In this extract from the middle of the book, Catherine has planned a romantic dinner for Will, a charismatic poet she met while working at Camden Market. Despite a couple of passionate kisses, Will has proved strangely reluctant to take the relationship further and has never even invited her to his flat. But Catherine is hoping that the evening will transform him from friend to lover. And since her 3 much younger flatmates are all away for the weekend, she'll have the privacy she needs for this all-important night.
 

    She hurries home from the market to make the final preparations, fighting her way through flurries of snow, but warmed by thoughts of Will.

now read on . . .

    By the time she reached Gosforth Road, her coat was drenched, her jeans soggy up to the knees, and even her supposedly waterproof boots appeared to have leaked. But she would soon be out of her wet clothes and into a hot bath, and then she'd change into her low-necked fifties dress (which she'd bought cheap from the stall next to theirs).
    With snow-numbed fingers, she managed to insert the key in the lock. As she pushed the front door open, she was greeted by a blast of noise: music, voices, laughter. She stood stock-still in astonishment - the house was meant to be empty. True, Nicky had changed her plans on account of the bad weather, but instead she'd gone to stay with a friend. And Jo and Darren had left first thing to catch an early train to Brockenhurst.
    She took a cautious step inside, alarmed to see strangers in the hall. Had she come to the wrong house? It certainly wasn't in the state she'd left it this morning. There were pools of beer on the carpet, an array of cans and bottles on the hall table, wet coats flung across the bannisters or bundled in the corner. No one seemed to have noticed her come in, so she remained where she was, gazing at the scene with increasing resentment. A group of girls were giggling and shrieking like schoolkids; two couples writhing to the music, another pair smooching on the staircase and three scruffy-looking men were involved in some sort of drinking contest. She was tempted to slip straight out again, but where could she go? And what about Will? It was impossible to contact him - she had no telephone number; no details beyond Harrow.
    Darren suddenly shambled out of the sitting-room, his normally pale face flushed, his hair coming loose from its ribbon. `Cath!' he called, weaving his way through the scrum of people and kissing her extravagantly. `What are you doing here? Aren't you meant to be in Shoreham with Nick?'
    `Nicky's not in Shoreham.'
    `Where is she then? Oh, never mind - come and join the party.'
    `Party?' She was forced to shout above the music. `What on earth's going on?'
    `Well, it's not really a party, just a bunch of friends.'
    She glanced from a bra-less girl in a transparent top to a long-haired man spread-eagled on the floor. `But why aren't you in Hampshire?'
    `The train was cancelled. It's absolute bloody chaos at Waterloo. And more snow's forecast, so they advised us not to travel.' He took a swig from the bottle he was holding and wiped his mouth on his hand. `So we thought we'd come back and ask a few people round for lunch.'
    `Isn't a quarter to seven a trifle late for lunch?' 
    Her sarcasm was wasted on Darren, who merely beamed at her benignly. `Late lunch. We told them to bring bottles, and it turned into a bit of a bash. Then more friends dropped in and ...'
    `Hi, Catherine!' Darren's girlfriend Sarah breezed up behind him and put her arms round his waist. `How's things?'
    Another girl rushed over, wearing a canary-yellow mini-skirt and sunglasses, as if she'd just flown in from Miami. `Darren, Sally wants you. She's looking for more wine.'
    `Okay - coming. Cath, this is Bec.'
    `Rebecca, if you don't mind.'
    `Rebecca, if you don't mind,' Darren mimicked with a giggle. `And you must meet Ann and Liz. And that's Rob with the moustache. He's a real laugh!'
    Catherine could have murdered every one of them, but she said a terse hello, then followed Darren into the kitchen, aghast to see more drunken strangers, slumped against the worktop and lounging at the table; more empty bottles cluttering every surface; the sink piled with dirty plates. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the floor she had polished last night was littered with fag-ends, crisps and bits of cheese. Suddenly she caught sight of her chocolate mousse - or rather its bowl. All that remained was a brown puddle at the bottom.
    She wrenched open the fridge door. On the shelf stood a solitary can of Fosters, a carton of coleslaw, and a knob of garlic sausage. Yet this morning she had left it full - full of her expensive, romantic food. She could understand the cooked food disappearing, but the raw salmon steaks had vanished too, and the ingredients for the sauce.
    `Where's Jo?' she asked, tight-lipped, but Darren was nowhere to be seen and she was addressing the empty air.
    She squeezed her way into the sitting-room, to be assaulted almost physically by the music. The ornaments on top of the piano were juddering and shaking to the rhythm of thunderous drums. The carpet was rolled back and the furniture pushed to the sides of the room, and people were dancing as if in a trance - eyes closed, heads thrown back. She peered through the smoke-filled gloom, and eventually spotted Jo lying on the floor beside a character with straggly ginger hair and a moustache.
