She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in an effort not to listen. She didn’t want to think about the murder. Not now.

Using the bannister as a steadying guide she continued up the stairs, trying to ignore the fear that had crept its way into her heart.

Finally she reached the door at the top. She hesitated a moment not knowing what to do. She looked around the empty hallway – it offered no encouragement. The telephone began to ring inside the flat making her jump. She listened as it continued to ring, but no one answered. The door downstairs slammed and as abruptly the ringing stopped.

Silence.

Slowly, she lifted her hand and knocked. The dull sound echoed along the hallway.

She looked around again. She was quite alone. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out a key. As she slid it into the lock, her heart began to pound. All she wanted to do was run away.

The door clicked open and she stepped through. The flat was in darkness despite the bright sunlight outside. All the curtains were pulled.

She called out, loudly, but there was no reply.

Edging her way down the hall she came to a halt outside the bedroom door. She pushed her hand against it, then realising that her deliberate movements were making her more nervous, she pushed it sharply and stepped inside. The room was empty.

She swallowed hard, and looked around. The curtains were closed in here too.

She turned back into the hall. A few more steps and she was in the kitchen. She called out again, but still there was no reply.

The window was open and a cat suddenly leapt from the sill and landed on the floor in front of her.

Catching her breath and trying to ignore the violent beating of her heart, she stooped to stroke it.

Suddenly the phone began to ring again, and putting the cat onto a chair, she walked to the sitting room to answer it. Unafraid now, the telephone giving her the sense of another presence in the flat, she pushed open the door.

And then she screamed – and screamed and screamed. And the phone rang – and rang and rang.

“I couldn’t bear to, you heard me the first time,” Kate answered. She was laughing, but the look in her eyes betrayed her lack of certainty.

Ellamarie turned to Jenneen as if she expected her to repeat it, but Jenneen only grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

“You’re not kidding me, Kate, are you?” Ellamarie said, eyeing her suspiciously.

Kate shook her head and poured them more wine.

“Didn’t he . . .? Well . . . I can’t believe it. This is Stephen French we’re talking about. The Stephen French.”

“I know.”

“But Kate, he’s gorgeous.”

Smiling, Kate sat back in her chair and studied her fingernails. “Mmm, yes, he thought so too.”

Ellamarie looked at Jenneen again. “This woman has not had sex for over a year, and now she turns down no less a person than Stephen French. Don’t just sit there, speak to her. Say something.”

“Like what?” said Jenneen.

“I don’t know. Anything. Look, what I don’t get,” Ellamarie continued, turning back to Kate, “is why? I mean all this time. Apart from anything else, you’ve just got to be dying for it. I dread to think how many batteries you must have been through by now.”

Kate gave a shriek of laughter and Ellamarie shuddered. “How can you laugh about it?”

“I don’t. At least I do, but I’m not exactly putting the flags out.”

“Myself.” said Jenneen, leaning forward and helping herself to a stuffed olive, “I think it’s something to be proud of. Do you think there’s any chance you might, well, you know, heal over after a certain time? You could be a virgin on your wedding night you know, Kate. A virgin who’s had all the fun. Now wouldn’t that be an achievement?”

“Jenneen! Will you try and take this seriously? We’ve got to find her a man. And quick. Shit, if she carries on like this much longer she might start fancying the dog.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Ellamarie,” Kate laughed. “Besides, I haven’t got a dog.”

“They’re easier to get hold of than men though,” Jenneen looked thoughtful. “And easier to train.”

“Stop it! All I said was that I didn’t have sex with Stephen French, and now you’re trying to pair me off with a poodle or something.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a Great Dane,” said Jenneen, grinning.

“Oh shut up. I wish I’d never told you now.”

“How does it feel?” said Ellamarie. “I mean, you know, to turn someone like him down? Shit! What I wouldn’t give to have seen his face.”

“What do you mean, how does it feel? There’s nothing to feel.”

“No, I suppose not. But come on, Kate, don’t you just yearn for an erection sometimes?”

Kate threw a cushion at her. “I said stop it.”

“Hey!” Jenneen suddenly yelled. “I’ve got it.”

“It doesn’t show.” Ellamarie looked in the general area of Jenneen’s crotch.

“No, someone with an erection.”

“Permanently?” said Kate.

“I don’t know about that, but he sure had one at lunch today. I was going to save him for myself. But, now that I know your need is greater than mine, well . . . Never let it be said I’m not generous when it comes to my friends.”

“Who is it?” said Ellamarie. “Or should I say, how big is it?”

