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unconsciously been waiting for ever since her father’s death. This was her chance to make things right. It was like . . . a gift.
    At first she couldn’t see Heather, and she thought with a sinking heart that she was too late. But then, scanning the room again, she spotted her. She was behind the bar, polishing a glass and laughing with one of the waiters. Fighting her way through the crowds, Candice made her way to the bar and waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt.
    Eventually Heather looked up and saw her— and to Candice’s surprise, a flash of hostility seemed to passover her features. But it disappeared almost at once, and her face broke into a welcoming smile.
    â€œWhat can I get you?” she said. “Another cocktail?”
    â€œNo, I just wanted a word,” said Candice, feeling herself having to shout over the background hubbub. “About this job.”
    â€œOh yes?”
    â€œIf you like, I can introduce you to the publisher, Ralph Allsopp,” said Candice. “No guarantees— but it might help your chances. Come to the office tomorrow at about ten.”
    â€œReally?” Heather’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful!” She put down the glass she was polishing, leaned forward and took Candice’s hands. “Candice, this is really good of you. I don’t know how to thank you.”
    â€œWell, you know,” said Candice awkwardly. “Old school friends and all that . . .”
    â€œYes,” said Heather, and smiled sweetly at Candice. “Old school friends.”

Chapter Three
    As they reached the motorway, it began to rain. Giles reached down and turned on Radio Three, and a glorious soprano’s voice filled the car. After a few notes, Maggie recognized the piece as “Dove Sono” from
The Marriage of Figaro
— in her opinion, the most beautiful, poignant aria ever written. As the music soared over her, Maggie stared out of the rain-spattered windscreen and felt foolish tears coming to her eyes, in sympathy with the fictitious Countess. A good and beautiful wife, unloved by her philandering husband, sadly recalling moments of tenderness between them.
I remember
. . .
    Maggie blinked a few times and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. Everything was reducing her to tears at the moment. The other day, she’d wept at an advertisement on television in which a boy cooked supper for his two small sisters. She’d sat on the living-room floor, tears streaming down her face— and when Giles had come into the room, had had to turn away and pretend to be engrossed in a magazine.
    â€œDid you have a good send-off?” asked Giles, changing lanes.
    â€œYes, lovely,” said Maggie. “Heaps of presents. People are so generous.”
    â€œAnd how did you leave it with Ralph?”
    â€œI told him I’d call him after a few months. That’s what I’ve told everybody.”
    â€œI still think you should have been honest with them,” said Giles. “I mean, you know you’ve no intention of going back to work.”
    Maggie was silent. She and Giles had discussed at length whether she should return to work after the baby was born. On the one hand, she adored her job and her staff, was well paid, and felt that there were still things she wanted to achieve in her career. On the other hand, the image of leaving her baby behind and commuting to London every day seemed appalling. And after all, what was the point of living in a large house in the country and never seeing it?
    The fact that she had never actually wanted to move to the country was something which Maggie had almost successfully managed to forget. Even before she’d become pregnant, Giles had been desperate for his future children to have the rough-and-tumble, fresh-air upbringing which he had enjoyed. “London isn’t healthy for children,” he had pronounced. And although Maggie had pointed out again