She heard footsteps, heard the door being unbolted, watched it open, found herself looking at a grey-haired woman wearing a white apron. She smiled at them.

“Good morning, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Salter. This is Mrs. Bristow. She’d like to see the house, if that’s OK.”

“Of course. Come in, Mrs. Bristow.”

The hall was big and square, with a slate floor; a wide, curving staircase rose from it, with a tall window on the turn. There was a drawing room, with tall windows and wooden shutters and a huge stone fireplace with a wonderful-smelling wood fire burning; there was a dining room, with another stone fireplace and French windows opening onto a terrace overhung with a rose-bearing pergola; there was a kitchen, with a vast wooden table and a dark green Aga; there was another smaller, very pretty room lined with books; and an even smaller one fitted out with coat hooks and boot racks. Upstairs were the bedrooms, some bigger, some smaller, two bathrooms with large, rather elderly-looking claw-footed baths and two rather thronelike lavatories, set in mahogany bench seats; after a while Mary ran out of polite, appreciative things to say and just smiled. It was an easy house to smile in; it contained an atmosphere of peace and happiness.

Finally, Mrs. Salter said she expected they would like some coffee and that, now the sun had come out, it might be nicer if they had it in the morning room… This turned out to be the book-lined one. “And would you like some biscuits or something, Mrs. Bristow? I’ve just made a lemon drizzle cake.”

Mary said coffee would be lovely and there was nothing she liked more than lemon drizzle cake. Russell ushered her into the morning room and she sat down in one of the deep armchairs by the fireplace and looked at him.

“Like it?” he said.

“I absolutely love it. It’s beautiful. The sort of house you see in illustrations in old books. But… whose is it?”

“I’m so glad you feel like that. I thought you probably would, but one can never be sure.” He paused. “And if you really like it, Little Sparrow, then”-he paused, smiled at her, blew her a kiss across the room-“then it’s yours.”

“Is that Emma? The Emma? The Dr. King Emma?”

“It is indeed. And is that Barney? The Barney? The banker Barney?”

This was another code; there was another Emma at the hospital who worked in A &E reception, and the Barney had grown out of that.

“It is indeed. How are you; what have you been doing?”

“Um… let me see. Stitched up a little boy’s foot; set an old lady’s arm; given an old man an enema…”

“All right, all right, too much information. When can I see you?”

“Um… I’ve got Thursday off. And Friday, actually. All day.”

“Friday all day? Jesus. There’s a temptation.”

She waited. Then he said, “OK. I can swing the afternoon. I’ll be down around… oh, I don’t know, two.”

“Call me when you’re near.”

“I will. And you think of something we can do…”

“Barney! So much.”

“OK, OK, but where to do it.”

“Er… my bed?”

“You’re on. Oh, God. I mustn’t even start thinking about it. Bye, the Emma.”

“Bye, the Barney!”

“You are extremely inconvenient, you know,” he said to her now, as they sat in her lumpy, dishevelled bed in her dingy bedroom, having had some extremely wonderful sex, and drinking the champagne he had produced from his laptop bag.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. But there I was, thinking I’d got it all sussed, that I knew where I was going, and how and when, and then along came you, and just blew it all up in the air.”

“Is there anything I can do to make myself less inconvenient?” she said.

“No, I’m afraid not. It’s the fact of you that’s inconvenient. Not you. You are… well, you’re pretty convenient. In yourself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You suit me absolutely perfectly. You couldn’t possibly be even point nought nought nought per cent better for me.”

“Nor you for me.”

“You’re worth it all,” he said, suddenly very serious, “all the chaos, all the problems we’re going to have. In fact, if you were more convenient, I probably wouldn’t realise the worth of you nearly so well. I’d just think, ‘Yeah, well, she’s a bit of all right; I’d like a bit of that,’ and you’d just be easy. Pure pleasure. Which you are, of course, anyway, but kind of… well, inconveniently. I love you, Emma, so much.”

“I love you, too, Barney. So, so much.”

“Hey, you put an extra so in.”

“Well… how I feel needs an extra so.”

“You mean, you reckon you love me more than I love you? Emma, I love you more than anything I could ever imagine, more than anything else in the world.”

“And I love you more than more than anything else in the world.”

“I like that,” he said, smiling at her, looking like a delighted child. “I like that very much indeed.”

They delighted each other in every possible way. Each found the way the other looked, smiled, talked, thought, absolutely pleasing. Sex for Emma was different with Barney, moving from pure, heady pleasure to something more thoughtful, more emotionally grounded. And she for Barney was an astonishing delight: inventive, fun, tireless.

They both closed their minds-with enormous difficulty-to the thought of the other sex, with the Others. It was something that would end: with the resolution of things.

Which was drawing nearer, meeting by meeting, day by day.

And yet was being held off for a little longer-by Barney at least, and with Emma’s understanding. He had known Amanda for years, had lived with her for over a year; their backgrounds were identical-they had lived the same sort of lives with the same sort of people and, when they met, had found countless friends in common. It was a charmed, closed circle that Emma found herself confronted by; Amanda was protected not only by her relationship with Barney, but by the conventions and mores of its members. Barney would be rejecting not only Amanda, but a large and powerful tribe; it would take great certainty as well as great courage to do so.

He felt in possession of both; but he was still aware of the huge and devastating effect it would have, not only on Amanda and not only on their personal life, but on his professional status and confidence as well.

It would not be easy-in any way at all.

CHAPTER 33

“Is that Georgia?”

“Oh… yes. Yes, it is.”

“ Georgia, this is Merlin Gerard.”

“Who?”

“Merlin Gerard. Second assistant to Bryn Merrick on-”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. Yes, of course, I… I was miles away.”

God. How embarrassing. He must think she was totally brain-dead.

“Look, wardrobe have asked me to get in touch. They want a day with you asap. How are you fixed for Monday. Is that OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Good. If you could be at the Charlotte Street office at… nine thirty?”

“Yes, nine thirty’s fine.”

She’d have to get a very early train. She really must sort out somewhere in London to live.

“I’ll tell them. Thanks, Georgia. And I’ll see you-maybe-next Monday.”

“Might you not be there?”

She shouldn’t have said that. It sounded soppy.

“Possibly not. We’re out looking at houses with the set designer. For filming in. We’ve got a short list of three.”

“Did you actually find them?” There seemed no end to his talents. And importance.

“No, course not,” he said, sounding amused, “the location manager does that sort of thing.”

She put the phone down feeling terrible. Not just because she’d been so pathetic with Merlin, but because it was actually going to start happening now. She’d got to face them, start working with them, and they’d all know she was the awful, cowardly, pathetic girl who’d run away from the crash. They’d probably all been discussing it, calling one another, saying, “Did you see those stories in the paper? She seemed such a nice girl, and all the time…” Oh, God.