They collapsed into laughter again, until Jenneen finally managed to tell them about Joel Martin who was, by the happiest of coincidences, as Kate was writing a novel, one of London’s top literary agents. Jenneen had interviewed him on her weekly television show, together with the author Diana Kelsey, as part of the running series of interviews she was doing with agents and their clients.

“So I see my adoring public missed my show again this afternoon,” she finished.

“It’s the time,” Kate complained. “I’m nearly always out during the . . . hey, hang on! What am I talking about? I recorded it. Now, how’s that for loyalty? Satisfied?” She ran across to the video. “Now we’ll just have to hope I got the right channel. It’ll be a first if I have.”

She pushed the button to rewind the tape, then sat back on the floor. “I want you to know that I am only watching this to see the erection. Nothing else. Forget blind dates.”

“But it won’t be blind, will it?” said Jenneen. “I mean, you will have seen him.”

There was a knock on the door and Kate looked at her watch. “That’ll either be Mrs Adams from upstairs wanting to borrow something else, or it’ll be Ashley.”

“I don’t know how you put up with that old lady,” Jenneen said, as Ellamarie got up to answer the door. “Does she ever do anything for herself?”

“Not much,” Kate admitted, “but she’s not a bad old stick really.”

Opening the door, Ellamarie was relieved to see it was Ashley standing outside, her dark hair plastered to her head and her collar pulled high round her face. “Is it raining?” Ellamarie enquired.

Ashley pulled a face, then shook out her umbrella and handed it to her.

“How did it go?”

“Don’t ask me,” Ashley peeled off her wet coat. “I couldn’t keep my mind on anything long enough.”

“Julian there?”

“No, he’s in Paris. Giles Creddesley chaired the meeting. And picked his nose. God, he’s revolting!”

“But have you got an answer yet?” Ellamarie asked.

“From Newslink? Tomorrow.”

“What did Giles think of the presentation?”

“I think he liked it, but you know him. Anything that’s not his idea is never quite up to the mark. Anyway, I don’t much care. I’m more worried about what Julian will say if we lose the account.”

“You won’t!” said Ellamarie, confidently. “Now come along inside, we’re about to watch a blue movie.”

“A what!”

“A man with an erection. For Kate.”

“Not for me.” Kate looked up as they came into the room. “Hi, Ash, how did it go?”

“Right now I’m more interested in a glass of wine and a blue movie,” she answered. “But all right, I think.”

“OK, everyone!” Jenneen cried. “Get ready, here comes the future Mr Calloway.”

They watched in silence for a while, until Ashley burst out laughing.

“What’s the matter?” said Jenneen.

“He talks in quotes.”

“A sign of a well-read mind. Well,” Jenneen turned to Kate, “what do you think? As I said, I was going to have him for myself, but under the circumstances I think you might get better use.”

“What circumstances?” said Ashley.

Jenneen filled her in on the details of Kate’s date with the infamous Stephen French.

“But I thought the book you were writing was all about the adventures of an oversexed journalist,” Ashley said, looking at Kate.

“I’ve got an imagination, haven’t I?”

“But what are you feeding it on?” Ellamarie wanted to know.

“It hasn’t been hungry, until now.” Kate swivelled round to face Jenneen. “I think he’s absolutely gorgeous. What’s his name again?”

“Joel. Joel Martin.”

“And is he a good agent?”

“Who cares? Oh, of course, you do. Well, yes, or at least so he tells me. And the writer there with him, she couldn’t sing his praises highly enough.”

“How soon can you get him here?” Kate grinned.

“Oh well, if you’re not that keen, then we’ll just forget it.”

“Jenneen! Sometimes . . .”

“OK. Just leave it to me.”

“Are we going out anywhere?” Ashley was looking at her watch. “I’m starving.”

“Food coming up,” said Kate. “It’s such a ghastly night I thought I’d cook, save us going out.”

She went off to the kitchen and the others fell into the easy and idle chatter that was an integral pan of the evenings they spent together. The Barnes Conference was what they called these evenings, owing to the fact that, in their early twenties, they had shared a house in Barnes. Now, in their early thirties, and nearing the top of their chosen careers, their friendship was every bit as strong. They were, as Jenneen put it whenever she was feeling philosophical, four women pursuing their lives in a London of the 1980s, all of them successful and capable of loving no more nor less than their mothers and grandmothers before them, but who had to contend with the social pressures that promiscuity, equality and the sixties had thrust upon them. And the prejudices too.