    `Jo?'
    `Oh, hello, Catherine. Back already?'
    `Listen, I'm expecting a friend for dinner tonight and ...'
    Jo sat up on one elbow. Her lipstick was smudged and there was a red wine stain on her shirt. `It's okay, she can join us.'
    `He.'
    `Well, he, then - whoever. Now can I get back to my friend?' She tittered inanely, then snuggled next to the man again, running her hand across his chest.
    `Jo, I want to know what's happened to my food.'
    `What food?'
    `I left a lot of stuff in the fridge last night and it's gone.'
    `Well, it's nothing to do with me. I haven't a clue where it is. Anyway, I thought you were in Shoreham.'
    `Oh, for heaven's sake, I was never going to Shoreham! Listen Jo, I spent all last night shopping and cooking and ...'
    `Well, I didn't know. I wasn't here last night. Darren and I had dinner at Alfredo's.'
    `I'm talking about now. Surely you must have realised it wasn't just any old food. It took me hours to make that mousse.'
    `There's no need to shout. I didn't eat the bloody mousse - or anything else of yours.'
    `Who did then?'
    `God knows. We bought our own nosh - cheese and pâté and stuff - but it ran out ages ago, so I suppose people helped themselves. Look, I'm sorry but I can't be responsible for everyone else. But at least there's plenty of booze left, so give your friend a drink and I'm sure he won't complain.'
    `Jo, I invited him for a quiet dinner - just the two of us.'
    `Are we talking about Will, by any chance?'
    `Yes, we are.'
    `Well, he won't mind, I'm sure. He didn't strike me as the type to ...'
    `But I mind. That food cost a bomb, I'll have you know. I can't believe the whole lot's gone.'
    `Honestly, Catherine, you're being a bit precious, aren't you? We share this house, in case you've forgotten, which means we all muck in.'
    `That's rich, I must say, coming from you. You never pay your whack.'
    Jo sprang to her feet indignantly. `Oh, you're having a go at me, now, are you?'
    `Look, cool it, you two.' The ginger-haired man sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and patently embarrassed.
    `You keep out of this, Geoff. It's between me and Catherine, okay?' Jo turned on Catherine again, her voice rising in contempt. `If you don't like it here, you know where you can go - back to bloody suburbia, where you belong.'
    Catherine flinched as if she'd been struck. Blinded by a haze of tears, she stumbled into the hall.
    Someone touched her arm. `What's wrong?' 
    `N... nothing.'
    `Don't cry. What on earth's been going on?' It was Sarah, more sober than the others and sounding genuinely concerned.
    Catherine found herself pouring out the story, blaming first Jo, then the weather, then herself.
    `Don't worry,' Sarah said. `We're leaving soon, in any case. We're going to the Jazz Café. Courtney Pine's playing there tonight, and Rebecca's a great friend of the guitarist. So when we've pushed off, you can have your dinner in peace.'
    Catherine wiped her eyes on her sleeve. `Is everyone going?'
    `Most of us, I think. But if anybody's left, why don't you have the kitchen and they can stay in the sitting-room? That's what we do in my flat - share and share alike.'
    `But Sarah, the food's been eaten - the stuff I got for Will.'
    `Well, nip out and buy some more. Something quick.'
    She didn't like to mention the expense - or the snow, for that matter. If she made any more objections, she would sound prissy and suburban. `All right,' she said weakly, buttoning up her wet coat again.
    `And while you're gone, I'll explain to Darren and get him to shoo people out of the kitchen.'
    `Won't that cause trouble, though?'
    Sarah shrugged. `I shouldn't worry. The sitting-room's much nicer anyway.'
    `But Jo may ...'
    `Look, leave Jo to me, okay? Go on - off you go!'
    The cold cut like a knife as she stepped into the dark. She shivered in the porch, still brooding on Jo's spiteful remark. Nicky had told her not to take things so seriously; that rows were inevitable in a shared house and soon blew over anyway. None the less, her instinct was to stay away; to avoid Jo this evening, at least. Wouldn't it be more sensible to write the meal off altogether and have dinner out, instead? Except who would pay? - like Will, she was practically skint. The weekly rent took a hefty chunk of her income, and both the car insurance and car tax had come up for renewal last month. Also she was perilously near the limit on her credit card and didn't want to run up debts, as Will was already doing. He had the extra burden of child maintenance to pay, on top of everything else. Of course, they could buy a simple snack and eat it in his flat, but he hadn't yet invited her there and she didn't like to force the issue. Besides, he'd said how much he was looking forward to a home-cooked meal and what a rare treat it would be. 
