‘Oh, God!’ Lysander was frantic. ‘Poor little Kitty. Is he bullying her?’

‘No. That’s what don’t seem natural either. He’s being so nice.’

‘Well, give her this, and this.’ Lysander shoved the puppy and his letter into Mrs Brimscombe’s unwelcoming hands. ‘Tell Clive she’s a stray wandered in from the wood, but please see that Kitty gets her.’

Stumbling in despair back to his car, he reminded Mrs Brimscombe of one of those poor wretched seabirds, helpless and paralysed by oil in the Gulf. With no other thought but oblivion, Lysander headed for The Pearly Gates.

Returning from Rutminster, Kitty was greeted by a very over-excited Mrs B, who managed to slip her the letter. ‘Put it in yer bra, m’duck,’ and whispered that the puppy came from Lysander before Clive walked in buckling under the two trays of Bounce for Rannaldini’s guard-dogs.

‘What’s this?’ he said, as the puppy padded trustfully towards him. ‘Gorgeous little thing.’ He put out a hand ringed like a knuckle-duster. ‘Where’s it come from?’

‘It’s a stray. Mrs B found it wanderin’ outside,’ said Kitty quickly.

‘Doesn’t look like one.’ The puppy yelped as Clive picked it up by the scruff of the neck. ‘It’s well fed, and its paws aren’t marked. I’ll pop it down to the local rescue kennels.’

‘No you won’t,’ said Kitty with surprising sharpness.

‘You’re scared of dogs,’ said Clive rudely.

‘Not this one. Give it to me.’

‘Rannaldini don’t like dogs in the house.’ Clive’s pale fleshless face was alight with malice, his pale grey eyes had the innocence of a psychopath. ‘Canine dogs, that is.’

‘I’ll deal with Rannaldini.’ Kitty was fired with sudden courage.’

‘And it over. Now clear off.’

As she grabbed the puppy from Clive, it covered her face with little licks. Shutting her eyes, Kitty breathed in its sweet, fresh oatmeal smell. It was the first Valentine she’d ever had.

Only when the puppy had been fed and watered and they’d both retreated to the safety of her bedroom did she open Lysander’s letter kindly dictated by Ferdie. She read:


Darling Kitty,

This is Maggie’s puppy, Lassie II, to replace the one from Harrods those bastards at customs ripped open. Unless you have a dog that needs taking out, you never get out at night. But when you look up at the moon, and the great Bear and Orion the Hunter with his dogs, think of them looking down on me and Jack who both love you, Lysander.

Kitty gave a sob. Her dark little room, which faced north into the wood was lightened today by sheets of snowdrops which reminded her unbearably of the nursery slopes at Monthaut. She should have burnt Lysander’s letter, but she read it over and over again before hiding it under the lining paper of her tights drawer.

Jumping at the knock on the door, she shoved the drawer shut just in time. It was Clive bearing a huge bunch of dark red roses and a jewel box wrapped in shiny red paper. Inside was a ruby brooch in the shape of a heart.

To my Valentine, said the card, whose price is far above rubies, with all my love, Rannaldini.

Marigold was in despair. Although Larry was trying frantically to build up some kind of business again — you don’t go from 10p to ten million by stroking the cat, was one of his favourite sayings — no-one wanted to buy Paradise Grange, or Magpie Cottage or the villa in France, and all the pictures had gone for knockdown prices.

But far, far worse, Larry hadn’t sent her a Valentine. Last year, when he’d been with Nikki, was the only other year he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d gone back to her to boost his ego. Marigold had so little confidence, any little thing triggered off the panic. She must keep calm, but when Larry rang just before lunch, she found herself shouting at him, ‘I thought we were traying to mend our marriage, you beast.’ Then she burst into noisy sobs.

‘Princess, princess.’ When Larry finally could get a word in, he said rather smugly, ‘If you go and ’ave a butchers be’ind the mirror in the ’all.’

Rushing out, Marigold found a large box of chocolates, a card with a red heart on the front, and a page of kisses inside. There was also a letter. Dear Mr Lockton, read Marigold incredulously, and felt the blush of joy creeping slowly over her.

Down the telephone Larry could hear her scream of delight.

‘Oh, Ay love you, Sir Laurence,’ she said in a choked voice as she picked up the telephone. ‘No-one deserves a knaighthood more.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, Lady Lockton. But Mum’s the word till it’s in the papers.’

Behaving like the ideal husband on the surface, Rannaldini put a coded Valentine message in the Independent: Little wild thing, the big leopard longs for you.