Kate opened the door of the microwave and, putting the dish on the work surface, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She shook her head, allowing her new curls to fall around her face. Shame Stephen French had been such a bore, the idea of a good Yuppie stockbroker had rather appealed to her.

Hearing Ellamarie’s burst of laughter, she popped her head through the serving hatch demanding to know what all the noise was about.

“It’s Jenneen,” Ellamarie gasped, wiping the tears from her face. “She’s being disgusting again.”

“Me?” Jenneen cried.

“Perish the thought,” Ashley said.

Leaving the doors open, Kate started to dish up. “Oh hey, I’ve just remembered, any chance of two extra tickets for opening night, Ellamarie?”

“I’ll find out. But I thought you were all coming on the second night?”

“That’s what I meant,” said Kate, bringing the food in on a tray. “Daddy says he’d like to come. Mummy’s coming home for the week and he thought it would be a treat for her. If she’ll agree.” Kate’s mother had been in what they all referred to as a convalescent home ever since Kate’s brother had died in an accident three years before. Mrs Calloway had been unable to accept the death, and in the end it had been necessary to send her somewhere where she could be looked after properly.

“How are rehearsals going, Ellamarie?” Ashley asked.

“Not bad. Very slow though.”

“And Bob?”

“Is loving every minute of it.”

“Where is he tonight?” Jenneen asked.

“Where he always is on a Friday night. Home with wifey.”

Ashley looked sympathetic. “I don’t know how you stand it, Ellamarie.”

“Neither do I, but what the hell. I have him four nights a week, sometimes five if I’m lucky. He gave me this tonight.” She held out her arm to show them the tiny gold bracelet Bob had slipped onto her wrist before they left the rehearsal rooms. Her pale face shone, highlighting the freckles that bridged her rather aristocratic nose, as the others made all the right noises. “Isn’t he just the most wonderful man?” she sighed. “He said it was because I had remembered all my lines. Which, I can tell you, is more than can be said for Maureen Woodley.”

“Isn’t she playing Viola?” Kate asked, taking a mouthful of lasagne.

Ellamarie nodded. “And do you want to know why? Because she’s shaped like one.”

“Oh, Ellamarie!” Ashley choked.

“Well, she is. She’s got to be at least a hundred round the hips, and her neck, Jesus, have you seen that neck? Even a giraffe would find it difficult to compete.”

“God, you can be a bitch at times,” Jenneen laughed.

“Which is no more than she is. I could kill Bob for giving her the part. She just keeps ramming it down my throat.”

“Well, you know why he didn’t give it to you,” said Kate.

“I know, I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.” She started to mimic Bob. “‘Slowly, slowly does it. One step at a time. Don’t rush. You’ll get there in the end.’ And any other variation you can think of on that. I’ve heard them all. But hell, Maria isn’t so bad a part, I suppose,” she added grudgingly. “Now, enough about me, what about you, Ashley Mayne?”

“Me?”

“Don’t come the innocent. Are you going to tell the great Julian Arbrey-Nelmes about the grand passion that burns in your heart, and if so, when?”

Ashley flushed, and her insides began to draw into a knot. “I think so,” she said.

“Think so! You’ve got to.”

“It’s all very easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to do it.”

“And if you had done it before, then it wouldn’t be so difficult now. Besides, I don’t know what you’re worried about, the man’s simply crazy about you.”

Ashley grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“From him. Get him to tell you, not me.”

“When’s Blanche coming back?” asked Jenneen.

“Wednesday.” Ashley answered, the smile disappearing from her face.

Ellamarie waved her fork in the air. “Don’t worry about her. If Julian really intended to marry her he would have done it by now. It’s you he wants, but you keep playing hard to get.”

“I’d hardly call spending five nights a week together hard to get,” Kate remarked.

“Well, you know what I mean,” said Ellamarie. “And look at it this way,” she went on, helping herself to more wine, “how old is Alex now? Seven? Yes, seven. It’s time you were adding to your family before he gets too old.” She was referring to Ashley’s son, the only good or worthwhile product of an early marriage that hadn’t worked.

“Or before I get too old,” said Ashley.

“And Julian adores him, so what’s the problem?”

“Blanche.”

“Rubbish. She’s been away for over two years, if he loved her then he wouldn’t have put up with it. And he’s only put up with it because he’s had you. Who he wants, not her. Now, pick your moment. You’re seeing him tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

Ashley nodded.

“Tell him then. It’ll be the best Christmas present he’s ever had, I promise you.”

“And then next will come the wedding,” said Kate, looking dewy-eyed. “God, it’s simply ages since I went to a wedding. When do you think it will be, Ash?”