    She wound her scarf round her neck and steeled herself to set off to the shops. There was still time to retrieve the situation. She must cook a meal, as promised - it would just have to be less ambitious. And with any luck, by the time she returned with a second batch of food, Jo and all the others would be gone.

`Oh, you're back,' Jo scowled, as she let herself in. `I thought you'd taken Will to Acacia bloody Avenue!'
    Catherine ignored the taunt and walked into the kitchen, relieved to find it empty. There were sounds from the sitting-room and the music was still pounding on, but less manically than earlier. The hordes had disappeared, thank God. The kitchen was in the same awful mess, but she could cope with that, if only Jo would leave her in peace.
    `There - all yours. You've got Darren to thank for that. Frankly, I find it a bloody cheek that you expect to monopolise the kitchen.'
    `Look, Jo, I ... I'm sorry - honestly.' On the way to the shops, her anger had subsided and she regretted her own harsh words. After all, Jo and Darren hadn't known she was expecting someone to dinner. And it was their house long before she had appeared on the scene. `It was a misunderstanding all round,' she said, with an attempt at a smile. `I mean, I had no idea that anyone would be here and you didn't know about Will.'
    `Well, even so, I don't see why we should be turfed out of the kitchen. My friends are here too, remember, even if we are restricted to the sitting-room.'
    `Look, don't be silly. You can come in here if you want.'
    `Wow, that is kind - granting me permission to step into my own kitchen.'
    `Jo, you know I didn't mean that.'
    `Well, what did you mean?'
    `I'm trying to apologise. I've said I'm sorry. I am. Can't we forget the whole thing now?'
    `No, I don't think we bloody can. It's not just tonight, Catherine - it goes much deeper than that. You don't fit in, can't you see? It's a generation thing. Basically we don't need a nagging mum here. Everyone thinks you're a fucking pain. So I reckon it's time you pissed off elsewhere.' With that, she turned on her heel and slammed out.
    Catherine stood appalled, the shock-waves from the door resounding in the silence. So she was a nagging mother whom everyone despised. And they couldn't wait for her to leave. Did that mean Nicky too? But she and Nicky were friends - weren't they? She took a shaky step towards the door. Perhaps she should return to Stoneleigh, rather than stay where she was regarded as a `fucking pain'. She shuddered at the words, their vicious crudity. Yet the thought of Stoneleigh induced a wave of panic. She had become a different person and couldn't just slot back into her old restricted life.
    She leaned against the table, trying to get a grip on herself. She couldn't go anywhere - Will was arriving shortly. Unless she took him to Manor Close ... just this evening, as a stop-gap. No, that was out of the question, with Andrew and Antonia sitting there in judgement.
    Shakily, she began to unpack the carrier bags. There was nothing for it - she would have to go ahead and cook him dinner here. Yet she no longer felt at ease. She had become an interloper, as if the kitchen itself was hostile, recoiling from her presence. Its usual comfortable clutter had mushroomed sickeningly: the draining board a sordid mess of burnt pans and greasy plates; fag-ends and other debris floating on a scummy pool in the sink. Mechanically she let the plug out and turned on the tap, but there was no hot water left. She filled the kettle, still haunted by thoughts of Nicky. All those long, confiding talks - hadn't they meant anything? It was so difficult to know people's innermost feelings, even so-called friends. All at once she felt a desperate longing for Gerry - the security and comfort of being bonded to a partner for life, joined by sacred vows.
    She blinked the tears back, fighting for control. It was no good agonising about the past. She must forget Gerry for the moment - and Jo - and try to salvage the evening. It would help if she kept busy, rather than standing around indulging in self-pity. There were pistachio nuts to be shelled, garlic to be chopped and fried, mushrooms to prepare; not to mention all the clearing up. She had decided on pasta for the main course - quick and cheap, and easy to spice up with an exotic sauce. Her lovingly made pâté had gone the same way as the chocolate mousse, so she had bought some pâté to replace it, a chunk marked down to half-price. Dessert was ice cream, shop bought again, but another home-made sauce would add a personal touch.
    The aggressive bass pounded monotonously through the sitting-room wall, so she switched on Radio 2, deliberately to cocoon herself in schmaltzy lyrics and cheery patter - a reassurance that the world was safe. To the saccharine crooning of Barry Manilow she swept the floor, sluiced the worktops, and thrust empty cans and bottles into a bin-liner, along with cheese rinds, crisp-packets and wine-sodden lumps of bread. Then she tackled the washing-up, soon realising that a single kettleful of hot water was nowhere near enough. However, after half an hour's hard work, the kitchen was more or less presentable. The smell of cigarette smoke still lingered on unpleasantly, but short of opening the windows and letting in the freezing air, there wasn't much she could do about it. She'd have to douse herself with scent and hope that would counteract it.