As he called all his mistresses ‘Little wild thing’, Hermione, Chloe, Rachel, Cecilia, even for a giddy second, Flora, and most of the ladies of the London Met thought Rannaldini was sending secret signals to them.

Returning from the Highlands where he had been looking for locations for Macbeth with Cameron Cook, Rannaldini was decidedly unamused to find Lassie in situ. She had already made herself thoroughly at home romping along the passages after Kitty and peeing everywhere.

‘Let her go to the stables with Clive.’

‘No, she’s mine.’ Kitty’s eyes were terrified.

Lassie got up and stretched, turning her toes backwards, trailing along, then attacking the red-and-yellow rose-patterned Aubusson in the morning room, and shaking it furiously.

‘Stop that,’ snapped Rannaldini, aiming a kick at her.

Instantly Lassie flattened her ears, and seemed to become half her breadth, as she fled to Kitty’s side.

Having already read Lysander’s letter, which Clive had tracked down and photostated while Kitty popped out to the post, Rannaldini suspected the hand of Rupert Campbell-Black. According to the ubiquitous Clive, who frequently bunged the Rutminster florists, the roses sent to Rachel that morning had come from Boris, who had just returned from a successful tour of his homeland. The New York job wasn’t in the bag yet, so even when Kitty forgot to provide him with a white gardenia for the Gulf concert that evening, Rannaldini didn’t bawl her out, and Lassie was allowed to stay.

Returning from an equally successful but nerve-racking tour of Israel where she’d expected to be flattened by a Scud missile in the middle of a piano concerto, Rachel felt horribly depressed.

The war grew more dreadful. Only the night before the Allies had bombed a bunker full of civilians. The Americans intended to use napalm to ignite the Iraqi oil ditches on the front lines and the Iraqi hospitals had no electricity, so the baby incubators couldn’t function and syringes were having to be used several times.

Rachel knew she ought to go straight out that evening to a peace vigil in Rutminster, but she felt so tired, and the children, whom she had to collect from Gretel, would kick up if she left them again.

Perhaps the most nightmarish part of being a single parent was that she had no-one to tell things to — to boast that she had taken seven bows last night.

‘I had to take these in for you,’ said Gretel, handing Rachel a huge bunch of the palest peachy-pink roses.

Rannaldini or Guy? thought Rachel wearily, then read; Dearest Rachel, Happy seventh wedding anniversary, all love, Boris.

To Gretel’s amazement Rachel burst into a flood of tears.

‘Oh Gretel, he remembered,’ she sobbed. ‘He really, really remembered.’

Rising late on Valentine’s Day after a long stint the night before, Georgie wandered round the garden. The lake was as flat and grey as washing-up water. In the tub outside the kitchen window a lone mud-spattered daffodil swayed in the wind. She and Guy had been getting on so much better since the orgy. He’d shaved off his beard, so she didn’t think he was pursuing Rachel any more. But suddenly last Friday he was up to his old tricks again — coming back to Paradise early to go to the doctor about his headaches. Returning to Angel’s Reach an hour and a half later, he explained that the surgery queue had been so long that he couldn’t be bothered to wait — but he had the jubilant air of an aircrew flying in from a successful raid over Iraq without loss.

Georgie simply couldn’t cope with a return to the old uncertainties. She’d got to get out. Ant and Cleo was so nearly finished, then she’d make plans. Looking at the kitchen clock she decided to start work soon, but she’d promised to mince up the remains of Sunday’s leg of lamb for a shepherd’s pie. She felt she ought to practise wifely duties for when she was living alone or shacked up one day with someone less domesticated than Guy. At first, she didn’t hear the telephone over the Moulinex.

‘Georgie, it’s David Hawkley. Hallo, hallo, are you there?’

‘Just,’ stammered Georgie, wiping her hands on her Jeans.

‘Thank you for your Valentine card. It was sweet. You did send it, didn’t you?’

‘Unless you know some other Georgie. Look, I’m really sorry I lied to you about me and Lysander, but I was so frightened of losing you.’

‘It’s OK. How’s Lysander?’

‘I haven’t seen him, but he’s in love. She’s married and even more common than me, but at least she’s the same age as him and got the sweetest nature.’

‘I can’t get him on the telephone and Magpie Cottage is deserted.’

Georgie felt an air of gloom. David must have visited Paradise without coming to see her. He was only ringing to pump her about Lysander.

‘Where’s he living?’

‘With Rupert Campbell-Black.’