“I thought Easter.” Ashley allowed herself to get caught up in the mood for a moment.

“Oh dear, why wait?”

“Valentine’s Day?” Jenneen suggested.

“No, definitely Easter. We’ll stand a better chance of good weather.”

“How many bridesmaids?” said Ellamarie.

“Oh, isn’t it bliss!” Kate sighed. “What will you wear?”

“Oh stop it,” said Ashley, pulling herself together. “If he could hear us now he’d probably run a mile.”

Ellamarie’s eyes could speak volumes without her uttering a word, and Ashley got the message. Get off that negative road, they were saying, and Ashley wished she could. She had been having an affair with Julian Arbrey-Nelmes, the Chairman of Frazier, Nelmes Advertising Agency where she was an Account Director, for well over a year now, but in that time neither one of them had admitted to their feelings. Ashley was sure that he cared for her, probably more than cared for her, but he had never shown any inclination to break off his long-standing relationship with Blanche Wetherburn. Ashley did not want to admit to the fear that Julian’s ambition would dictate the direction of his heart, but in the end she knew there was every chance it would. As far as Julian Arbrey-Nelmes was concerned, Blanche met all the requisites. The right background, connections, breeding, everything that would be important to a man in his position. She was even related to Conrad Frazier, Julian’s American partner. Furthermore, Blanche was a gentile. But Ashley refused to believe that Julian would put any store by something like that.

By the end of the evening, the others had talked her into doing what she knew she would have done anyway. But, secretly, none of them would have wanted to be in her shoes. Telling a man you loved him when he had not broached the subject first, was no easy thing to do. Old-fashioned it might be, but the unwritten rules of the procedure of love were deeply rooted in them all.

“I’ve decided,” Ashley said, as she was leaving, “that if we win the Newslink account tomorrow, then everything will go well. If we don’t, then . . .”

“You and your silly superstitions,” said Kate. “You have a serendipitous life, I’ve always said so. You’ll win, you wait and see. You’ll win them both.”

She only just made it back to London in time – thank God for her father driving her up. Alex would enjoy the trip, he had said. Her mother had stayed behind to fix the evening meal. Keith, Ashley’s ex-husband, and his family would be dining with them, as they usually did on Saturdays.

Julian arrived at her flat in Onslow Square just after eight to take her to dinner. Ashley had been a bundle of nerves all day at the thought of what lay ahead, and she felt no better now as the waiter showed them to their table. Julian nodded towards the old man sitting in the corner and Ashley managed to wave. Neither of them actually knew the old man, but he was always there whenever they came, napkin under his chin and his round spectacles slipping down over his nose, with a smiling mouth settled comfortably between.

The waiter pulled out a chair for Ashley to sit down and she was surprised to see a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket beside it. She looked at Julian and saw that he was smiling. It was his way of saying thank you, and well done. It was one of the things she had come to love most about him, his thoughtfulness, and sense of occasion.

The waiter popped the cork, and Julian waited for the glasses to be filled before looking into her eyes and saying, simply: “To you.”

Ashley swallowed the lump that was rising in her throat, surprised that she was so close to tears, and raised her own glass. “How about to us?”

He smiled and reached across the table to take her hand. She looked down at his fingers as they curled round hers, feeling the same thrill that always came over her when he touched her.

When she looked up she found that he was studying her face, and she gazed back at him. There was a long silence as she used her eyes to tell him what she was feeling, and his fingers tightened round hers. A basket of bread was thrust between them, and the moment was broken.

Julian leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, “as I didn’t see the final portfolio, perhaps you’d like to fill me in on what it is you are intending for Newslink. I spoke to David Mackay this morning, by the way. He was very impressed. Said there was no way he could turn you down in the end.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” she said. “A lot of work went into that presentation.”

He grinned. “And don’t I know it.”

Ashley picked up her glass of champagne. “Well, whilst you were flying back and forth across the Atlantic and then living it up in Paris, we workers were continuing with the historical theme I first told you about. You know, taking each one of their magazines and newspapers, and weaving them into a dramatic sketch. Each publication will have a separate commercial, but the overall feel will be the same, giving the company an easily identifiable image, aimed also at illustrating the long history of the paper. You know what I mean, dramatise important events that they have covered over the past two hundred years, add a touch of comedy, with a good slogan at the end. Hilary came up with some, but as far as I know David Mackay is still making up his mind about them.”