    But first the cooking. She hunted in vain for an egg whisk to whip up the ice-cream sauce, eventually making do with a fork and elbow grease. The Gosforth Road kitchen was lamentably short of decent equipment. At Carshalton she'd had all manner of gadgets from a pasta-making machine to an ingenious tool for producing radish roses. And of course Antonia had electric mixers - electric everything. But here she couldn't find so much as a cheese grater, let alone a garlic press.
    Suddenly the doorbell rang. Will - an hour early! The blood rushed to her cheeks. She must look an absolute sight: eyes red, hair unwashed, clothes dishevelled and damp. So much for her plan to greet him wearing a sexy dress and Arpège, not smelling of garlic and looking like a bag-lady.
    She dashed into the hall, hoping to sneak upstairs before he actually came in. But someone was already opening the front door. She froze, one foot on the bottom step, instinctively closing her eyes, as if, ostrich-like, she could become invisible.
    `Christ! What fucking awful weather. It's enough to freeze your balls off.'
    She opened her eyes to see a mane of reddish hair, shoulder-length, in dreadlocks. Scott - not Will - scattering expletives as he heaved off his old army coat.
    `Catherine!' He caught sight of her and staggered over, decidedly the worse for wear. He was dressed in a checked shirt, several sizes too large for him, tattered jeans and his usual hulking Doc Martens.
    She muttered a hello, torn between relief at not being caught by Will, unwashed and unprepared, and horror at seeing Scott. No hope of a romantic evening with him on the premises. He had dropped in several times since the ill-fated visit to Manor Close and seemed to consider himself one of the family, so how could she bar him from the kitchen? He was already halfway there, presumably in search of food - he was always ravenous. Her food was on the table, easy pickings. She rushed to its defence, ignoring the front door bell. It would only be more friends of Jo and Darren and, for all she cared, they could stay out in the cold.
    She yanked the mixing bowl out of his reach before he could stick his grubby fingers into the sauce. `Listen, Scott, I'm expecting someone for dinner tonight and we want to be on our own. So I'd appreciate it if you could make yourself scarce.'
    `Okay, okay. Don't get your knickers in a twist.' He was already investigating the contents of the fridge. `It's just that I haven't had a fucking thing to eat all day.'
    `Well, you can't have that pâté. Or the cheese.' She thrust the carton of coleslaw and the piece of garlic sausage into his hands. `There you are - that's your lot.'
    He sniffed the sausage and pulled a face. `Bloody hell, it doesn't half pong! Darren invited me to lunch, I'll have you know.'
    She turned off Nat King Cole, who had just launched into `Some Enchanted Evening'. `Scott, it's ten past eight - dinner-time.'
    `Well, better late than never.' He prised the lid off the coleslaw and began gouging out lumps with his fingers, spattering shreds of greasy cabbage on the floor.
    `Catherine ...' Jo's head appeared round the door. `It's Will.'
    Oh no, she thought, paralysed. Will was standing in the doorway, staring at her and Scott. He caught her eye and quickly changed his dismayed expression into an unconvincing smile. She smiled back weakly, untying the tea-towel she had been using as a makeshift apron. Will's elegant get-up - Hungarian hussar jacket and dashing red shirt - only made her more ashamed of her own unkempt appearance.
    `Er, sorry I'm early,' he said, taking a step towards her. `The weather's so appalling we finished at seven, to let people get off home.'
    `I ... I'm afraid I'm a bit behind,' she stammered. `I haven't had time to change yet or ...' The words stumbled to a halt. She sounded peevish and begrudging - hardly a gracious welcome.
    `That's okay, I'll sit and have a drink.'
    `Me too,' said Scott, speaking through a mouthful of coleslaw and giving Will a cool appraising stare. `Hi, mate! Like the gear. Though if you'd told me it was fancy dress, I'd have come in my Roman toga.' 
    `Scott, I'm sorry' - Catherine glared at him - `but if you've come to see Darren, he's gone to the Jazz Café.'
    `Shit! What a bummer. He asks me round, then pisses off before I fucking get here.'
    `And Jo's friends are in the sitting-room. So perhaps you'd ...'
    `Sure. Just give us that drink.'
    It suddenly dawned on her that there wasn't any drink. The hordes had helped themselves to her wine along with everything else and she had completely forgotten to buy any more. She prayed Will had brought a bottle with him - he was concealing something behind his back.
    `Will, this is Scott,' she said tersely, realising she hadn't introduced them. `He's just going.'
    Far from going, Scott seemed overcome by an unusual attack of good manners and stuck out a mayonnaise-smeared hand. Will, whose right hand was still behind his back, looked increasingly embarrassed. Then, with a sudden impulsive movement, he thrust a bunch of flowers into her arms.
