“You can put a picture of the baby in it,” Suze is explaining. “But for now, I’ve drawn a picture of you in front of your new house.”

I look at the picture more closely and can’t help bursting into laughter. The cartoon house has been divided up into rooms and each one given a label. “Pram Room.” “Nappy Room.” “Lipstick Room.” “Visa Bill Room” (in the cellar). “Antiques of the Future Room.”

An Antiques of the Future Room! That’s actually a brilliant idea.

As I open my other presents I’m totally overwhelmed. Kelly’s is a tiny patchwork quilt, with patches contributed by all the lovely friends I made in Scully. Janice’s is a tiny red hand-knitted jumper with Baby’s First Christmas embroidered on the front. Mum’s is the matching Father Christmas hat and booties. Danny’s is the coolest designer distressed romper suit ever.

“Now mine,” says Jess, placing the largest present of the lot in front of me. It’s wrapped in a patchwork of old, crumpled wrapping papers, one of which is printed with the words Happy 2000!

“Be careful taking the paper off!” says Jess as I start to unwrap it. “I can use it again.”

“Er…OK!” Gently I peel the paper away and fold it up. There’s a layer of tissue paper underneath, and I pull it away to see a box about two feet high, made of pale, polished wood. Puzzled, I turn it around to face me — and it’s not a box after all. It’s a little cupboard with double doors and tiny porcelain handles. And Baby’s Shoes carved into the front.

“What—” I look up.

“Open it up.” Jess’s face is shining. “Go on!”

I tug it open, and there are little shelves, sloped and lined with white suede. On one of them is resting the smallest pair of red baseball boots I’ve ever seen.

It’s a little tiny Shoe Room.

“Jess…” I can feel tears welling up. “You made this?”

“Tom helped.” She gives a self-deprecating shrug. “We did it together.”

“But it was Jess’s idea,” chips in Suze. “Isn’t it brilliant? I wish I’d thought of it….”

“It’s perfect.” I’m totally bowled over. “Look at the way the doors fit…and the way the shelves are carved….”

“Tom always was good with his hands.” Janice clamps a hanky to her eyes. “This can be his memorial. We’ll probably never have a tombstone.”

I exchange looks with Mum, who pulls a familiar Janice-has-lost-it expression.

“Janice, I’m sure he’s not dead—” Jess begins.

“We can engrave his dates on the back,” Janice continues. “If you don’t mind, Becky, love.”

“Er…well no,” I say uncertainly. “Of course not.”

“He’s not dead, Janice!” Jess almost yells. “I know he’s not!”

“Well, where is he?” Janice pulls her hanky from her eyes, which are smudgy with mauve eye shadow. “You broke that boy’s heart!”

“Wait!” I suddenly remember. “Jess, I got a package for you this morning. Maybe it’s from him.”

I hurry to the hall and bring back the parcel. Jess rips it open and a CD falls out. On it is written simply “From Tom.”

We all stare at it for a moment.

“It’s a DVD,” says Danny, picking it up. “Put it on.”

“It’s his last will and testament!” cries Janice hysterically. “It’s a message from beyond the grave!”

“It’s not from beyond the grave,” Jess snaps, but as she heads to the DVD player I can see that she’s gone pale.

She presses Play and crouches down on the floor. We all wait in silence as the screen flickers. Then suddenly there’s Tom, facing the camera, against a blue sky. He’s wearing an old green polo shirt and looks pretty disheveled.

“Hi, Jess,” he says momentously. “By the time you see this, I’ll be in Chile. Because…that’s where I am now.”

Jess stiffens. “Chile?”

“Chile?” Janice shrieks. “What’s he doing in Chile?”

“I love you,” Tom’s saying. “And I’ll move to the other side of the world if that’s what it takes. Or farther.”

“Oh, that’s so romantic,” sighs Kelly.

“He’s such a stupid prat,” Jess says, knocking a fist against her forehead. “I’m not going out there for three months!”

But her eyes are glistening, I notice.

“Look what I’ve found you.” Tom is holding a chunk of some black shiny rock up to the camera. “You’ll love this country, Jess.”

“He’ll get cholera!” Janice is saying in agitation. “Or malaria! Tom’s always had a weak system—”

“I can get work as a carpenter,” Tom is saying. “I can write my book. We’ll be happy here. And if Mum gives you any grief, just remember what I told you about her.”

“Told you?” Janice looks up sharply. “What did he tell you?”