“Sounds fine,” said Julian, sitting forward. He liked listening to her ideas, they were usually good, and sometimes brilliant. He was often surprised by her enthusiasm, but knew that the company, and its success, was almost as important to her as it was to him and his partner.

They were soon engrossed in a lengthy discussion of the Newslink account, batting around ideas, padding hem or discarding them, and more often than not making one another laugh. When the food arrived they relaxed again, and decided to drop the subject of work for the rest of the evening.

“You are very beautiful this evening, Ash,” he whispered after the waiter had cleared the table.

“Thank you,” she said. Then she laughed. “So you like the dress?”

“I do,” he answered, “but I like the person inside much more.”

Her heart began to beat a little faster. There had been a teasing note in his voice, but his eyes remained serious. Maybe now was the time to tell him. But there had been so many moments like this between them, when he had seemed to want to say more, but never had. She watched him as he poured the last of the champagne, trying to find the words she longed to say. But they wouldn’t come, and she wondered if she had the courage.

“Where did you get the tree?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

She looked baffled for a moment, then realized that he was talking about the Christmas tree in her flat. “Actually, I bought it in Harrods,” she said, knowing it would amuse him.

“Harrods!” he cried, “You go to Harrods for your Christmas trees?”

“Tree,” she corrected. “And why not?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “Tell me, is it called a ‘top people’s tree?’”

“Naturally. A ‘top people’s tree’ for two top people.”

“Me and you?” he said.

“Yes, me and you.”

“Then who, might I ask, are all the presents for?”

“You.”

“Me! They were all for me?”

She nodded.

“But there were at least six there.”

She nodded again, smiling at the look on his face. “Well, cheer up,” she said, “you should be grateful. I’ve been rushing around all day trying to get things organised. I didn’t get away from the office until gone three.”

“You have bought me six presents?”

“Seven actually.”

“But why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“But, Ashley, why?”

“Well, aren’t you just a typical man,” she said, feigning exasperation. “Can’t accept a gift without wanting to know why.”

“But so many?”

“I couldn’t make up my mind.”

Julian grinned. “Well, aren’t you just a typical woman.”

“Actually,” she paused while the waiter poured their coffee, “I bought them, I suppose, because I wanted to think of us being together on Christmas Day. You know, opening our gifts together.”

It was very quick, but she didn’t miss the cloud that momentarily dropped over his eyes. Then he broke into a smile again. “That sounds wonderful,” he said.

She felt suddenly shy, and desperately wanted him to mean it. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, really I do.”

She started to laugh, a dawning euphoria making her dizzy. “Do you know what else I thought? I thought you might wake me on Christmas morning with bucks fizz and smoked salmon, isn’t that the way you said you liked Christmas? We could have it in bed, and then we could open our presents before you cook lunch.”

“Me cook lunch?”

“Yes, you. The liberated man. You have equality now, don’t forget.”

“Oh yes. I must admit it does slip my mind from time to time. Anyway, go on.” He was enjoying the game, and loved the way her dark eyes were shining.

“Well, I thought we could invite one another to lunch, you know, to make up the party, and have lots to eat and drink, then go back to bed in the afternoon to sleep it off, before we go visiting in the evening.”

“I like it so far, but tell me more about the afternoon,” he said. “You know, the bit before we go visiting.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I haven’t quite decided what we will dream about yet. If that’s what you were meaning?”

“No, I want to know what I’m going to do before I go to sleep.”

“Oh, you mean you’re offering to do the washing up?”

He gave a shout of laughter. “You’re adorable.”

There was a short silence. “I’m serious,” she said. “We could have a wonderful Christmas together, you know.”

“Yes, we could.”

She looked into his eyes waiting for him to go on, but he signalled for the waiter to bring the bill. She looked at her watch. “It’s early.”

His eyes were dancing. “I know, but I thought we might go home and rehearse what comes between the washing up and the dreams, you know, ready for Christmas Day.”

As they walked from the restaurant, his arm about her shoulders, the words were buzzing around in her head. I love you, I love you, I love you. But not now, she would wait until they were home, sitting beside their “top people’s tree” and then she would tell him. And he would take her in his arms, and tell her how long he had been waiting for her to say those words.

Driving back in the car they held hands, but didn’t speak. From time to time Julian turned to look at her, but his face was inscrutable. He was thinking about the picture she had painted of the fantasy Christmas, and how much he wished it could come true. But it had been a game, nothing more than a game, they both knew that it could never be. He was grateful to her for never having told him how she felt about him. It was a silent agreement between them that they shouldn’t speak of their feelings, and not once had she broken the rules. For that, but not for that alone, he loved her. It would make it easier in the end. It had always been Blanche, and though he didn’t care for Blanche in the way that he cared for Ashley, he did love his fiancée, and he would marry her. In the end, his need for success would dictate his life. And with Blanche it would all be possible.