    `Fucking hell!' said Scott. `I thought you were going to give those to me. Red roses,' he drawled, poking a finger into the middle of the bunch. `And they say romance is dead!'
    Catherine ignored him and babbled her thanks to Will. Normally she would have been delighted to receive a sheaf of out-of-season roses, but Scott was ruining everything. Anyway, you couldn't drink red roses. And it was worryingly extravagant. She had lent Will £10 yesterday - he must have blown the lot on this bouquet.
    `Well, if you two lovebirds can't offer me a drink, I'll try Jo.' Scott ambled out of the kitchen, closing the door with his customary kick.
    Good riddance, Catherine muttered, putting the flowers on the table. Needless to say she couldn't find a vase and had to make do with two milk bottles. She struggled with the tall and thorny stems, pricking her fingers in the process. Her mind was elsewhere - on the problem of the wine. There might be some left in one of the bottles in the hall. She darted out to check, but every bottle was empty and she had no intention of confronting Jo again. She stood outside the sitting-room door, seething with anger at the sounds of drunken laughter from within. She had spent her hard-earned money on good French wine which had disappeared down a bunch of strangers' throats. Jo and Darren would never pay her back; it was just part of `mucking in', as Jo put it.
    She glanced uncertainly from the kitchen to the stairs. Should she return to Will or take the chance to nip up to her room and change? But if she disappeared, even for a moment, Scott might wander back and help himself to the food, and bang would go a second three-course dinner.
    Reluctantly she trailed back to the kitchen, where Will was sitting at the table, looking tired and rather forlorn. He must be perplexed, to say the least, at finding this scene of chaos.
    `Will, listen ...' She sat beside him. `I ought to explain. There's been a bit of a disaster ...'
    Instantly his features crumpled into an expression of tragic concern, as if she were about to announce a death. She burst out laughing at the sight of his shocked face. It wasn't a disaster - simply a chapter of accidents.
    `Catherine, what on earth's the matter?' He sounded more concerned than ever.
    She couldn't speak for laughing. `I ... I'm sorry,' she gasped, finally regaining her composure. `Don't look so bereft! It's not as bad as all that - well, so long as you don't mind pasta and half a can of lager instead of a bottle of Muscadet and fresh salmon.' She explained briefly what had happened, concluding with a giggle, `You see, you were supposed to find me reclining on the sofa in my finery, with the salmon gently poaching in the oven and the wine chilling in the fridge. Instead of which, the spaghetti's still in its packet, I look like the wreck of the Hesperus and I can't even offer you a drink.'
    Will leapt to his feet. `I'll go and buy some wine,' he said. `Then you can change into your finery and we'll do the cooking together. I can just about manage spaghetti.'
    `Oh, Will, you are a darling. But I'm afraid I haven't much cash.'
    `Don't worry I'm pretty sure I can rustle up a fiver.'
    She saw him to the door, then dashed back to the kitchen, hid the food on the top shelf of the cupboard and ran upstairs to change. There was no time for a bath or even a shower, just off with her wet clothes, a quick dab with a flannel, then into her best dress. While she was spraying herself with scent, William emerged from under the bed, where he had evidently taken refuge. He stretched and yawned, then sat gazing at her reproachfully.
    `Oh, William! - how awful - I'd forgotten all about you. And I bet nobody's bothered to feed you. Come on, you can have your supper while I'm cooking ours.' She picked him up and took him down to the kitchen, determined to get the meal under way before Will reappeared.
    Amazingly, no one disturbed her for a blessed twenty minutes. She even dared to put the pâté on the table, plus the Melba toast and celery sticks. The ice-cream sauce sat cooling in its bowl, while the pasta bubbled contentedly on the hob and its rich garlicky sauce simmered in a second pan. She was just washing the salad when the doorbell rang. She dried her hands and went to let Will in.
    `Special offer at Oddbins,' he said, brandishing two bottles. `Quite decent stuff. And it's already chilled.'
    `Lovely,' she said, feeling in control at last. The meal was almost ready and they could sit down and relax. Even William was purring, replete after his supper and curled up on the windowsill.
    `And you look really beautiful,' he whispered, kissing the top of her head.
    She smiled. They were on course again - for excitement, for romance. She ushered him back to the kitchen and placed the roses on the table as a centrepiece. `They're gorgeous, Will. Thank you.'
    His face registered its pleasure as he gently fingered one of the blooms, the same deep crimson as his shirt. `Shall I open the wine?' he asked.
    `Yes, please.' She handed him a corkscrew and found two halfway decent glasses fluted crystal, and barely chipped at all.
    `To poetry and love,' he said, gazing into her eyes as they clinked glasses.
