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decide what to do.
    There was no longer any point in denying she was deeply attracted to Tom – she still balked at the phrase ‘in love’. It had all been so totally unexpected, overwhelming her before she was even aware it was happening. In the fourteen years since Neil’s death, she’d had no interest whatever in men, gently rebuffing any venturing too close. She was financially independent, thank God – even comfortably off since her mother’s recent death – and despite having to give up teaching, the other love of her life, to nurse her during her last illness, her life was still full and interesting. She saw quite a bit of Daniel and Jenny, and despite her basic reserve, had made several friends since she’d come to Marsborough, mainly through the societies she’d joined. She did not, she told herself, need a man in her life, let alone one who was already married and whose daughters she had met.
    She put her hands to her head. God, what a mess! Several times she’d decided not to see Tom again, had gone so far as to turn down one or two of his proposed meetings. What always undermined her, though, was the knowledge that he was profoundly unhappy. Was that her fault? He’d intimated that his marriage hadn’t been right for years, but she suspected it was only when the two of them so obviously enjoyed each other’s company that he’d appreciated quite how much it had deteriorated. In which case, she was at least partially responsible.
    She knew, too, how much he was dreading his retirement at the end of the year, when he would be forced into his wife’s company. Catherine had a consuming, if ambivalent, desire to meet Avril Parish; she couldn’t conceive of a woman not appreciating Tom as a husband.
    Tom! He filled her mind with disconcerting suddenness, bringing a sharp, painful stab of desire that literally took her breath away. She sat down abruptly, her heart hammering. That hadn’t happened before. It was over fourteen years since that particular urgency had assailed her. Holding her mind in abeyance, she forced herself to breath slowly and deeply until, gradually, the heat left her body.
    No longer nearly so sure of herself, she gathered together the coffee cups and carried them through to the kitchen.
    Rona, too, had found the visit vaguely unsatisfactory. It had reinforced her liking for Catherine, but left her with no inkling of the current position between her and her father. The manifesto was a find, though, she told herself more positively; surely Latymer would have no objection to her quoting from it? What politician was averse to a little extra publicity? He could even make capital out of it: ‘All my life, I’ve had political ambitions!’ No need to explain it had been a school exercise.
    She garaged the car and walked back to Lightbourne Avenue, Gus trotting happily at her side. In the hall, she at once lifted the phone and dialled Max.
    â€˜You haven’t by any chance got James Latymer there with you?’ she asked, when he answered.
    â€˜No, I haven’t. Why?’
    â€˜I’d like to meet him.’
    â€˜You’ve not shown any interest before. Why now? Thinking of becoming a parliamentary candidate?’
    â€˜Hardly. No, I’ve been to see Catherine Bishop – you know, the scrapbook woman I mentioned last night – and she produced a manifesto that he’d written for a mock election when he was thirteen.’
    â€˜What was his platform? Save the Whales?’
    â€˜I’ve not had time to read it, but at a guess it’s more altruistic than he’d go in for now.’
    â€˜Such cynicism!’
    â€˜She also wondered if her arts appreciation society could approach you.’
    â€˜No way.’
    â€˜That’s what I told her. But to come back to Latymer, what’s the position, exactly? Is he still sitting for you?’
    â€˜He’s done a stint and at the