I didn't tell her that a few months ago I had been fighting for my life in a Birmingham hospital and, at the time, the business news hadn't been very high on my agenda.

"We were the biggest plastic-drainpipe manufacturer in Europe."

"Really," I said, trying to keep myself from yawning.

"Yes," she said, incorrectly sensing some interest on my part. "We made white, gray or black drainpipe in continuous lengths. Mile after mile of it."

"Thank goodness for rain," I said, but she didn't get the joke.

As soon as I was able, and without appearing too rude, I managed to stem the tide of plastic drainpipe from my left, turning more eagerly towards Julie on my right.

"So, how many horses does Ewen train?" I asked her, as we tucked in to lasagna and garlic bread. "He never did tell me."

"About sixty," she said. "But it's getting more all the time. We're no longer really big enough at home, so we are looking to buy the Webster place."

"Webster place?" I asked.

"You must know, on the hill off the Wantage Road. Old Larry Webster used to train there, but he dropped down dead a couple of years ago now. It's been on the market for months and months. Price is too high, I reckon, and it needs a lot doing to it. Ewen's dead keen to open another yard, but I'd rather stay the size we are." She sighed. "Ewen says we're too small, but the truth is, he's not very good at saying no to new owners." She smiled wearily.

"He's lucky in the current economic climate to have the option," I said.

"I know," she agreed. "Lots of trainers are having troubles. I hear it all the time from their wives at the races."

"Do you go racing a lot?" I asked.

"Not as much as I once did," she said. "Ewen is always so busy these days that I never see him like I used to, either at the races or at home."

She sighed again. Clearly, success had not brought happiness, at least not for Mrs. Yorke.

"But enough about me. Tell me about you." She turned in her chair to give me her full attention, and a much better view of her ample cleavage. Ewen should spend more time with her, I thought, both at home and at the races, or he might soon find her straying.

"Not much to tell," I said.

"Now, come on. You must have lots of stories."

"None that I'd be happy to repeat," I said.

"Go on," she said, putting her hand on my arm. "You can tell me." She fluttered her eyelashes at me. It made me think that it was probably already too late for Ewen, far too late.

Isabella insisted that everyone move around after the lasagna and so, in spite of Julie Yorke's best efforts, I escaped her advances before they became too obvious, but not before she'd had the shock of her life trying to play footsie under the table with my prosthesis.

"My God! What's that?" she had exclaimed, but quietly, almost under her breath.

And so I'd been forced to explain about the IED and all the other things I would have preferred to keep confidential.

Far from turning her off, the idea of a man with only one leg had seemed to excite her yet further. She had become even more determined to invade my privacy with intimate questions that I was seriously not prepared to answer.

As soon as Isabella suggested it, I was quick and happy to move seats, opting to sit between Jackson Warren and another man at the second table.

I'd had my fill of the female of the species for one night.

"So how long have you been back?" Jackson asked me as I sat down.

"In Lambourn?" I asked.

"From Afghanistan."

"Four months," I said.

"In hospital?" he asked.

I nodded. Isabella must have told him.

"In hospital?" the man on my other side asked.

"Yes," I said. "I was wounded."

He looked at me and was clearly waiting for me to expand on my answer. As far as I was concerned, he was waiting in vain.

"Tom, here, lost a foot," Jackson said, filling the silence.

It felt as though I'd jumped out of one frying pan and into another.

"Really," said the man with astonishment. "Which one?"

"Does it matter?" I asked with obvious displeasure.

"Er… er…" He was suddenly uncomfortable, and I sat silently, doing nothing to relieve his embarrassment. "No," he said finally, "I suppose not."

It mattered to me.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down and intently studying his dessert plate of chocolate mousse with brandy snaps and cream.

I nearly asked him if he was sorry for my losing a foot or sorry for asking me which one I'd lost, but it was Jackson I should have been really cross with, for mentioning it in the first place.

"Thank you," I said. I paused. "It was my right foot."

"It's amazing," he said, looking up at my face. "I watched you walk over here just now and I had no idea."

"Prosthetic limbs have come a long way since the days of Long John Silver," I said. "There were some at the rehab center who could run up stairs two at a time."

"Amazing," he said again.

"I'm Tom Forsyth," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he replied. "Alex Reece. Good to meet you."

We shook hands in the awkward manner of people sitting alongside each other. He was a small man in his thirties, with thinning ginger hair and horn-rimmed spectacles of the same color. He was wearing a navy cardigan over a white shirt, and brown flannel trousers.

"Are you a trainer too?" I asked.

"Oh no," he said with a nervous laugh. "I haven't a clue about horses. In fact, to tell you the truth, I'm rather frightened of them. I'm an accountant."

"Alex, here," Jackson interjected, "keeps my hard-earned income out of the grasping hands of the tax man."

"I try," Alex said with a smile.

"Legally?" I asked, smiling back.

"Of course legally," said Jackson, feigning annoyance.

"The line between avoidance, which is legal, and evasion, which isn't, can sometimes be somewhat blurred,"Alex said, ignoring him.

"And what exactly is that meant to mean?" demanded Jackson, the simulated irritation having been replaced by the real thing.

"Nothing," Alex said, backpedaling furiously, and again embarrassed. "Just that sometimes what we believe is avoidance may be seen as evasion by the Revenue." Alex Reece was digging himself deeper into the hole.

"And who is right?" I asked, enjoying his discomfort.

"We are," Jackson stated firmly. "Aren't we, Alex?" he insisted.

"It is the courts who ultimately decide who's right," Alex said, clearly oblivious to the thinness of the thread by which his employment was dangling.

"In what way?" I asked.

"We put in a return based on our understanding of the tax law," he said, seemingly unaware of Jackson's staring eyes to my left. "If the Revenue challenge that understanding, they might demand that we pay more tax. If we then challenge their challenge and refuse to pay, they have to take us to court, and then a jury will decide whose interpretation of the law is correct."

"Sounds simple," I said.

"But it can be very expensive," Alex said. "If you lose in court, you will end up paying far more than the tax you should have paid in the first place, because they will fine you on top. And, of course, the court has the power to do more than just take away your money. They can also send you to prison if they think you were trying to evade paying tax on purpose. To say nothing of what else the Revenue might turn up with their digging. It's a risk we shouldn't take."

"Are you trying to tell me something, Alex?" Jackson asked angrily, leaning over me and pointing his right forefinger at his accountant's face. "Because I'm warning you, if I end up in court I will tell them it was all my accountant's idea."

"What was his idea?" I asked tactlessly.

"Nothing," said Jackson, suddenly realizing he'd said too much.

There was an uncomfortable few moments of silence. The others at the table, who had been listening to the exchange, suddenly decided it was best to start talking amongst themselves again, and turned away.