    `To poetry and love.' It sounded awfully highfalutin on her lips, but she was so relieved to be alone with him, she would drink to anything he liked. Alas, there was little chance of any actual love-making - not with Jo and Scott around - but at least they could set the mood, get closer in other ways. She put her glass down, frowning. Just the thought of Jo was painful; brought back that horrendous row. Would she have to move out? Find some grotty bedsit? Or could she somehow ...?
    No, this wasn't the time to be dwelling on her problems. She was entertaining Will, and must concentrate on him. She took a breath to calm herself, and then a long draught of wine. `How was the workshop?' she asked, edging her chair companionably closer.
    `Oh, fantastic! Sometimes you're stuck with a room full of halfwits and you wonder why you bother. But today they all seemed bright. One woman was quite outstanding. She'd written this thing about a bulb planted deep in the earth, groping upwards month by month, and finally breaking through in the spring. But it finds everything's raw and bleak - you know, snow on the ground, like today, and apparently no hope of light and warmth. Oh, I realise it sounds a bit corny, but it wasn't, the way she did it. She used very stark images and an extremely simple style. She almost had us in tears.'
    Catherine hid a smile. Yes, she could well imagine him weeping for a snowdrop; even for a clod of earth.
    He sipped his wine, cupping his hands round the glass. `It reminded me of something I wrote myself when I was only twelve or so - a rather harrowing poem about a bird in a cage. Of course, I identified with the bird. I felt so trapped, you see, at home.' His face reflected his theme: brows drawn down, eyes troubled. `I made the mistake of showing it to my form-master. He said it was affected and how could I be unhappy with all my advantages? It's funny, isn't it, the way we don't like to admit how deeply children can suffer. Though you'd know more about that than I do, with your mother dying so young.'
    `Actually, I think at the time I felt I shouldn't be too upset. Death's not easy to grasp when you're four and a half. Besides, the grown-ups kept telling me how happy Mummy was, and how she'd gone to live in this wonderful place with somebody called Jesus. Anyway, for a long, long time, I expected her to come back. My father kept all her things around, so it seemed a fairly reasonable idea.'
    `God, you poor kid!'
    `No, honestly, it wasn't all that bad.' She picked up a celery stick and nibbled it reflectively. `Of course, it was completely different with Gerry. We'd been together so long, you see, and he was so much part of my life. I mean, even now, it sometimes all comes surging back, or I remember ghastly little details for no reason. The day of the funeral, for instance, was rubbish-collection day, and the street was full of black dustbin bags piled up higgledy-piggledy. And it suddenly struck me: that's what Gerry is - just a bag of bones to be disposed of.' She shivered. `Gosh, I'm sorry, Will. This isn't quite the conversation for a nice relaxed dinner.'
    `No, but it's real, and you know how I hate small talk.'
    Catherine crunched her celery, remembering Kate's same use of that word `real' just a few days ago. In fact, now she came to think about it, Kate and Will were alike in certain ways - uncompromising, idealistic, moody, generous, and occasionally infuriating.
    `That was the trouble with my wife. She had this habit of avoiding any ...'
    They both jumped at the crash of a door. Someone had slammed out of the sitting-room and was hurtling up to the bathroom, heavy boots punishing the stairs. They exchanged a glance of commiseration. The situation had bonded them, she realised with relief. It was them against the rest; they safe in their little haven while the barbarians rampaged outside.
    `You were saying about your wife,' she prompted, raising her voice above the music from next door.
    `Ah, yes. Vanessa. She ... she never allowed people to be miserable. She felt it was bad form - bad manners, if you like. Every problem should be dealt with, and if there wasn't a solution, then you simply shut up about it. Otherwise you'd drive your friends away. Friends were very important to her - more important than me, I often thought. I imagine she must be in her element now, with all the entertaining she and Julian do, in their gracious house with the wine-cellar, and their well-bred Hampstead neighbours saying what they're meant to say instead of what they really feel.'
    `But Will, lots of people live like that. My son and his wife, for example. I suppose it's a very English sort of thing.' She thought of Jo again - she had made no bones about saying exactly what she felt. Perhaps there was a virtue in dissembling, after all. Still, her instinct was to change the subject. Poetry was fine, but not death, divorce and ex-wives, whatever Will (or Kate) might say about such things being `real'. `Shall we eat?' she suggested, knowing food would raise his spirits. 
    Eagerly he drew up his chair. `This looks good,' he said, eyeing the pâté with interest, `even if it's Sainsbury's.'
    `Well, not as good as mine, I hope! I'll make some for you another time.'
    `Great! I'll hold you to that. Meanwhile ...' He cut himself a slice, spread some on the Melba toast and took a slow, appreciative mouthful. `Mm, delicious.' He ate in silence for a few moments, totally absorbed, then wiped his mouth on a napkin. `How was your day, Catherine - before all the disasters here, I mean? Was the market busy?'
