‘And now Mum’s gone. God knows where,’ Kate concluded heatedly. ‘She just took off, yesterday afternoon. I mean, what must she be going through? She could be suicidal for all he cares ...

that’s so typical of my father, the only person he’s bothered about is himself.’

Will kept the camera rolling. This was perfect. In his diffident, apologetic way he said, ‘So you’re concerned about your mum.’

‘Of course I’m concerned about her!’ Kate looked at him as if he were mad.

‘Not so long ago, the two of you seemed, well, not so close.’

‘She’s my mum. Until she gets in touch, I won’t even know if she’s still alive.’ Kate paused, then said abruptly, ‘OK, switch that thing off now. Don’t try and make out I’m just some cold bitch who was always horrible towards my mother.’

Will, having switched off the video, was now replacing the lens cap and fitting the camera back into its carrying case. He said mildly, ‘I wasn’t trying to do that, but I’m glad you spotted it.’

‘Oh, don’t practise your amateur psychology on me.’ Kate looked defensive. ‘I know I wasn’t that great when I came back to live here, OK? I was under a lot of pressure.’

‘That great? You had an attitude problem the size of Texas.’ To soften the blow, Will said, ‘Anyway, you’ve come on in leaps and bounds since then. And I’m glad you appreciate your mother more now.’

I know I do.

‘ You sound like a trendy vicar,’ snapped Kate.

Will patted her arm. ‘Right, I’m heading over to the hospital. See if Oliver’ll speak to me.’

When he’d ambled out of the pub, Dexter stopped sweeping up spilled peanuts and said, ‘Does he have his eye on you?’

‘Fancies me rotten, if that’s what you mean.’ With a brief smile, Kate said, ‘It’s pretty obvious. He hangs around our house like a puppy, half the time when Dad isn’t even there.’

‘I have exactly the same problem with Nicole Kidman.’ Dexter nodded gravely, then waited. ‘And?’

‘Oh please, I know I’m ugly but I’m not that desperate.’ Kate’s lip curled with derision. Will Gifford just has a high opinion of himself. He can’t quite believe I don’t fancy him back.’

Will persuaded Oliver to come outside the hospital and talk to him, just for five minutes.

‘I’m so sorry, it’s a terrible thing - to happen.’ Will was genuinely sympathetic. ‘How’s Tiff?’

‘Not so good.’ Rubbing his face, which was grey with fatigue, Oliver said, ‘The doctors are doing everything they can, but it’s ... you know. Hard.’ He paused, indicating the whirring camera. ‘Do we have to do this now?’

‘Your wife has left you,’ said Will. ‘We need to see your side of the story. You do have a reputation as a ruthless businessman,’ he pointed out. ‘This way, the viewers will be touched by your anguish.’

Angrily Oliver said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about the viewers. It’s not their sympathy I’m after.

Tiff’s my son and I love him.’

‘Of coarse you do, of course you do.’ Will’s voice was consoling. ‘It’s a tragic situation. What a way for your wife to find out that you had a love child actually living right there in Ashcombe. How did she feel about that?’

‘Not too happy, obviously.’ Oliver’s tone was curt. ‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’

‘Do you think she felt humiliated? Made a fool of? Do you have any idea,’ Will persisted,

‘where she is now?’

A look of pain crossed Oliver’s face. He shook his head. ‘Look, I can’t concentrate on this. I need to get back to the ward.’

‘Would it be possible to have a word with Juliet? Do you think she’d come out and speak to me?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Oliver had already turned to leave. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Hang on, did somebody switch front doors? Am I in the wrong flat?’

‘Surprise,’ Estelle sang out, flinging her arms round Will, covering him with kisses and simultaneously dragging him through to the living room.

‘Oh wow,’ said Will, staring. ‘Cushion city.’

‘I just thought I’d tidy up.’

‘And buy some cushions.’

‘I might have got a bit carried away,’ Estelle admitted.

‘Hey, you heard the rumours about the national cushion shortage and grabbed them while you could. That’s completely understandable.’ Will nodded. ‘When you can only buy them on the black market, we’ll be millionaires.’

‘Sorry,’ said Estelle.

‘Shh ... eleven, twelve, thirteen.’ He grinned. ‘Thirteen cushions. In one room.’

‘I found this great cushion shop in Barnsbury.’

‘And candles.’ He did an exaggerated double-take. ‘And a rug. God, and everything’s so clean.’

‘ I just wanted to help.’ Estelle hung her head; the cushions had cost an absolute fortune. Then again, it was Oliver’s money, so who cared?

‘Hey, listen, you don’t have to do all this.’ Lifting her chin, Will said, ‘I’m just glad you’re here. I’d be happy to live with you in a tent.’

