“Which is when?”

“Oh… January, February time. Depends what I can get.”

“You’d better not go to some hospital in Scotland or something,” said Georgia. “Not until after the concert, anyway.”

“Right now Scotland looks quite appealing,” said Emma with a sigh. “Far away from London as possible, that’s what I want.”

She didn’t tell Georgia why, and Georgia didn’t ask. She could see something was hurting Emma a lot, and equally that she didn’t want to talk about it. Which usually meant in Georgia’s experience that she’d been dumped. Men were such idiots. Who’d dump someone as lovely as Emma?

The days when Alex mooded around, as Emma put it, and shouted were the days when he was undergoing severe anxieties over his relationship with Linda. She was gorgeous, she was sexy, she seemed really to care about him; on the other hand he had vowed he would not enter another relationship with anyone who didn’t totally understand the demands of his career and profession. Linda might understand them, but she was hardly going to give them priority. If it came to a conflict between a first night or a major audition, and a dinner with other doctors and their wives, the dinner would not win. They had already had a couple of run-ins over a South African trip, funded by a pharmaceutical company, which she’d persuaded him to accept. Having promised to be totally accommodating with the spousal programme-“I cannot believe there are things called that”-she had said there was no way she was going to go on a boat trip to Robben Island-where Nelson Mandela had been imprisoned-without him, or go on what she called an obscene trip to one of the townships.

“Patronising, utterly ghastly, I wouldn’t even contemplate it.”

“I seem to remember your saying that the tourist trade benefited the country.”

“I’m sure it does. I just don’t think sitting in an air-conditioned car and looking graciously around a series of shantytowns benefits the inhabitants very much. I’m not going to go, Alex, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Linda, you seem to be embarking on this trip in a rather different spirit from what you’d promised. I really don’t think it’s viable on this basis, and I don’t see how we can go.”

“Alex, that’s crap.”

“It is not crap. I said I didn’t like any of it in principle, that I never had, and you talked me round…”

“I did not talk you round!”

“Oh, really? I seem to remember a lot of talk about how it wouldn’t help anyone, my sulking in Swindon, while someone else went in my place…”

“I do dislike the way you play back everything I say to you. All right, then let’s not go. Let’s not do anything nice. You jut sit in your bed-sit and contemplate your navel.”

“I think I’d prefer to do that than see you alienating everyone on the trip. Not just your hosts, but the other wives.”

“I’ll be delighted to alienate the other wives. If they’re the sort of people who enjoy a lot of patronising garbage by way of a meal ticket…”

He’d left at that, without another word, too angry for twenty-four hours even to return her dozen or so missed calls. Finally she’d texted him:

VV sorry, totally wrong on this, need bottom smacked. xxx

Alex had replied that he would perform the smacking in person that Saturday; it had all blown over; she had meekly agreed to do everything on the spousal programme-“even the shopping trip”-but it had left him worried. Not just about the trip, but about Linda’s whole attitude. He was beginning to be afraid that she wasn’t going to be a supportive consort; the whole incident had illustrated that.

And what about the children; how was she going to cope with them? He needed a proper base, a real home, and a decent setup, in order to be able to claim their time and attention to any degree. Not to be haring up to Marylebone at every available opportunity to see a mistress who was hardly likely to welcome him with two inevitably awkward children in tow. A mistress, moreover, who would not in two dozen years consider moving to Swindon…

It couldn’t work; it was impossible-and the fact that he enjoyed her so much and for so much of the time was depressing in itself.

Dear Mr. Grainger,

I hope you don’t mind my writing to you out of the blue, but a friend suggested that you might be able to help in some way, however small.

I’m hoping you will get this safely and that I’ve got the right address; I looked up Grainger in the directory and your farm was definitely in the right place: if you see what I mean!

My name is Georgia Linley, and I’m the girl you met wandering round your property on the day of the M4 crash last August. You were very kind to me, and I hope I wasn’t rude!

I know you were incredibly helpful to everybody that day-allowed the air ambulance to land on your field, and brought water for people to drink, and did all sorts of other kind things-so I’m hoping you’ll feel sufficiently interested to read on!

I am trying to organise a fund-raising concert in aid of the crash victims and their families, many of whom are still in considerable difficulties. I have the support of several people at St. Marks Hospital in Swindon, where the injured were all taken; I could let you have names there, if you’re wanting to check my credentials.

Patrick Connell and his family have all become good friends of mine. He was the lorry driver who was at the forefront of the crash, and who had given me a lift that day. He was very badly injured, and can’t work at the moment; he’s just an example of one of the many deserving causes.

We are setting up a charity, in order to make sure that everything is done properly and in a businesslike way. If you log onto crashconcert.linley.com you can check that as well.

Several musicians have already expressed an interest-nobody very grand yet, I’m afraid-but until we have a venue, we can’t get a great deal further, and that is proving the biggest obstacle so far.

I wondered if you would be willing to contribute anything, however small, to our setting-up fund; and in due course, obviously, to bring as many people to the concert as possible.

We’re also looking for a sponsor: any suggestions in that area would be hugely helpful.

Yours sincerely,

Georgia Linley (Ms.)

William sat staring at the letter, concerned not so much with helping Ms. Linley, who sounded rather engaging, and whom he remembered as being extremely pretty, or even with the unfortunate crash victims, who were undoubtedly a very good cause, but wondering if this was a second enormous nudge on the part of the Almighty in the direction of his reestablishing a relationship with Abi. If so, then he should surely respond-before the Almighty gave up on him altogether.

Abi had been at work when he rang.

“Hello, Abi. You all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. You?”

“Absolutely fine. Abi, I’ve had an idea. Well, I’ve had a letter, actually.”

“Well… which? Or is it a letter with an idea?”

“Um… bit of both.”

“Hmm. Hard to guess this one, William. Film, book, play…”

“What?”

“Charades. Didn’t you ever play charades?”

“Few times. Yes, I see what you mean. Well… what’s the sign for concert?”

“There isn’t one. William, do spit it out. Please.”

William spat it out.

Three days later, Georgia arrived in the location house, breathless and flushed. “Is Merlin here? Or Anna?”

“Anna’s in Makeup,” said Mo. “Don’t know where Merlin is.” Georgia hared up the stairs to the bedroom that doubled as Makeup.

“Anna, Anna, listen to this; it’s amazing, totally amazing. I think we’ve got our venue!”