    `No, the worst I've ever known it. All I sold was that toast-rack from the bargain-box. One good thing, though - Brad's going to make me some earrings, for free.'
    `I don't know how you can stand that man. He gives me the creeps.'
    `Only because you're a snob,' she smiled.
    Will grunted. `He's the snob. I mean, the way he calls me ``the Posho'' behind my back.'
    `Well, you are ``the Posho'' compared with him - public school and ...'
    `Only day school.'
    `Maybe, but still a cut above Hackney Comprehensive, or wherever poor Brad went. Oh, by the way, he's just discovered that Camden Lock is on a direct ley-line to Glastonbury. Which means it's a very special place, with healing properties - or so he says.'
    `Well, there he may be right. In fact, the older I get, the more open I am to such things. I'm sure there are dozens of forces working on us which we simply don't understand - perhaps can't understand, with our limited brains and our determination that everything must be rational. I heard some scientist the other day saying that unless a thing could be proved, it wasn't interesting. I ask you! That rules out love, and prayer, and God, and ghosts, and ...'
    `Ghosts?' said Scott, barging in at that moment. `Where?'
    The cat jumped off the sill in alarm and shot through the door, recognising a past tormentor.
    `Scott,' said Catherine, tight-lipped. `I particularly asked you to stay out of the kitchen.'
    `Keep your hair on, mate! Jo said I could do myself some beans on toast.'
    `Oh, did she?'
    `Yeah.' He was peering into the saucepans on the hob. `But spaghetti'll do fine.'
    She darted over to protect their dinner. `I'm sorry, Scott, there isn't enough. And there's no bread left for toast.'
    He slouched back to the table and picked up a piece of Melba toast. `What's this stuff then?'
    `That's for the pâté.'
    `Great! I love pâté.'
    Disguising her fury, she gave him the last chunk, knowing Will would have happily finished it. `There! And you can have the rest of that toast. But would you please take it into the other room.'
    `Just a sec.' Scott pulled up a chair and squeezed between the two of them. `I want to ask you something. About your son.'
    `What about him?'
    `He's a lawyer, isn't he?'
    `No. His wife is - a solicitor.'
    Scott giggled, spraying bits of pâté onto the tablecloth. `A solicitor! That's hilarious. I thought it was breaking the law to solicit.'
    `Scott, I've already told you, Will and I ...'
    `Hang on, I'm getting there. There's this mate of mine - needs help.'
    `What sort of help?'
    `Well, let's just say he's got a bit of previous, so the fuzz picked on him and banged him up for nothing. And I wondered if your son's wife - what's her name? Angela, Amelia, whatever - could do us a favour and bail him out.'
    `No, I'm sorry, she doesn't do criminal work.'
    `Criminal? Danny's not a fucking criminal! He wasn't even there when the others ...'
    Catherine flung an imploring look at Will. He rose to his feet, a solid figure compared with Scott's weedy frame.
    `Scott, it was great to meet you, but Catherine and I have an important business matter to discuss. I suggest your friend rings the Citizens' Advice Bureau first thing Monday morning. Meanwhile ...' He gripped Scott's shoulder and steered him firmly to the door.
    `Sodding hell!' Scott tried in vain to shrug off the restraining arm. `There's no need for the Gestapo tactics, mate.'
    Will ejected Scott in silence, then leaned against the door, to stop him coming back in.
    `Thanks.' Catherine gave a nervous smile. `Do you think I dare dish up the spaghetti?'
    `Yeah, go ahead. It's all quiet outside.'
    `Quiet?' Again there came the sound of feet crashing up the stairs, followed by a long wail from a saxophone.
    `Comparatively quiet. This is quite a memorable meal, you know - eating under siege.'
    `Oh, Will, I'm sorry. Shall we ...?'
    `No, it's rather fun. It certainly gets the adrenalin going.'
    `I've had quite enough adrenalin for one evening, thank you very much. Listen, Will, one day when the weather's better, let's drive out to the country and have a picnic somewhere really peaceful, with no one to disturb us but the birds. I'll make you your pâté then.'
    `Wonderful! Tell you what, we could go to Kintbury again and call on Mags for tea.'
    `Mm,' she said, noncommittally. She had envisaged a rather different afternoon, lying naked on soft grass, not taking tea with Auntie Mags. The wine must have affected her already. She longed to undo his shirt, touch his warm bare skin. `Aren't you going to sit down?' she asked. `You can't eat doing guard duty!'
