– 1 –

Madeleine dashed up the narrow staircase, giggling and spilling bread rolls, party-poppers and vol-au-vents from the shopping bag she clutched in her arms. Behind her Marian was trying to grab her ankles and trip her up.

‘I’ve never been so embarrassed,’ Marian cried, ‘just wait until I get hold of you!’

Madeleine shrieked as Marian’s hand closed around her ankle and she staggered against the wall. The shopping scattered and Marian snatched up a can as it rolled down the stairs.

Madeleine screamed, ‘No!’ But Marian’s finger was pressed firmly on the nozzle and a shower of Christmas snow covered Madeleine’s blonde hair. ‘Right! That’s it!’ Madeleine declared, and scooping up a vol-au-vent, she crushed it in her hand and rubbed the gooey pastry in Marian’s face.

Marian spluttered and gasped, all the while spraying snow over her cousin, the stairs, the shopping and herself.

A door opened on the landing below and Pamela Robbins – an assistant film producer – came out of her flat. There was a moment’s truce in the mayhem while Marian and Madeleine, looking like nothing on earth, turned to watch their neighbour as she locked her door, threw a bag over her shoulder and trotted off down the stairs without so much as a glance in their direction.

When they heard the front door slam, four flights below, they exploded into laughter. ‘Snooty old bag!’ Madeleine shouted. Then lowering her voice and rolling her eyes, she said: ‘I expect she’s gone to make a movie!’

‘I don’t suppose you thought to invite her tonight?’ Marian said, starting to clear up the debris.

‘Not on your life.’

‘And yet you’ll stop complete strangers in the street,’ Marian said, giving her a shove, ‘and invite them.’

‘Well, they were gorgeous, at least the short one was. Just the right height for you.’

Marian shot her a look. ‘You’re asking for more trouble!’

Madeleine’s snowy face looked even more comical as she pulled down the corners of her mouth and widened her beautiful eyes. ‘I was doing you a favour,’ she protested. ‘I mean, what’s the point in us having a party if there’s not going to be anyone there you fancy?’

‘That,’ Marian said, as she took out her keys and opened the door at the top of the dingy staircase, ‘is assuming that someone you fancy will be?’

‘Do you think he’ll come?’ Madeleine said, as she hauled herself to her feet and followed Marian into the darkened flat.

Marian turned to look at her with an expression of exasperated irony. ‘When has a man ever been able to refuse you anything?’ she said.

Madeleine hugged herself as she savoured the prospect of Paul O’Connell coming to their New Year’s Eve party that night. She had been trying to get off with him for weeks, but so far he was proving the most elusive man she’d ever come across. ‘I wonder what he’ll come as?’ she mused. ‘Come to that, what are you wearing? No! No! I’m not having any of that boring old rubbish you were talking about yesterday. It’s a fancy dress, Marian’ – she crept along the hall towards her cousin – ‘the chance to make yourself wild and exciting – and naughty!’

Marian yelped as Madeleine dug her fingers into her sides. ‘Naughty is your department,’ she chuckled, ‘I shall just stand by and watch while you captivate every man in sight, and worry about how we’re going to pay for it all.’

Madeleine threw back her head and gave a howl of frustration. ‘I want a New Year’s resolution from you, madam,’ she said. ‘To give up being sensible.’

Marian tossed her coat onto the solitary, battered armchair. ‘I gave that up three years ago when I agreed to let you come up to Bristol and live with me.’

‘And just look at all the fun we’ve had since.’ Madeleine swivelled in the doorway and went into the kitchen to unload the shopping.

‘Yes, just look,’ Marian muttered to herself as she glanced around the shabby room, then turned on the gas fire.

They’d moved into this garret at the top of a grand house in Clifton’s West Mall three months ago, after Celia, Marian’s mother, had sent enough money to fly them back from Rhodes. They hadn’t intended the Greek islands to be their final destination on their tour of Europe, but shopping sprees in Paris and Rome, coupled with visits to nightclubs in Amsterdam, Nice and Hamburg, had swallowed up every penny of the profit they’d made on the flat in Stokes Croft – something else Celia had financed. Marian still felt guilty about spending her mother’s meagre capital, especially when it chiefly consisted of the insurance money Celia had received after Marian’s father had died in a fire at the paper factory where he’d worked, just outside Totnes in Devon. It was the year Marian won her place at Bristol University. Madeleine had taken her uncle’s death so badly that Marian almost turned down her place, but Celia – who was as ‘proud as punch’ of her daughter’s achievements – stepped in and said that providing Madeleine got herself a job in Bristol, then she could move up there too. Marian had been delighted. Madeleine had lived with them ever since she was eight and Marian was ten, so they were more like sisters than cousins, and secretly Marian had been dreading life without her.

When she joined Marian in Bristol, Madeleine was sixteen and already blossoming into an exceptionally beautiful young woman; and once out from under Celia’s protective eye, with the prospect of a big city like Bristol to conquer, her escapades and her reputation soon became legendary. Marian’s student friends were disapproving to the point of contempt – especially when Madeleine took a job as a stripper in a nightclub just off Blackboy Hill. She’d worked there for almost a year, hoping that someone would recognise her talent and whisk her off to London; but no one did so she left and became a strip-o-gram girl.