“Er…nothing.” Jess hastily presses Stop and whips the DVD out of the machine. “I’ll watch the rest later.”

“So!” says Mum cheerily. “He’s alive, Janice love. That’s good news!”

“Alive?” Janice is still in a state of hysteria. “What’s the use of being alive in Chile?”

“At least he’s out in the world!” says Jess with sudden passion. “At least he’s doing something with his life! You know, he’s been really depressed, Janice. This is just what he needs.”

“I know what my son needs!” Janice retorts indignantly as the doorbell rings. I heave myself to my feet, glad of an excuse to get out of the line of fire.

“I’ll just get this….” I head into the hall and pick up the entry phone. “Hello?”

“I have a delivery for you,” comes a crackly voice.

My heart skips a beat. A delivery. This has to be it. It has to be. As I press the buzzer I can hardly breathe. I’m telling myself firmly not to hope, it’ll be another package for Jess, or a catalog, or a computer part for Luke….

But when I open the door, there’s a motorbike courier standing in his leathers, holding a big padded envelope, and I already recognize Dave Sharpness’s writing in bold black marker pen.

I lock myself in the cloakroom and feverishly rip the envelope open. There’s a manila folder inside, marked “Brandon.” On the front is stuck a Post-it note, with a scribbled message: Hope this helps. Any further assistance required, do not hesitate. Yours, Dave S.

I open it up, and it’s all there. Copies of all the notes, transcripts of conversations, photos…I leaf through, my heart thumping. I’d forgotten quite how much stuff they had collected on Iain Wheeler. For a crappy private detective agency in West Ruislip, they actually did a great job.

I quickly bundle it all up again and head into the cool, empty kitchen. I’m about to pick up the phone to call Luke, when it rings, making me jump.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Brandon,” comes an unfamiliar male voice. “Mike Enwright from the Press Association here.”

“Oh, right.” I stare at the phone, puzzled.

“I just wondered if you could comment on rumors that your husband’s company is going down?”

I feel a shiver of shock.

“It’s not going down,” I say robustly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“News is, he’s lost the Arcodas account. And the latest rumor is Foreland Investment is going the same way.”

“He has not lost Arcodas!” I exclaim, furious. “They have parted ways for reasons which I cannot discuss. And for your information, my husband’s company is as strong as ever. Stronger! Luke Brandon has been courted by high-caliber clients all his career, and he always will be. He is a man of immense integrity, talent, intelligence, good looks, and…and dress sense.”

I break off, breathing hard.

“OK then!” Mike Enwright is chuckling. “I get the picture.”

“Are you going to quote all that?”

“I doubt it.” He chuckles again. “But I like your attitude. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Brandon.”

He rings off and, flustered, I run water into a glass. I have to talk to Luke. I dial his direct line and get through on the third ring.

“Becky!” Luke sounds alert. “Has anything—”

“No, it’s not that.” I check outside the kitchen door and lower my voice. “Luke, the Press Association just rang. They wanted a quote about you”—I swallow—“going down. They said Foreland were leaving you.”

“That is bullshit!” Luke’s voice erupts in anger. “Those Arcodas fuckers are feeding stories to the press.”

“They couldn’t really damage you, could they?” I say fearfully.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Luke sounds resolute. “The gloves are off. If they want to fight, we’ll fight. We’ll take them to court if it comes to it. Charge them with harassment. Expose the whole bloody lot of them.”

I feel a huge surge of pride as I hear him speak. He sounds like the Luke Brandon I first met. Assured and in charge of the situation. Not running around after Iain Wheeler like some lackey.

“Luke, I’ve got something for you.” My words spill out. “I have…material on Iain Wheeler.”

“What did you say?” says Luke after a pause.

“There were some old cases of harassment and office bullying that were hushed up. I’ve got a whole dossier on him, right here in my hands.”

“You’ve got what?” Luke sounds flabbergasted. “Becky…what are you talking about?”

Maybe I won’t get into the whole private-detective-in-West-Ruislip story just now.

“Don’t ask me how,” I say hurriedly. “I just do.”

“But how—”

“I said don’t ask! But it’s true. I’ll have it all biked round to the office. You should probably have your lawyers ready to take a look. There are photos, notes, all kinds of evidence…. Honestly, Luke. If this all comes out…he’s finished.”

“Photos? You’ve been taking photos of Iain?”

“Er…not me, exactly…”

“Becky, what is this?” he demands. “What the hell have you been up to?”

“I’ll explain later. Just trust me, Luke, please. This is going to help you, I promise.”