    He went back to his seat, fondling her neck as he passed. Emboldened, she leaned over and kissed him on the lips, tasting wine and pâté. He responded instantly, seeking out her tongue, drawing her closer, one hand straying to her breast. Her body jolted alight, as if it were a match he'd struck; a match burning down to his fingers. The food was getting cold, but she didn't care - they were generating heat enough themselves. He was stroking her breasts through the flimsy dress, and in her mind she was already sliding out of it, lying naked in the countryside: soft grass beneath, hot sun above - Will above, passionate, insistent ...
    Suddenly the door opened. `'Scuse me,' said a ringing voice. `Just looking for some beer.' A girl in a pin-striped trouser suit charged past them to the fridge.
    Catherine pulled away from Will, blushing like a schoolgirl. `There's only one can left,' she mumbled.
    `That'll do. Thanks!'
    The fridge door banged shut, the can of beer hissed open, and the girl swept out again. `I ... I think we'd better get on with dinner,' Catherine whispered, giving Will an embarrassed smile. `Without any more diversions, I mean.'
    Will nodded, keeping an eye on the door. `Sorry, I got carried away.'
    Me too, she thought, returning to the sink where she had left the pasta to drain. If they ever got as far as the coffee and After Eights, it would be a miracle. `Do you mind lukewarm spaghetti, Will, or shall I heat it up again?'
    `No, come on, let's eat.'
    She dished up the spaghetti, amused to see Will's eyes following her every movement - just like William's rapt absorption when she opened a tin of rabbit chunks. 
   `Wow, that smells good!' he said.
    `I've put in masses of garlic in your honour.' She laughed. `It'll probably frighten off the customers tomorrow. No one'll come within yards of us.'
    `Don't remind me of tomorrow,' he groaned. `Queueing for a stall at the crack of dawn.'
    I'll wake you, she longed to say, if only you'll stay the night here. Scott and co must leave at some point, surely. There would still be Jo and Darren, of course, but once they'd gone to bed ...
    Will was busy winding a long strand of spaghetti round and round his fork. He guided it into his mouth, but one end came loose and dangled from his lip. Impulsively she scooped it up for him, as she would do for a child. He reacted not as child but lover, trapping her hand against his mouth and using the very tip of his tongue to give tiny butterfly licks to her palm. It was so incredibly erotic, she shut her eyes to savour the sensation undistracted. His tongue began to trace circles - slow, tantalising circles which rippled though her whole body.
    `Oh, Will,' she said. `That feels quite amazing. I just can't tell you how ...'
    `Quick - in here!' ordered a peremptory voice outside. The door opened and Rebecca staggered in, supported by another girl. The pair stumbled to the sink, where Rebecca was noisily and repeatedly sick, emitting harrowing moans between each bout.
    Catherine sat transfixed in horror and disgust. She saw Will push his plate away and clap his hand to his mouth. With a sharp intake of breath, she kicked her chair back and strode into the sitting-room. `Jo!' she said through clenched teeth. `I've had just about enough. I mean, people throwing up when we're in the middle of eating. It's absolutely repulsive!'
    Jo uncurled herself from the sofa. `Oh, it's my fault, is it, if Rebecca's not well?'
    `Not well? She's blind drunk.'
    `Oh, for fuck's sake, Catherine, get off your high horse. I haven't noticed you being particularly abstemious. Anyway, you wanted to stay in the kitchen. We can't even get a glass of water and then you have the cheek to turn on me.'
    `There's water in the bathroom.'
    `Sure! Flog upstairs every time we're thirsty.'
    `Don't be stupid. You've got plenty to drink down here.' Catherine gestured at the array of cans and bottles. `But that's the trouble, isn't it? - everybody's smashed.' 
    She broke off as Will appeared, still clutching his paper napkin. Other people crowded round, muttering or shouting, trying to intervene; the ginger-headed man tugging at Jo's arm.
    Jo shook him off and turned on Will instead. `Don't you join in,' she snapped. `I've told Catherine once already - if she doesn't like it here, she can bugger off. And the same applies to you.'
    `How dare you speak to me like that!' Will looked like thunder and seemed to be preparing for a fight - taking off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.
    `I'll do what I bloody well like.' Jo's voice was shrill with rage. `This is my house, not yours, and I suggest you both get out of it before I ... I ...' She marched over to the stereo and turned the volume up. The music, already deafening, now crescendoed to the point of pain.
    Cries of complaint intensified the mayhem. Catherine closed her eyes. The floor seemed to be shaking beneath her feet as guitars jangled and brass shrieked.
    Will seized her arm. `That's it!' he yelled. `We're going.'
    `G... going? Where?' Her throat hurt from trying to shout above the din.
    He led her through the hall and wrenched open the front door. A blast of icy air curdled with the feverish heat of the music.
    He slammed the door, half skidded on the icy step. `To my place,' he said grimly.