She loved stripping. There was nothing that gave her a greater thrill than to have her honey-coloured skin, long legs and abundant breasts admired. It excited her in a way that the act of sex never did – though she had sex regularly, sometimes with men she met and fancied in the local wine bars, but mostly with men who told her they could help her become a model or an actress. She was easily taken in because of her obsessive craving for fame, and it was left to Marian to mop up the tears when nothing came of the promises. If Madeleine had been bright enough to get to know the right people, to behave in a way that at least came close to being socially acceptable – if she hadn’t so firmly believed that her sexuality had to be demonstrated rather than suggested – then her route to the top might have been assured. As it was, her skirts were too short and her tops too low, she wore too much make-up, her voice was coarse and her behaviour brazen. Yet even these shortcomings could not detract from the effect of her remarkable violet eyes, luscious wide mouth and incomparable figure. She had the lazy, sensuous look of Bardot and the voluptuous body of Monroe – a breathtaking combination which, in the right hands, might rocket her to fame and fortune. By anyone’s standards her beauty was extraordinary, and she knew it.

Marian was used to Madeleine’s shameless exhibitionism; ever since she’d had breasts, she’d shown them to any boy who was willing to pay; but being used to it did not mean that she approved. However, her disapproval was something she only ever voiced to Madeleine in private, and she took great exception if anyone else uttered a word of criticism. So when, one night in the Coronation Tap, she overheard one of her friends describing Madeleine as a common little tart, she had so violently torn into the girl that she fully expected her friends to drop her as a result. But if anything, after that, they treated her with a greater respect; as if someone they had until then regarded as retiring – almost dull – might at any time burst into flames of rage or passion. Marian found their baffled esteem amusing, secretly knowing that the likelihood of her firing up like that again was remote; Madeleine was the only subject she ever got heated about.

Despite the endless ebb and flow of men through their Stokes Croft flat, and the outrageous parties that vibrated on into the early hours of most Sunday mornings, Marian managed to get her philosophy degree. And to celebrate Madeleine had suggested they sell the flat and go on a tour of Europe. Still heady with her success, Marian had thrown her inherent caution to the winds, and agreed. They’d returned to Bristol four months later, with a hundred pounds – which they’d used as a deposit for this one-bedroomed attic – and enough anecdotes to make them – or at least, Madeleine – the centre of attention for weeks.

Now Madeleine was back working for the strip-o-gram agency and she, Marian, was a struggling temporary secretary with the Sue Sheppard Agency in Park Street. One day, she told herself, she’d think about what she really wanted to do, but for now the only thing that mattered was that they should earn enough money to pay the bills . . .

At eight o’clock they were still decorating the flat with the tinsel and trimmings they hadn’t bothered with for Christmas – they’d spent Christmas in Devon with Celia – when some of Madeleine’s crowd from the Chateau Wine Bar showed up, bearing crates of wine, trumpets and streamers. Music blared from the cassette player Marian had bought Madeleine for Christmas, and squealing with delight at the men’s preposterous costumes, Madeleine made them all dance while she rocked and gyrated between them, all the time watching her reflection in the cracked mirror over the fireplace. ‘You’ll have to go back to the Chateau,’ she told them ten minutes later, ‘the party doesn’t start until nine, and besides, Marian and I aren’t ready yet.’ She handed one of them a cheque for the wine; knowing it would bounce, Marian winced.

‘What you wearing, Maddy?’ one of the men asked.

Marian watched as Madeleine pouted her lips and studied him through narrowed eyes. Then, running a hand through her blonde mane, she slowly broke into a grin. ‘Nothing!’ she declared, then pushed them out of the door.

When she turned back Marian was waiting for her. ‘I told you, not Eve!’ she cried. ‘If you’re going to prance around here with no clothes on, I’m calling the whole thing off.’

‘Nag, nag, nag.’ Madeleine tripped lightly past her and disappeared into the bedroom. Marian followed.

‘You won’t mind sleeping on the sofa, will you, if I manage to get off with Paul O’Connell?’ Madeleine said, flopping down on her bed.

‘What, or who, are you going as tonight?’ Marian demanded.

‘You’ll have to wait and see. No, it’s not Eve,’ she said, as Marian began to protest. ‘And what about you, where’s your costume?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Marian said, and went to pour some wine.

‘I got you a wig in Dingles,’ Madeleine told her when she came back with two glasses. ‘Cover up that horrible old hair of yours.’

‘You’re so charming,’ Marian answered. ‘I won’t ask how you paid for it, but you know where you can stick your wig. Now, who’s first in the bath?’

‘You were yesterday, so it’s my turn today.’

‘Well, don’t let the water go cold like you usually do,’ Marian called after her.

Two hours later the flat was jammed with oddly-attired people. Music shook the walls, and dancing feet scuffled over the dull brown carpet. A fog of smoke was beginning to gather around the dimmed lights, and red and white wine flowed into glasses, over fingers and down the furniture. Marian stood in a corner beside the meagre buffet, watching the heaving mass, her eyes darting from one squealing, grotesquely laughing face to another. Tinsel was dragged from the walls and draped round necks, champagne corks popped and glasses smashed. Marian bit her lips and wondered how they were going to pay the off-licence for the damages.

Most of their guests were Madeleine’s friends, girls from the strip-o-gram agency, old and current boyfriends, and the regulars from the Chateau Wine Bar. Marian had kept in touch with a few of her university chums, like Rob and Mary, the bookworm and the bluestocking, and they had deigned to attend this decadent party before flying off to some obscure part of the world the following week. They had brought along a couple of friends from, America who were staying over the Christmas period, and the discussion in the kitchen, on the merits of Buddhism, couldn’t have been more at odds with the writhings and shenanigans in the sitting-room.

‘Where’s that Madeleine?’ someone yelled to no one in particular. ‘Get her in here, shaking that body about!’

‘What’s the matter, mine not good enough for you?’ a brassy-looking blonde answered, pressing herself against the man who was done up as Madonna.