You might be happy, Estelle thought, but I jolly well wouldn’t be. Unless it was a luxury tent.

But it was so sweet of Will to reassure her like this.

‘I’ve been too busy to cook anything. We’ll have to eat out.’

He pulled a face, gesturing towards his pockets. ‘I’m a bit..

‘My treat,’ Estelle said hurriedly.

Well, Oliver’s treat. Better still.

‘Let me just grab a shower first.’ Will gave her a quick kiss. ‘Hey,’ he yelled minutes later from the bathroom. ‘Posh soap!’

Estelle smiled to herself, because it was only Camay. Then again, compared with Will’s beloved Wright’s Coal Tar, presumably any soap was posh. ‘Kate’s missing you,’ said Will. ‘She’s on your side.’

His words brought a lump to Estelle’s throat. It was eight o’clock and they’d come to an Italian restaurant a couple of streets away from Will’s flat. Over fettuccine alla marinara and a bottle of Barolo, he had brought her up to date with the goings-on in Ashcombe.

‘I should ring her, let her know I’m OK.’ Estelle was overcome with guilt.

‘No hurry. Call her in the morning,’ said Will. ‘It won’t do them any harm to worry about you for a change.’

He was right. And he was so lovely. Wondering if she’d ever felt happier, or naughtier, Estelle sat back, heaved a sigh of satisfaction and finished her glass of red wine. Beneath the table, under cover of the cobalt-blue tablecloth, she slipped off one of her shoes and wiggled her bare toes along the inside of Will’s jean-clad thigh.

‘You’re a wicked, shameless woman.’ Will shook his head. ‘I’m being corrupted. Are we having pudding?’

For once, tiramisu wasn’t exerting its irresistible pull. Her toes still wiggling, Estelle murmured,

‘You know, I think I’d rather get back to the flat.’

‘And count cushions?’ Wasting no time, Will signalled the waiter to bring their bill.

Estelle reached happily for her purse. ‘Well, something like that.’

Estelle revelled in the feel of Will’s arm slung around her shoulders as they made their way out of the restaurant. In her whole life, Oliver had never slung an arm around her shoulders in public; it was an altogether too casual gesture for him. Impulsively, she turned and planted a warm, loving kiss on Will’s mouth.

Flash, went a camera somewhere nearby. Well, that was London for you, heaving with tourists snapping away nonstop-

‘What the hell ... ?’ Will, his head jerking back, gazed in disbelief at the man who’d appeared from nowhere on the pavement in front of them. Flash flash flash went the long-lensed camera.

Bewildered, Estelle clung to Will’s arm. Her first thought was that Oliver had hired a private investigator to track her down and spy on her, but how could he possibly have known where to find her? How could anyone have known?

‘What’s this about?’ Will was every bit as flummoxed as Estelle.

‘You’re Will Gifford, right? And that’s Estelle Taylor- Trent,’ said the photographer with a grin.

‘Neat twist, making a documentary about some big-shot businessman then running off with his wife.’

The next moment he was gone, vanished into the crowds thronging the pavement.

‘Shit. Shit,’ Will seethed.

Estelle, shaken up but thinking fast, said, ‘Hey, it’s OK, it’s not as if you stole me away from Oliver. He’s the one with the mistress and the baby.’

For some reason Will wasn’t reassured. ‘But how could this happen?’

Estelle exhaled, fairly sure she knew the answer. ‘I forgot to tell you. A tape arrived for you this morning. It was delivered by someone who works at the editing place. Tall and skinny, in his twenties, funny teeth ...’

‘Garth,’ Will said grimly.

‘Anyway, he recognised me from the tape. I was still in my dressing gown.’ Estelle searched Will’s face. ‘Could that be it?’

‘Oh yes.’ He nodded, unamused. ‘That could definitely be it.’

‘But it doesn’t matter,’ Estelle insisted. ‘I mean, so what if Oliver does find out? It’s not the end of the world!’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Will after a long pause. ‘It’s hardly going to do my career the world of good, but never mind about that. Come on.’ With a rueful nod he took her hand in his. ‘Let’s go home. Ever been on the front pages of the national press before?’

A jolt like electricity zapped through Estelle’s body. ‘Oh God, will I be?’

‘Duh,’ Will teased. ‘My name’s Will Gifford, not Jude Law.’

Estelle squeezed his hand. Feeling ridiculously happy, she said, ‘I’m glad you’re not Jude Law.’

She wasn’t on the front pages of the national press. Will eventually found the photograph the next morning on page seventeen of the Islington and Barnsbury Observer.