The lights on the tree were still burning as they walked through the door, and while Ashley went to make some coffee Julian poured them a nightcap.

When she came into the room, he was standing beside the tree in the colourful semi-darkness, his hands in his pockets, staring thoughtfully down at the beautifully wrapped gifts. Quietly she put the tray on the table and went to join him. She would tell him now. The time felt right. She would make the fantasy Christmas a reality.

He smiled down at her and slipped his arm round her shoulders. Why did she have to look so beautiful tonight? But then, to him, she looked beautiful every night. It would have been no easier, no matter when he decided to tell her.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered, fiddling with a light on the tree.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I was thinking how nice it would be if we really could spend Christmas together.”

“Mmmm,” he said, and tightened his hold on her. “But it’s all a dream, only a dream.”

“But it needn’t be.” Her voice was so soft he could hardly hear her.

She turned in his arms to face him. “I said it needn’t be.” He looked down at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Don’t you understand, Julian? Don’t you know what I’m trying to say?”

For a fleeting moment his eyes darkened in anger but he continued to look at her, knowing and unable to stop her.

“I love you, Julian,” she whispered, “I love you.”

He pulled her into his arms and crushed her against him. Dear God, why, oh why was she doing this to herself? To them both?

She could feel his heart beating, hear him breathing, and she waited for him to speak.

As the silence lengthened and still he didn’t answer, she pulled away.

‘He looked down at the tree again, hating himself for what he was doing to her.

Ashley sat down on the settee. She was surprised to find that, for the moment, she was calm. Staring into the fire, she realised that he must have built it up while she was making the coffee. Coffee! It was still standing on the table, where she had put it. The brandy was beside it, untouched. Perhaps by reaching out for these tokens, she could regain her dream.

“You haven’t drunk your brandy.”

“Ashley . . .”

They spoke at the same time.

He came to sit beside her and tried to take her hand, but she reached out for the coffee and began to pour.

“Black or white?” she said.

“Black, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

She handed him a cup, and turned back to pick up a brandy. Julian caught her hand and, turning her to face him, put his coffee back on the table. She tried to turn away.

“Ashley, please, listen to me.”

“Don’t you want your coffee?”

“Ash, darling, please. Look at me.”

She bowed her head. “I can’t.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Darling. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. What can I say?” He felt her stiffen. “I thought you knew. I thought you had always accepted that one day it would be . . .” he stopped.

“Over? Is that what you were going to say?” There was no trace of bitterness in her voice, only sadness. “Of course I did.” She was struggling to hold back the tears. “And, Julian, I’m sorry for what I said, I take it all back. Please, forget it.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Ash.”

“I know you didn’t.”

Suddenly she could feel the panic beginning to bite. It had come from nowhere, shouting to her, telling her that this was the end. They had had their last dinner. Never again would she see him smile into her eyes in that way that had seemed to tell her he loved her. No more days together, no more nights, no more laughter. It was over. She had lost him, but then, in truth, had she ever really had him? She felt his hand stroking her hair, and for one terrifying moment she thought she was going to beg him to stay.

“I’ve been a fool,” she said. “It’s my fault. You never made any promises, you never said you would leave Blanche. But in my naivete I wanted to believe that you would.”

“No, it’s my fault. I should never have let things get this far.”

“No, please don’t say that. It means you regret that it ever happened.”

“To see you so hurt, I do regret it.”

She sat up straight, still not looking at him, and tried to laugh. “Oh, but I’ll survive,” she said, hoping by her words to give herself strength.

“Of course you will,” he said. “Soon you will meet someone. Someone who is . . . well, right for you.”

A flash of anger sparked in her eyes. “Someone Jewish, is that what you mean?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.” He wanted to tell her how much it hurt him to think of her with another man, any man.

She turned away from him, trying to dose herself from his presence. Julian knew that by staying he was only prolonging the pain, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. The moment he walked through that door it would be the end, he could never come back.

His hand was resting on her back, and he felt her shoulders begin to shake. She was crying. Pulling her round into his arms, he tried to hold back his own tears. God knows, he had never felt like this before. It was as if his insides were being crushed. He held her for a long time, and she cried into his shoulder, trying to pour out the pain of losing him. He stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head, cursing the fate that had led them to this.