There were whoops and cheers as the girl fondled his false breasts, and picking up a bottle of wine, Marian wandered through the crowd, smiling shyly and offering refills. She could have been invisible for all the attention she was receiving, but she didn’t mind, she was used to it. The music changed, and Whitney Houston’s ‘I Want to Dance With Somebody’ rocked the room. ‘Excuse me,’ Marian said to Anthony and Cleopatra, squeezing past them and slipping out into the hall. As she started to open the bedroom door it was slammed back in her face. ‘Madeleine!’ she shouted. ‘Let me in!’

The door opened a fraction and Madeleine popped her head round. ‘Is he here yet?’ Then her expression changed as she saw Marian’s costume. ‘Who the bloody hell are you supposed to be? What’s that on your head?’

‘I’m the cook,’ Marian answered, adjusting the chef’s hat she had bought in a secondhand shop.

‘Jesus! And you’re supposed to be the one with all the imagination. Anyway, is he here yet?’

Marian rolled her eyes. ‘Not yet. Look, what if he doesn’t come? You can’t stay in there all night. Everyone’s asking where you are.’

‘I’ll give it another ten minutes,’ Madeleine said, ‘then I’ll make my entrance whether he’s here or not.’

‘You’d better have some clothes on,’ Marian said meaningfully.

‘Oh, go and get drunk,’ Madeleine snapped, and snatching the bottle of wine, she closed the door before Marian could say any more. Marian pressed a path down the hall, grabbed another bottle of wine and took it into the kitchen.

‘The Labour party’s nothing more than a turd that the Thatcherites can’t quite flush away,’ Rob was saying. ‘There’s no hope for us here, man. The great canker capitalism is raping this land of conscience and morality. I doubt if Mary and I will ever come back from Tibet. Ah, Marian, any more of that revolting Leibfraumilch going?’

He held his thin, serious face on one side as Marian poured. ‘Why don’t you come to Tibet with us?’ he said. ‘You’re not cut out for the superficialities of life. You should write, I’ve told you that a hundred times. In the mountains of Tibet you could do some serious thinking, make a serious analysis of the soul, an exploration of Why?’

‘I could also seriously vegetate,’ Marian said, and winked at one of the Americans. When his face remained impassive she blushed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, smiling at Rob. ‘An exploration of why what?’

He gave her one of his pained looks. ‘Why anything, Marian? Why the sun, why the moon, why the stars, why life?’

‘For fun?’ she suggested.

The mute Americans shuffled their Roman-sandal-clad feet and glanced sympathetically at Rob.

‘But what is fun?’ Mary interjected. ‘You could write a whole tome on what really makes fun. I mean, to begin with, what’s fun for one man could be gross tedium for another . . .’

‘I’d go along with that,’ Marian said, not without irony.

‘Exactly!’ Rob proclaimed. ‘Just take the people here tonight, Marian. They could be the very subject of your study. Push it to its limits, find out why the empty-headed pursuit of cheap wine, easy sex and new clothes fulfils them. Dig right to the root, Marian, find out what has lured them into the Penelope’s web of our time. Put the rot of their lives under a microscope . . .’

‘Ah, poppycock!’

The voice simmered with delight, and in one movement the five of them turned to the door. A strange sensation coasted across Marian’s heart, and the corners of her mouth twitched with laughter. Paul O’Connell’s frame filled the doorway. His thick blond hair, falling windswept and damp across his forehead, contrasted strikingly with his black eyebrows; his eyes were alive with humour.

‘If you look round a party long enough,’ he said, ‘you’ll always find it.’ He held his hand out towards Marian. ‘Paul O’Connell,’ he said.

She mumbled, ‘Yes, I recognise you. I’m glad you could make it. Shall I take your coat?’

He took it off, but just as he was about to hand it to her, he jerked it away again, saying, ‘No, don’t go. I’ll hang it here on the back of the door. Now, what was all this about the rot of life being put under a microscope?’

Mary answered. ‘Rob was trying to persuade Marian to get to the bottom of society’s deterioration. The time-wasting, the irrelevance of the fun those people out there would claim to be having.’ It was evident, from the slight catch in her voice, that Paul O’Connell’s presence was affecting her every bit as much as Marian.

Paul nodded. ‘Undergraduate rhetoric.’

‘On the contrary,’ Rob rebutted, looking and feeling absurd in his Spiderman costume. ‘A philosophical debate among graduates.’

‘Bristol?’ Paul enquired. ‘I’m a Cambridge man myself. Several years ago now, though.’

‘What do you do now?’ Rob asked.

‘I write. You?’

‘He’s conducting an exploration of motive,’ Mary chirped, then almost giggled at the look that came over Paul’s face.

‘What do you write?’ one of the Americans asked, startling Marian who was beginning to wonder if they’d taken a vow of silence.

‘Literature,’ Paul answered. Then, as a sudden whoop of hysteria sounded from the next room, he treated them to a sardonic look and left.

Marian glanced over Rob’s reedy frame in its Spiderman suit and couldn’t stop the grin as she said, ‘Why don’t you try walking up the walls?’ and then she followed Paul into the sitting-room.

In the centre of the room Madeleine was lapping up the attention her costume had provoked. Marian stopped in the doorway, shaking her head and smiling; at least she had something on!

‘I am Marlene Deitrich,’ Madeleine purred in what she hoped was a German accent. In her black high-heels she towered above most of the people in the room. Running her hands slinkily over her corseted hips, she threw back her head and lifted a long, slender leg onto the arm of the sofa. ‘Who will light my cigarette?’ she said, placing a tapering black holder between her lips and scanning those closest to her with dreamy, close-lidded eyes. There was a rush of lighters, but ‘Dame Edna’ got there first, and slipped his hand under a black suspender as Madeleine blew a cloud of smoke into his face.

