up at 10 a.m.'

'Hats?'

'Sorry?'

'What's the dress code?'

'Yes, hats, I think. I'll be in a morning suit.'

'Lovely. It's a date then.'

'A date,'Craig confirms.

The thing is, I can list a thousand reasons why it's a terrible idea for me to date my sons'headmaster and they are all rational, reasonable, logical thoughts. But the counter-argument for why I should date him is overwhelming.

He's lovely.

Fireworks are magical.

34.

Thursday 9 November

Lucy

'So, Lucy, what's your excuse tonight?'

'Excuse?'I beam at Mick and pretend I don't catch his drift.

'Well, you are unlikely to be gracing us with your presence at the fabulous office party, even though there will be free champagne and it's being held at the oh-so-tomorrow, miserably hip Wasp bar. So I just wondered what excuse you are going to plead. Lack of babysitter? Headache? Tired?'

'I'm coming,'I say with a smile.

He can't hide his surprise. 'You're coming?'

'Certainly am. Said I would, didn't I? Anyway, the vast majority of the profits that Ralph is celebrating are thanks to me. I deserve a gla.s.s of champagne.'

'I have to disagree about the vast majority.'

I stare at Mick and then concede. 'True. You've done your share. But the point is, rest a.s.sured, I'm coming.'

'Good news,'says Mick with his cheeky grin.

I need some sort of distraction, and although I have no intention of having a quick grope in the stationery cupboard, making photocopies of my a.s.s, drunkenly insulting my boss or any other traditional office party antics, I cannot spend another night alone in that house in Holland Park. When I say alone, I mean with Auriol, but being with a child is just like being alone but with the misery of having to play Buckaroo. Peter is as busy as ever. I'm trying not to be paranoid; I'm resisting the thought that he's avoiding me. He's been out every night since the disastrous Hallowe'en party. Annoyingly, he's just called to say that his dinner tonight has been cancelled and he is now free. He asked me to give my office party a miss. He even suggested we go to n.o.bu, my favourite haunt. While I was tempted, I felt unable to agree to his proposal. I don't want to turn into one of those women who makes herself available at the drop of a hat. Such behaviour didn't do Rose any favours, did it?

'I'm glad you're coming, we can get silly on the dance floor,'says Mick with a smile.

'I don't do silly on the dance floor,'I remind him.

'Only kids care about being cool, Princess.'Mick flings out the comment with flippancy but it feels like he's punched me. He winks at me and walks away.

I'm too old to be cool. He thinks I'm old, he said so. He pretty much told me to start dancing to the Agadoo at parties. I seethe.

I catch sight of the box of six bottles of champagne that are secreted under my desk, a client thank-you for the tens of thousands of pounds I've helped make his company this year. It arrived last week and I stashed it away, all but forgetting about it. I could do with some instant cheer. It's only 4 p.m., but the atmosphere is unusually flippant. Many traders are still enjoying lunch and the majority of PAs have spent the last hour or so in the bathrooms trying on new outfits. Others have spent the entire afternoon at the hairdresser's it depends on their level of seniority. It's accepted that an office party in November signals the start of Christmas festivities. The hunting season has begun. Most PAs in the City only put up with the year-round arrogance and the crippling work schedules because their long-term aim is to marry their boss. The office party is a very risky occasion for wives sitting at home and a ma.s.s of opportunities for the next crop of bright young beauties.

My PA, Julia, is not at the hairdresser's or preening in the loo. She does not want to marry me. In truth she rarely wants to look at me; she got the short straw when HR were dealing out the roles. I demand a lot from my team, but not as much as I demand from myself, so I'm not unreasonable; still, I think she'd prefer to be working for a fat guy. Yet it is a party to say thank-you to staff and Julia is quietly efficient; she deserves a thank-you. I instruct her to dig out the champagne flutes and I pop open a bottle of champagne.

'Julia, you know, you can be really funny.'

I drape my arm around Julia's neck. We are both finding our high heels a little trickier to walk in than usual. We stumble down the corridors and towards the lift. Luckily, we are late for the party and no one is around to witness the spectacle we are making. I really don't know where the time's gone, we were having such a giggle. The floor is empty now, except for Vic, the Puerto Rican guy who vacs the carpets. I give him the three remaining bottles of champagne because I can't be bothered to carry them home. I warn Julia that if she tells anyone else I'll sack her. I can't have people speculating that I have a soft underbelly.

'You can be nice and funny, Lucy. How come I've never noticed before?'Julia starts to giggle. 'Normally I think you are so scary. But you're a sweetheart.'

Even though we've drunk over a bottle of champagne each and I'm close to getting off my face, I'm not off the planet. I'm no sweetheart. Still, if it makes Julia happier coming into work thinking that perhaps I'm not a Cla.s.s A b.i.t.c.h, then who am I to burst her bubble? We are not the first to discover that a couple of bottles of Bolly can forge a convincing, if short-term, friendship. Besides, we're both learning new things about one another. Julia is hilarious. She can do amazing impressions of just about anyone on the trading floor.

'Your impressions are really, really witty and really, really amusing and really, really cutting.'My G.o.d, I think I just slurred that sentence. Disaster, I'm drunk. I must be. I'm not being at all articulate. I think I said really about a zillion times in that last sentence and really there are other words I could have used, really impressive ones like...especially. Now that's a really, really good word.

'Do your impression of me.'

'I don't have one of you, Lucy,'says Julia.

'Liar.'

She bursts into giggles as we finally stumble into the lift. I prop myself up on the back wall and Julia stabs around the b.u.t.ton that will take us to the ground floor and our waiting taxi. She seems to be having trouble with her aim.

'You'll sack me, if you see my impression of you,'she laughs.

'It must be good then,'I comment. We both collapse into fits of giggles again, but Julia knows that I may be friendly tonight but I'll be sober in the morning. I'll never get to see the impression.

We arrive at Wasp at about 9 p.m. I can't believe this place has been open six months and this is my first visit. I remember a time when I used to go to the opening-night party of every trendy bar and delicious eatery in London. I was a face the columnists expected and wanted to see.