Finally she looked up, and this time she looked into his face. He looked back at her, tear-stained and dishevelled, and knew that he had never loved her more.

“Kiss me, Julian,” she whispered.

As he covered her mouth with his, feeling her lips begin to tremble, he knew that it would be the easiest thing in the world to throw everything to the wind and tell her how he felt. To forget the rest of his life, and stay with her. But his plans had been made, and he must see them through.

“Will you make love to me, Julian?” she breathed. “Just one last time.” He looked at her, feeling the need for her rising. But seeing her face so filled with distress, he knew it would be the wrong thing to do. He shook his head, and she fell away from him, sobbing.

“You know it wouldn’t be right,” he said, taking her hand. “It will only make it worse when I go.”

Hearing those words, Ashley wanted to die.

She stood up, straightening her dress and flicking her hair. He heard her swallow before she spoke. “Would you like me to resign now, or would you like it in writing on Monday?”

He sighed and shook his head.

“I can’t continue working for you, Julian. You must see that. I feel so humiliated. God, I’ve made such a fool of myself.”

“Don’t! Don’t say that. I don’t want you to leave.”

She ran her fingers nervously through her hair. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Would it help if you took some time off? Came back again after Christmas?” He saw her flinch as he said the word and looked away.

“Maybe,” she said.

“At least that way we won’t have to keep bumping into one another for a while.”

“No.”

He knew he was being selfish suggesting it, but perhaps it would be for the best. It would be painful for him too, to keep seeing her and wondering what she was doing, how she was coping.

“Right now I feel as though I never want to see you again,” she said. “It might be easier that way.”

“Why don’t you decide in the New Year?”

She nodded and gave him a weak smile. His heart turned over. Perhaps now he should go. Before he gave in.

“Promise me one thing, Julian,” she said.

“If I can.”

“Never call me. Never write me a letter. Never ask me how I am.”

He didn’t answer.

“Please, Julian, promise me. Promise me that you will never again try to get in touch with me out of the office. That you will never speak to me again, about us.”

“But . . .”

“Please. If you make me this promise then I will know that it is over. That I can never hope. Then I will never sit beside the phone praying that you will call. Never go into the office praying that today you will say something. For me, Julian, please promise.”

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, loving her for trying to be so brave. “OK, I promise,” he said finally.

He looked at his watch. She saw him look, and turned away as he stood up.

In silence they walked to the door.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, stroking her hair from her face.

She nodded but couldn’t look at him. “Yes, you too.”

When he’d gone she fell back against the wall, fighting against the pain and the panic. She looked around. The place seemed so empty.

Slowly she walked back to the drawing room. The Christmas tree winked at her from the corner, and she walked over to switch off the lights. As she turned away her foot knocked against something. She looked down to see the parcel that he had tried to open earlier when he had arrived. She picked it up and looked at it. What would she do with them all now? But this was only the first hurdle. How was she to face Christmas without him when she had made such plans? And the New Year? How was she going to face life at all now? Did she even want to? The whole world seemed to be closing in upon her, and she knew what was to come. Having to deal with the rejection, the pain, the loneliness. It had happened before when her marriage ended. She had survived. But not this time. She didn’t want to have to go through it all again. The way her thoughts would torture her whenever she thought of him with Blanche. The emptiness at the end of each day, with nowhere to go, no one to see. The yearning of her body in the night when she ached for him to hold her close. She knew what was in store, and she knew she couldn’t face it.

Walking towards the bathroom, it was as though life had slipped from focus, and the pain that had earlier bitten into her heart with savage teeth now came in slow, relentless waves. She kept seeing his face, serious yet smiling down at her. The love that she thought she saw burning in his eyes. And as if it was a long time ago, she remembered saying the words: “I love you, Julian, I love you.” And she remembered, too, how he had said nothing.

The aspirins were in her hand. She looked down at them, surprised. There must have been twenty or thirty, small and white, resting innocently on her palm. She pushed them around with her finger, dropping some on the floor.

She took a glass from the shelf and let the water run until it was spilling over. Looking up to the mirror she hardly recognised the person who stared back, and with wide, frightened eyes she watched her reflection as she placed two pills on the end of her tongue. They slipped down so easily, carried away by the cold, refreshing water. She lowered her eyes and looked at the others, still in her hand.

Suddenly an ambulance siren blasted into the night. It was followed by another, and then another. She waited for the noise to die, then looked back to the mirror.