‘Quite a performance.’

Marian looked up at Paul, but his eyes, like everyone else’s, were riveted on Madeleine. Even Madeleine was watching herself as she sauntered slowly towards the mirror. Her body had only one flaw in its otherwise classical perfection, but it was a flaw that Madeleine felt to be her greatest asset. Her breasts spilled over the 38D cup, the soft flesh rippling gently as she moved. With no resentment, Marian felt herself blending into the wallpaper. With her long mouse hair, small eyes and narrow lips, she was as plain as Madeleine was beautiful. And – except with people she knew well – she was as shy as Madeleine was confident. But it didn’t matter to her that she was never noticed when Maddy was around; in fact, to be centre-stage herself would make her extremely uncomfortable. Thank God for Madeleine, she thought to herself now, because without her, her life would be as empty as the proverbial sack. She chuckled quietly as she considered what Rob would have to say to that, and as the music started up again she went back to the kitchen.

Madeleine was dancing with one of her bosses from the gramming agency, throwing back her head, flinging out her arms and wiggling her hips in the sensational routine she practised most evenings. It was only when her boss offered her a rise in salary for a night between the sheets, and in answer she looked at him to give him what she called her Marilyn Monroe lick of the lips, that she noticed Paul O’Connell standing by the Christmas tree, talking to her colleague and arch-rival, Felicity. Her heart gave a giant leap and her boss was abandoned on the instant. Just looking at Paul O’Connell did things to her no man had ever done before, and as she cut a path through the clustered, jiving bodies she could feel her senses starting to tingle with anticipation. Bluntly she informed Felicity that she really ought to check out the red stain on the back of her Miss Piggy costume, then grinned as Felicity hissed that it was ‘the Pink Panther, actually’, and swept off to the bathroom.

Madeleine watched her go, then turned her sultry eyes to Paul. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,’ she said, looking him over hungrily. ‘You know you have to pay a forfeit for not wearing fancy dress?’

His eyebrows rose and his smile was lazy and knowing. Then he caught her as a cavorting couple jolted into them, and his smile widened as she made no move to break away. ‘Tell me what it is,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you if I can pay.’

Her eyes roamed his face before answering. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of something to take off you before the night’s out,’ she purred.

‘I’m sure you will,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone over there I’d like to say hello to.’

He didn’t miss her sour look as he gently pushed her back on her feet, but he was bored by women who threw themselves at him.

She didn’t see him again until the countdown to midnight, when she found him in the kitchen with Marian and the eggheads. ‘God, you could get high on the air in here,’ she remarked, scowling at Rob, who was sucking at a joint. ‘Come on,’ she said to Marian, ‘it’s almost midnight.’ Her voice was high, trying to inject some excitement into the soporific atmosphere, and grabbing both Paul and Marian by the hand, she dragged them into the sitting-room as the countdown finished and the New Year was given a roar of welcome. Immediately she threw her arms around Paul and pushed her tongue into his mouth. He did nothing to resist, but neither did he respond. When she’d finished, she let him go and kissed Marian. Then everyone joined hands and josded and cheered through a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

‘OK, Gerry!’ Madeleine called as the circle broke up. Gerry pushed a button on the cassette player and Marian buried her face in her hands as the music started. It was ‘The Stripper’.

A space was quickly cleared for Madeleine and everyone clapped their hands in time to the music as she peeled off the few items of clothing she wore. For a fleeting moment Marian thought she was going to stop at the microscopic scrap of lace she wore round her hips, but with the final beats of the music that too was removed, and stepping back into her high-heels, Madeleine threw out her arms and let the applause wash over her naked body.

The music changed to a soft Christmas-time melody and she turned to find Paul, her face flushed with excitement. But only Marian stood behind her, and as her eyes darted about, searching, Marian shook her head.

‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.

‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’

Marian shrugged. ‘He just said he was leaving, and went.’

‘Didn’t you try and stop him?’

‘How could I? What was I supposed to say?’ She sensed a tantrum coming on, and for once watched in relief as two large hands reached around Madeleine and squeezed her breasts. It was her boss.

‘My dance, I think,’ he said, and pulled Madeleine into the middle of the room . . .

The party broke up around two, by which time the atmosphere had been soured by Madeleine’s disappointment, and by Marian’s marked disapproval of her nudity. In fact Madeleine would have got dressed again if it hadn’t been for Marian; irrational though it was, she blamed her cousin for Paul’s early departure and wanted to make her suffer.

It was past midday when Madeleine finally dragged herself out of bed. She found Marian in the sitting-room, trying to sponge red wine stains out of the sofa. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said, flopping into the chair. ‘It won’t come out, red wine never does. And what are you bothered for anyway, it doesn’t belong to us.’

Marian stood up and planted a hand on either side of her ample hips. ‘Did you have to go to bed with that horrible man?’ she asked.

Madeleine tutted and sighed. ‘Here we go.’

‘Well?’

‘No! I didn’t have to, but it was a good thing I did. You’re the one who’s worried about how we’re going to pay for everything – well, I’ve just flicked my way to a pay increase. Satisfied?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’m not satisfied.’

‘No, neither was I as it happens, but then that wasn’t the point, was it?’

‘God, I hate it when you’re crude. Do you know what I heard someone say about you last night? “Just tell her you know a photographer and the legs open like the door to Ali Baba’s cave.” Everyone’s laughing at you, you know.’

‘So what? You don’t really expect me to care about a town full of turnip-heads, do you? And as for me being a laughing stock, what about you? You should be in a bloody side-show. Twenty-two and still a virgin. So cut the preaching and remember that I’m not the only one who’s been out spending on those credit cards. And they’re in your name, so think yourself lucky I’m doing something about it. What have you done? Bought another raffle ticket, I suppose. Or have you filled in the football pools this time?’

