At about four o’clock, when the day outside was thickening towards twilight, Beth answered the phone, then muttered something to Frances.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Frances. ‘All right, we’d better go.’ She sat lost in thought for a moment, then looked at me as if she had forgotten my existence. ‘Gwen,’ she said, ‘something’s come up. We’ve got to pop out. Would you mind holding the fort?’

I wouldn’t mind holding the fort. I positively wanted to hold the fort. I waited until the front door closed and I saw them – or, at least, their lower halves – walking past the basement window. Then I jumped up and started to prowl. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be in any of the folders and files I was ploughing through. Maybe in the desk drawers. I yanked the first open and started rummaging among the stationery, finding nothing except envelopes, paper-clips, ink cartridges and Post-its. But in the second I came across two vodka bottles, one empty, the other half full. I sat for a minute or so, considering them, then replaced them and pushed the drawer shut. I turned my attention to the computer. I pinged it on and waited for it to load.

The doorbell rang, making me jolt in my chair, my heart pumping wildly in my chest and my throat suddenly dry. I turned off the computer, watched it count down and go blank. The bell rang again. I licked my lips, smoothed my hair, put on a Gwen-expression of calm inquiry and went to answer it.

The man standing on the step seemed surprised to see me. He was quite small and slim, almost gaunt, and dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt. He had hollow cheeks, quick grey eyes and brown hair that was starting to thin.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Who are you?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Are we going to go on just asking each other questions? Is Frances there? That’s another.’

‘No. I’m helping her out for a bit. I’m Gwen.’

‘Johnny.’ He reached out a hand and I shook it. He didn’t meet my eyes but looked over my shoulder as if he didn’t believe I was on my own. ‘Did Frances forget I was coming?’

‘She’s a bit distracted by everything. She’ll be back soon.’

‘I’ll wait.’

He walked past me, obviously at home in Frances’s office.

‘Do you work with Frances?’ I asked.

‘I sort out most of the food for her.’

‘You don’t look like a chef,’ I said. It came out sounding rather rude.

He looked down at his suit. ‘You think I’m pretending? I’ve been kicked upstairs into management, in line with which I’ve brought her a menu for next week. Do you want to see it?’

‘I’m not really the person to -’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

We sat together on the sofa and he showed me the menu. He told me how to make soufflés in advance; he said he sourced his ingredients locally; he put his hand on my arm; he told me his restaurant was called Zest, his signature dish was stuffed pig’s trotter and I had to pay him a visit there soon; he listened attentively when I spoke; he laughed and looked me in the eye; he called me Gwen with each sentence – ‘… don’t you think, Gwen?’ and ‘I’ll tell you what, Gwen…’ And Gwen flushed with self-consciousness and awkward, complicated pleasure.

When Frances came back, damp with the rain that had started to fall, she looked at the two of us on the sofa with affectionate amusement. ‘I see you haven’t missed me.’ She took off her beautiful coat and threw it on the back of the chair, then kissed him on both cheeks.

‘I always miss you,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been well looked after.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him, gazing at her seriously. ‘You seem worn out, Frances. Are you taking proper care of yourself?’

‘No, but Gwen is,’ she replied, and they smiled at me, warming me with their approval.

Johnny dropped me at the Underground station. He took my hand in both of his and said it had been a real pleasure to meet me and we would certainly see each other again soon. I muttered something in reply, and avoided his bright gaze. Why should I feel guilty because a nice man was flirting with me – or, at least, with me pretending not to be me? After all, I was a free woman, and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me without pity and embarrassment. But I didn’t feel free: I felt that I was still in a relationship with Greg, and that to respond would be, in some perverse sense, a betrayal.

It was dark and drizzly as I walked home from the tube. Puddles glistened under the street-lamps. In a few weeks, it would be the longest night of the year; the days were closing in and Christmas was coming. There were decorations in the shop windows and lights strung between the lamp-posts. I wondered drearily what I would do for Christmas. For a moment, the thought of waking up in my wide bed on Christmas Day, alone, made me gasp with pain. I stopped and put a hand against my heart. I turned into my road and saw my little house ahead of me, with its unlit windows and its soggy, uncared-for front garden.

As I went in I heard my mobile ringing. I saw it was Gwen calling and, for a moment, was confused.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.’

‘Sorry, I’ve been busy.’

‘That’s good. Have you forgotten it’s your birthday in a few days’ time?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just haven’t really thought about it.’

‘It would be nice to have a little drinks party for you.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘At your house. You don’t have to do anything but be there. I’ll do everything else. I’ll even clear up for you.’

‘You’re making it sound as though you’ve already organized it.’

‘Not exactly. But I’ve made sure that people like Mary can come.’

‘What do you mean, “people like Mary”? Who else?’

‘Just a few. Me, Mary and Eric, Fergus and Jemma, of course, Joe and Alison, Josh and Di. That’s about it. And anyone you want to ask.’

‘I don’t know, Gwen.’

‘I’ll do little eats and Joe said he’d provide the wine.’

‘When’s this supposed to be happening?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

I gave up protesting. ‘I’ll check my diary,’ I said ironically, ‘but I’m pretty sure I’m not busy then.’

‘Good. That’s settled. I’ll come round at five, straight from school, and we’ll get everything ready.’

Chapter Fourteen

When I arrived at the office, Frances was on the phone. She waved me in frantically. It sounded as if she was on the receiving end of a lecture. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can see that… Is that really true?… Didn’t we?… Is it serious?… So what do we do?’

I tiptoed across the room, made two mugs of coffee and handed one to Frances. She pulled faces at me like a silent-movie actress, signalling thanks for the coffee and, at the same time, frustration and exasperation. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But things have been a bit difficult, you know, with what’s happened… Yes, but couldn’t you explain it to them? Would that make things better?… Oh, I see… Yes, all right.’

Finally she put the phone down. I thought she was going to cry.

‘I never wanted to be a businesswoman,’ she said, her voice almost a wail. ‘Did I tell you I went to art school?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I was going to be a painter. That was the plan. I was good at it, but in the end there’s only room for about four painters in England at any one time and it was clear I wasn’t going to be one of them.’

‘Who was it on the phone?’ I said.

‘That was our horrible accountant,’ she said. ‘He’s meant to be working for us – we certainly pay him enough – but all he does is shout at me. He’s like a disappointed parent. Apparently we’re late with our VAT and apparently that’s bad. I thought the point of accountants was that they were meant to deal with that sort of thing. Oh, God, Gwen, I hate this – I’m out of my depth.’