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for three o’clock tomorrow, quite a trek from Suffolk.’
    ‘That’s Dave the driver’s problem, not mine. And it’s Somerset, not Suffolk.’ Rick closed his eyes again to discourage further conversation. As soon as he’d got rid of Guy, he’d ring Sophie; he hoped she’d be staying in for the evening, but it didn’t matter if she wasn’t. All he wanted was to unwind for a few hours, in a place where no one was watching his every move. Not much to ask, was it?
    It all worked out perfectly. Sophie was ecstatic at the prospect of seeing him a few days ahead of schedule. She and Ed had planned a quiet dinner at home, but the meal could easily stretch to three. Or four – what about his driver? Rick said no, Dave would sort himself out food-wise, but if she could book him a bed at some local pub … As for him, the prodigal brother, he’d rather keep a low profile – so could she put him up at her cottage for the night? The sofa would be fine, even the floor.
    She could offer something better than that, although not much. It turned out that she had a small second bedroom with a single bed and a lumpy mattress, a far cry from his plush hotel in London.
    But he drank too much to notice and had too good a time to care.
    Just before eleven the next morning, after a slap-up breakfast and more laughter, he set off for London. He felt relaxed, almost happy; when Dave arrived with the car, he got into the front seat beside him – ready to chat, even cracking a joke.
    The Jag cruised along the main street. It was empty – except for a woman with two little boys half-running towards the church, obviously late for the service. She was holding the smaller one’s hand and clutching something to her, while the other boy skipped along in front carrying a most peculiar object, a little makeshift cardboard dragon. The next minute, predictably, he dropped it. It split open – or was that thing with brown spines sticking up some sort of lid? – and disgorged its contents far and wide. Three bright green apples tumbled into the gutter, plums scattered and squashed under the boy’s dancing feet, a banana landed awkwardly in a pile of damp leaves.
    The car drew near. Rick heard the inevitable wail as the boy realised what had happened and looked to his mother for a miracle. The woman ignored the spilled, spoiled fruit and bent to offer comfort. Rick’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. How touching. His own mother would have boxed his ears and walked on …
    Then, as the woman straightened up, came a stab of recognition. The hair was longer than before, the face paler and thinner, but the resemblance was uncanny. What he was looking at now, and what he’d filed away to forget, matched. Perfectly.
    So much for the self-help. All the memories came flooding back; not erased, as he’d thought – or wanted to think – but safely stored, and expertly retouched.
    Dave slowed the car, as if debating whether to stop and help.
    Rick found his voice. ‘Drive on. Drive on .’

Chapter Four
    Jenny ignored Anna’s protests and poured her a generous glass of red wine. ‘From the sound of your weekend, you need this. And I’ll need the rest of the bottle to calm myself down. Who did you say your father’s shagging?’
    Sunday evening and, as promised, Anna was having dinner with Jenny and Tom. They were in the kitchen – shabbier and more cluttered than the dining room, but far warmer. And it allowed Jenny to direct the cooking and the conversation at the same time. She was the better cook but, since his accident, she encouraged Tom to do as much as possible round the house. Anna felt a surge of admiration for them both. She knew Jenny’s relentless optimism and Tom’s quiet acceptance were masks, but she’d rarely seen them slip.
    She pretended to be affronted by Jenny’s question. ‘I never said he was shagging her, I just couldn’t understand why they went into his bedroom and locked the door. I mean, it’s only a