‘You can mock, but at least I’m not going around behaving like a slut.’

‘No, you’re just running around getting deeper and deeper into debt, and expecting me to bail you out. Well, I’m telling you one of these days I’m going to walk out of here, and then we’ll see how far you get without the slut!’ She jerked herself to her feet and stormed off to the bedroom.

Marian went after her. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have called you that. But . . .’

‘There are no buts about it! Get away from me! I loathe your bloody self-rightness.’

Marian didn’t correct the malapropism, the way she normally did. She just looked on helplessly as Madeleine worked herself into a lather.

‘You’re supposed to be the one with all the education,’ she said, snapping out the words nastily. ‘So what the hell are you doing with it? Not a lot as far as I can see. Just as well you learned to type, otherwise you’d have nothing. And without me you’d be nothing. Stuck with those boring prats you call friends.’

‘Rob’s offered me a ticket to Tibet,’ Marian told her.

‘Then go! Go on, fuck off with them, see if I care. I don’t need you.’ She snatched up a brush and started dragging it violently through her hair.

Marian watched her, her heart turning over at her cousin’s confusion. ‘No, I know you don’t,’ she said, quietly. ‘But I need you.’

At that Madeleine dropped onto the stool behind her and burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m such a cow, and it’s not your fault he didn’t stay. Why didn’t he, Marian? Why didn’t he fancy me? Why doesn’t anyone want me?’

Marian walked over to her and put her arms around her. ‘I want you, Maddy. I know it’s not the same, but you mustn’t think no one cares about you because it’s not true. You’re the most popular person in your crowd.’ She smiled. ‘If anyone, it’s me that no one wants, and I’m not crying, am I? As long as I’ve got you then I’m happy.’

‘Oh, Marian, I love you more than anyone in the world. It’s just that I want a boyfriend. A real one, not all those idiots who just use me. If I had someone as clever and good looking as Paul O’Connell, I know I’d make it.’

‘You’ll make it anyway,’ Marian assured her. ‘You wait and see. You’ll be more famous than you’ve even dreamed about.’

Madeleine smiled through her tears. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know so.’

‘You’re not going to go to Tibet, are you?’

Marian shook her head solemnly. ‘I don’t think I could take all that fun.’

Madeleine grinned, then ran her hand over Marian’s face. ‘Five hundred thousand pounds,’ she said.

Taking her cue for their favourite game, Marian said: ‘A yacht in the south of France, with big beefy waiters to service all your needs.’

‘And a skinny little brainbox to service yours?’

Marian turned her nose up at that. ‘Lots of photographers and TV cameras waiting on the harbour, because the famous Madeleine Deacon might come ashore any second.’

‘An apartment in Cannes?’

Marian shook her head. ‘A villa in Monaco. And another in Tuscany. A chauffeur, a cook and a butler. And Paul O’Connell begging at the door for you to let him in.’

‘Should I?’

‘I don’t know yet. But what I do know is that we’ve seen off more than five hundred thousand in a few short sentences. So how about seeing off the remaining ten pounds in the kitty and going to the wine bar?’

As they dressed, and Madeleine chattered on about the party the night before, Marian was only half listening. Rob’s offer of Tibet didn’t appeal to her in the least, but it had highlighted the probability that, one day, she and Madeleine would go their separate ways. Madeleine was set for stardom, she was certain of it. She would appear on page three of The Sun – her current ambition – and she’d win Paul O’Connell eventually, too, because there wasn’t a man born yet who could resist Madeleine. So when the time came, Marian knew that she would have to let her go. It terrified her. Madeleine might be two years younger, but ever since she could remember Marian had lived in her shadow. And now she knew only too well that without Madeleine she would be consumed by the bitter truth of what she was really like: ugly, dull, and worst of all, a coward.

The first week of the New Year was a busy one for Madeleine because of all the late Christmas parties in offices and restaurants around Bristol. She enjoyed her job even more at this time of year, when passions ran high and tips were generous. But tonight she was particularly excited because straight after doing a policewoman strip in the Spaghetti Tree, where the CID from Bridewell were having their Christmas bash, she was off to the HTV studios to deliver a French-o-gram for someone’s birthday.

She was in and out of the Spaghetti Tree in less than half an hour. Stuart, her driver, was waiting outside, and while he drove around the city centre, then headed out towards the Bath Road, Madeleine deftly slipped into a black pencil skirt, skimpy underwired bra, hooped T-shirt and spotted neckerchief. The black stockings and suspenders she was already wearing from the policewoman strip.

A man called Jimmy was waiting for Madeleine at the studio complex and took her to the club bar, a small but crowded L-shaped room where the birthday boy was sitting over by the windows, surrounded by a particularly rowdy group. Madeleine handed Jimmy her coat, and as she carried her cassette player over to the bar she searched the room to see if she could spot anyone famous. Not that it was actors she was after – it was producers and directors she was really on the look out for.

Jimmy clapped his hands, and silence fell. As everyone turned to look at Madeleine, the smoky air became charged with expectancy. As usual, the tension stimulated her, and she was already sorry that the rules forbade her to remove anything beyond her bra. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine she’d drunk at the Spaghetti Tree, and as she slipped on her beret she ran her tongue around her full, wide lips while letting her eyes roam lazily from one face to the next. Her Svengali was here, somewhere in this room, she just knew it.

‘She’s a stunner,’ she heard someone behind her whisper, and she raised her chin and jiggled her shoulders as though he had caressed her back.