Her shoulders began to shudder as the sobs tore through her body. She threw her hand violently against the wall and scattered the pills across the floor. “Julian! Oh Julian!” She clutched the sink and fell to her knees. What was she thinking? Was she so weak that she would think of ending her life? He would ring. He would break his promise and ring her. It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. He cared too much for her just to walk away and leave her like that. “He will ring,” she cried aloud. “Oh God, please, he’s got to ring.”

“Try Bermudas and a bowler,” she had snapped, and hung up.

Still, the pop star she had gone to interview had been a nice enough guy. Waiting around the sets of pop videos could be eternally dull business, but he had seemed to keep his cool. Which was more than she could say for that pompous bitch of an agent of his. Jenneen had made a mental note to cut her out of the film altogether, with the exception of the “up the nose” shot she had had no difficulty in persuading the cameraman to do. With that sourpuss edited out Jenneen felt sure it would be a good film. And that was what Jenneen Grey was about – making good films.

When she had first come to London at the raw age of twenty-two, and had thought herself so very grown-up and sophisticated, it had come as a brutal shock to hear her Northern accent being so mercilessly mimicked by the grand researchers and reporters she had worked with then. She had been unable to laugh along with them, knowing that despite their laughter, their cruelty and snobbery was real. In the end, deciding that if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, she had invested part of her then meagre salary in elocution lessons. She had been a good student, and within a year had virtually discarded the broad Yorkshire tones. Only when she was angry did she sometimes slip back into them. But not often.

She laughed to herself now, to think of how eager she had been to please everyone in those days. It had seemed so important then. But things looked very different now, standing where she was, so near to the top of the tree. Bill Pruitt, the editor of the afternoon show she presented each week, was determined that she was going to make it to the very top. It was almost nine years ago when he had first asked her what it was that she really wanted.

“The truth?” she had said.

“Mmm,” he nodded. “The truth.”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

He had smiled. “I promise.”

“I want to be famous,” she announced, quite calmly, but her eyes were burning.

“Famous?”

“Yes. Famous. But not only famous. I want to have earned my fame for the good, entertaining and necessary programmes that I make,” and she had blushed at how trite he must have thought she’d sounded.

And now, all these years on, she was almost there.

Bill had warned her about keeping a squeaky clean reputation, telling her that it would be for her own good, as well as the good of the TV station. But that was something she had not handled quite so well. Not that anyone knew about her private life; at least, not yet, but she didn’t know how much longer she would be able to keep it out of the press.

Wearily she pushed her feet into her slippers, and went into the kitchen to collect the cocoa she had made. She looked at her watch then picked up the telephone and dialled Ashley’s number. No answer.

Jenneen wondered if she should go round there. But Ashley had said something about working late so there was probably nothing to worry about, Ashley would be at the office, burying her pain in paperwork.

Jenneen, Kate and Ellamarie had spent the whole of the previous day with Ashley, trying to make some sense of what had happened. They had all quite genuinely believed that Julian was as crazy about Ashley as she was about him, and now they each blamed themselves for having got it so wrong. Ashley had spent most of the day in a daze, and Jenneen had known that it had been as much from lack of sleep as from losing the man she loved. The most bitter blow of all was that it had happened now – only two weeks before Christmas.

Jenneen leaned back in her chair and, curling her feet under her, let her filming notes fall to the floor as she began to think about Christmas. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this year, just for once, she could meet someone she really liked. A man who was just waiting to meet a woman like her. Petite, blonde, very feminine, so her friends told her, and with a quick tongue that never ceased to surprise even those who knew her. It was laughable at times, to see people’s eyes widen in disbelief when they had tried to manipulate her into doing something she disagreed with. Her mild and affable face belied the sharp brain behind, and the quick response of her tongue could send people reeling. But Mr Right, well, he would love her for her complexity. He would make her feel secure, protected from all those vicious tongues at the studios. He would make her feel loved. Funny though, but try as she might, she just couldn’t imagine it – or him either, come to that.

A car door slammed outside, breaking her reverie. Dismissing her romanticism she retrieved her notes from the floor. As she began to read she heard footsteps crunching up the steps outside. Automatically she tensed. “Please God, don’t let it be my bell that rings,” she breathed.

But she already knew. It was almost as if she could smell him.

The bell rang. “Go away,” she hissed, “please God, please, make him go away.”

Slowly she got to her feet and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtains an inch she peered down into the street below. Sure enough, there was the beaten old Audi parked right outside, and oh God, there he was, looking straight up at her. What a fool she had been to look out.

The bell rang again, more insistently this time.

Without speaking on the intercom she pressed the buzzer to release the door downstairs. Pulling open her own front door, she went back into the sitting room to wait.