Before she started the music, she read the ditty her boss had composed, pausing when everyone laughed and responding shamelessly to the hungry looks of Steve, her subject. Then handing him the poem, she pressed a button on her cassette player, and the seductive strains of ‘Je t’aime’ filled the bar.

The whole room was spellbound as she gyrated her hips, ran her elegant long fingers over her breasts and slowly unzipped her skirt. Hands tightened around glasses as she stepped out of it, revealing the stockings, suspenders and tiny briefs underneath. Hooking her fingers either side of the elastic, she pulled it up over her hips and turned around to show her almost naked buttocks. She danced some more, waiting for the music to build; then taking her beret, she spun it across the room, before lifting her T shirt over her head and throwing that too. When she turned to Steve, placing her hands on the table in front of him and rotating her hips, his face turned crimson – her breasts were spilling from the bra, and she ran her index finger deep into her cleavage before putting it in her mouth and sucking. Then, as the air began to fill with the heavy breathing of the song, she sat down in a chair, lifted a slender leg onto the table, and let her head roll back while her chest heaved with her own deep breaths. Her hands explored her body, her back arched, and as the song chanted to its sexual climax she unfastened her bra and let it fall away. The general gasp was almost a moan, and feeling the thrill of power that male arousal always gave her, she took a copious breast in each hand and sauntered slowly towards Steve. She stood over him, circling her hips and holding her breasts towards him. There was nothing in her mind beyond the pure ecstasy of what she was doing. She wanted the music to go on forever, but finally it petered out and she sank into his lap.

‘Holy shit!’ she heard someone mutter into the quiet, then the room was suddenly alive with applause. She laughed, intoxicated by her own performance. Her nipples throbbed, and she almost melted as Steve’s fingers closed around them and everyone cheered.

The barman brought her a drink, and Steve moved along to make room for her to sit between him and another man. A crowd quickly gathered around the table, and she lapped up the attention, flicking her hair over her shoulders and fixing the men with her luminous violet eyes.

‘So which one of you is a director?’ she said, when she was halfway through her second glass of wine. ‘Come on, who’s going to give me my big break?’

‘Steve there’s a producer,’ one of them answered, ‘how would that suit you?’

Madeleine’s eyes widened as she turned to Steve. ‘Are you really?’ she asked.

He nodded, his small green eyes moving between her breasts and her face. His auburn hair was brushed into a side parting, his ruddy cheeks were pock-marked and unshaven. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he explained, running a hand over his beard as he noticed her dubious look.

Somebody refilled her glass and she took a sip before saying, ‘I’ve always wanted to be an actress, you know. Or a model. Do you think I’ve got the talent?’

Steve spluttered in his beer. ‘Oh, sure, you’ve got the talent all right,’ he answered. ‘You’ve got just . . .’

‘You’ve got great potential,’ a man on the other side of him interrupted. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re casting next week for a new drama, and there might just be a part in it for you?’

‘Really?’ Madeleine gasped. ‘Are you serious? Do you think I could do it? What’s the part?’

‘Actually,’ Steve said, catching his mate’s drift, ‘it just so happens we’re looking for a stripper. Can you act?’

‘Come on, Maddy, time to go.’ Madeleine looked up to see Stuart standing over her.

‘Oh, not yet,’ she groaned. ‘Sit down, have a drink. We haven’t got any more stops tonight, so relax.’

‘We’ll take her home, mate,’ Steve chipped in.

Immediately Stuart shook his head. ‘No, she comes with me.’ He knew there would be hell to pay with the boss if he didn’t get her out, but he also knew how determined Madeleine could be, and he groaned inwardly as she stood up and whispered in his ear.

‘I won’t tell,’ she said, giggling as someone groped her bottom. ‘As far as anyone will know, you took me straight home after HTV. Now don’t spoil this for me – that guy with the ginger hair’s a producer!’

Stuart rolled his eyes. ‘You haven’t fallen for that one, have you?’ he said, but Madeleine wasn’t listening.

‘Of course I’m staying,’ she was assuring Steve and his friends. She turned back to Stuart. ‘Go on, go,’ she hissed. ‘If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll ring you when I get in, let you know I’m home safe and sound.’

‘Do that,’ he said, and casting an ominous glance around the circle of men, he left.

Madeleine drank her wine and listened with rapt attention as Steve told her about television – the long hours, the hard work, the actresses who cracked under pressure. ‘It’s a rough, tough world,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to have what it takes.’

‘Do you think I have?’ she asked.

‘Most definitely. In fact I’m surprised no one’s snapped you up before now. What a find, eh, John?’ he said to his mate, who agreed wholeheartedly.

‘John’s going to be directing this drama,’ Steve informed her, ‘so I’d be especially nice to him if I were you.’

Madeleine shifted in her seat and gave John the benefit of her most beguiling smile. Then suddenly she gasped as her skirt, T-shirt, bra and beret were flung in her face.

She looked up to see a woman standing in front of her. Despite the fury that blazed from her green eyes, Madeleine couldn’t help noticing how striking she was. She was tall and slim and had a careless elegance Madeleine would have killed for. And her auburn hair, smattering of freckles and subtle pink lips all added to her impeccable chic. ‘Yours, I believe,’ the woman spat. And when Madeleine only continued to look at her, she said through gritted teeth, ‘It’s sluts like you that give women a bad name.’ Her eyes darted to the men on either side of Madeleine. ‘Where the hell’s your self-respect?’ she said. Then turning on her heel, she walked out of the bar.

‘Who the hell’s she?’ Madeleine asked, turning to Steve, whose expression seemed to have sobered a little.

‘Stephanie Ryder,’ he answered. ‘Some hot-shot producer from London.’

Madeleine looked at the door in dismay. She’d never given any thought to the fact that producers could be women, and to have one speak to you like that . . . She turned back to Steve, who straightaway realised that Stephanie Ryder’s attack was in danger of spoiling the evening’s sport.

‘Take no notice,’ he said. ‘She’s only jealous.’

Madeleine perked up a bit at that. ‘Silly old cow,’ she said, but it was forced, and though she took a large mouthful of wine to restore her confidence, somehow the mood was broken.

‘You’re sure you’re not having me on about being a producer and director?’ she said on the way home, as John drove round the Clifton triangle and up towards the Victoria Rooms.

‘Just give us a call at the studios tomorrow,’ Steve answered, turning round to look at her. ‘We’ll arrange for an audition.’

Madeleine still wasn’t convinced, but whoever they were they worked in television, so they might be able to do something for her.

‘Of course,’ John put in, ‘there are quite a lot of others we have to see, so we can’t promise anything.’

Madeleine’s face fell.

‘However, there are ways of getting over that,’ Steve said. ‘Certain things you can do to make sure of getting the part.’

‘Like what?’ Madeleine asked.

Steve and John exchanged a look, then John said, ‘Have you ever heard of the casting couch?’

Madeleine shook her head. ‘No. What is it?’

Steve’s eyes magnified with amazement. ‘Tell you what, seeing as you’ve perked up my birthday I think you deserve some special privileges. What do you say, John?’

John nodded. ‘Definitely.’

‘So you invite us in for coffee and we’ll explain the casting couch. It’ll put you streets ahead of the other girls.’

Madeleine had the flat to herself that night as Marian had gone to Devon to ask her mother for money. Which was just as well, she thought, when she woke with a raging hangover the following morning; two men in one night would have sent Marian into a blinding fury.

But, when Marian returned two days later with enough money to pay the rent, Madeleine was so miserable about the way things had turned out at HTV that it wasn’t difficult to get out of her what had happened. Madeleine knew now that Steve and John were props men. She also knew that they would be doing nothing to help her career, as they had gone away filming for the next three months.

Marian hid her anger well, though she did deliver a bit of a lecture, but since Madeleine had heard it all before, she didn’t take much notice. In fact, now that she’d unburdened herself she felt distinctly better, and Stephanie Ryder, the real cause of her misery, was given the status of a frustrated old spinster and forgotten . . .

‘I’m finishing early tonight,’ Madeleine said on Friday. She was trying out a new pale pink lipstick, and wondering what she might look like with freckles. ‘Why don’t you meet me at the Chateau, Marian? Everyone else will be there.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Marian answered. She was sitting at the dilapidated dining-table, a pile of bills in front of her and a pay packet that contained fifty-five pounds for one day’s work – all she’d managed to get that week.

‘Oh, come on,’ Madeleine insisted. ‘Leave all that, it’ll only get you depressed. Let’s go and get pissed, and to hell with bills – and men.’

That decided Marian. If Madeleine was intending to get drunk then she wanted to be around to make sure she came to no harm.

At nine o’clock she was waiting outside the wine bar. Several of Madeleine’s friends passed her as they went inside, but none of them spoke – they didn’t even notice her. Finally at nine fifteen Madeleine turned up, wearing her jeans and a fancy lace top Marian hadn’t seen before.

‘Before you say anything, I borrowed it from Jackie,’ Madeleine lied. ‘And what are you doing out here? Why didn’t you go in and wait, everyone’s there,’ she said, peering through the window.

Marian didn’t answer, but followed Madeleine glumly through the door. Not looking where she was going, she bumped into Madeleine’s back, then glancing up, she saw why Madeleine had stopped. Paul O’Connell was standing in front of them. To Marian’s dismay, Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and walked on. Marian gave him an apologetic look and he grinned. His white, even teeth and intense eyes turned her heart over.

‘How are you?’ he said. ‘How did the party go on after I’d left?’

Marian shrugged, her cheeks were on fire. ‘Oh, not bad,’ she mumbled. ‘It broke up around two.’

‘And have your friends gone off to Tibet yet?’

‘They went yesterday.’

He nodded. ‘So you decided life with the lamas wasn’t for you?’

She smiled at his wry look, and he laughed. Then, giving another self-conscious shrug, she started after Madeleine.

‘What did he say?’ Madeleine wanted to know.

‘He asked about the party.’

‘Bloody cheek.’ Madeleine threw him another nasty look. ‘Did he say anything about me?’

Marian shook her head. ‘Why did you ignore him like that?’

‘Because he deserved it. And besides, now he knows I’m not interested I’ll bet he comes running. Just you watch.’

Marian bit her tongue. Madeleine’s judgement of character had never been her strongest point. But to Marian’s complete astonishment, when the phone rang the following Monday afternoon it was Paul.

‘There’s a lecture on the Italian Renaissance at the museum tomorrow night,’ he told her, ‘I wondered if you’d like to come.’

Marian froze, and looked at the receiver as if it were playing her some kind of trick. Then, with a pang of disappointment, she realised he had mistaken her for Madeleine.

‘It’s Marian here,’ she said, almost laughing now at the idea of Madeleine going to such a lecture – though for Paul O’Connell she would probably suffer it. ‘I think you’ve got us confused. Madeleine’s the tall one with blonde hair. She’ll be back any minute. She’s just popped . . .’

‘I know who I’m speaking to,’ he interrupted, ‘and I’m asking you if you’d like to come to the lecture.’

Again Marian looked at the receiver. ‘Yes. Well, yes, that would be very nice,’ she said, hardly able to speak her insides were in such a commotion.

‘Good. It starts at seven. Would you like me to pick you up?’

‘No! No, that’s all right. I’ll meet you outside.’

‘OK. See you then,’ and he rang off.

When Madeleine came in ten minutes later, Marian was still in a state of high agitation. Fortunately Madeleine was engrossed in a magazine article and munching on a chocolate bar, which she held out for Marian to take a bite. Marian shook her head and went into the bedroom.

For half an hour she sat in front of the mirror, too stunned to move. Of course, he didn’t mean anything by the invitation, she told herself, he was just being friendly. And after all, it was only to a lecture. But the question had to be asked, why her? There wasn’t a woman in Bristol who wouldn’t have sold her soul for an evening out with Paul O’Connell. She could just see the reeling shock on everyone’s faces if they were to find out that Marian Deacon, Madeleine Deacon’s boring, fat little cousin, had a date with Paul O’Connell. Suddenly she found herself laughing. Why should she care what Madeleine’s friends thought? Besides, boring and fat she might be, but they’d soon look at her in a different light if she actually started going out with Paul O’Connell.

Slowly her eyes came into focus again and she looked at her face. The dreamy expression gave her the look of a constipated ferret, she thought, and she grimaced. Paul O’Connell’s girlfriend indeed! The idea was about as credible as a fairy tale. Still, there was no harm in giving a free rein to her imagination once in a while – after all, reality would soon sort it out. She bunched her lank, mousey hair on top of her head and pouted, the way Madeleine did. The result was so absurd that she burst out laughing. Her face was too thin, her hips too wide, and her breasts too meagre to mention. Nevertheless, she was the one he’d asked, and now all she had to do was find something to wear. There was certainly nothing in her tired old wardrobe, so she’d have to buy something new. She was over the limit on her Barclaycard, but there was fifty pounds left on Access, so she’d use that.

Over the next twenty-four hours she tried several times to tell Madeleine, but the words wouldn’t come. When she got ready she dressed in the bathroom, taking her coat in with her so she could hide the new skirt and blouse she had bought in the C & A January sale. When it was time for her to leave, she glanced down the hall and saw that Madeleine was painting her nails in the sitting-room while watching the local news on TV. But when Marian called out that she’d be back later, Madeleine got up and wandered into the hall.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, eyeing Marian’s lipstick.

‘Only to a lecture at the museum,’ Marian answered breezily.

Madeleine pulled a face. ‘I thought we could go to see a film,’ she said. ‘White Mischief’s on at the Whiteladies. Charles Dance is in it. You like him, don’t you?’

Marian nodded.

‘Forget the lecture. I’d have thought you’d had enough of them to last you a lifetime, anyway.’

‘Actually, I’m meeting someone.’

Suddenly she had Madeleine’s full attention. ‘Oh? Who?’ she asked.

Marian looked at her helplessly, then blushed as Madeleine started to laugh.

‘It’s a man, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘That’s why you’re all dolled up.’ She gave a little leap of excitement. ‘Marian! You’ve got a date! You crafty old thing, you. Why didn’t you tell me? Well, come on, who is he?’

Marian knew there was nothing she could do but come straight out with it. ‘Paul O’Connell,’ she said flatly, and watched with mounting dismay as the laughter died in Madeleine’s eyes and her face twisted into a scowl of distaste.

‘That’s not very funny,’ Madeleine said. ‘If you don’t want to tell me who he is, then just tell me to mind my own business.’ She spun round and stomped back into the sitting-room.

Marian waited for her to sit down, then went to stand in front of her. ‘Maddy,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s only a lecture, and I wouldn’t poke fun at you that way, you know I wouldn’t. Somebody let him down so he asked me if I’d like to fill the place.’ It was what she had told herself. ‘But, if it’s upsetting you, I’ll stand him up.’

Madeleine looked up at her, her eyes glassy and her mouth pinched. ‘When did you arrange it?’

Marian tensed. ‘He rang yesterday afternoon, while you were at the shops.’

Madeleine’s top lip curled. ‘He rang yesterday, and you’ve only told me now? Did he realise he was talking to you? I mean, if he’s got our names mixed up and you turn up there tonight, then he’s going to have a pretty horrible shock, isn’t he?’

Marian turned away and walked to the door. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ she said, ‘but don’t wait up.’

As she closed the door her heart was thudding violently and her nerves were drawing sickeningly at the base of her stomach. She got as far as the Victoria Rooms, then almost turned back, but somehow she made herself keep going.

When she arrived at the museum he was already there, sheltering in the archway from the rain that had just started. She hurried up to him. ‘Hello,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m not late, am I?’

‘No.’ He smiled, and her heart gave an acrobatic lurch. ‘I just got here earlier than I expected,’ he said. ‘Shall we go in? I’ve reserved us a couple of good seats near the front.’

The two-hour lecture passed Marian by in a haze of Raphaels, Titians and da Vincis, and no matter how deeply the lecturer analysed colour, to her everything seemed rosy. Several times she grimaced at her own mawkishness, straightening her back and tried to pay attention, but to no avail.

‘There’s a tapas bar along the road,’ Paul said, when the lecture was over and they were being jostled into the street by the rest of the small crowd. ‘If you’re not in a hurry we could have a coffee, and you can give me your own thoughts on the Renaissance – and old Judd’s lecture.’

Marian’s heart sank. She doubted if she could remember a word, and even if she could, it would be impossible to express any of her thoughts to a man like this. She was so much out of her depth she could feel herself drowning in her own temerity. She should never have come.

Reading the situation perfectly, Paul took her arm and leading her off up the street, he made jokes about the lecture, told her stories about Michelangelo and Botticelli, and astonished her with his knowledge of the Medicis. He was careful not to put her in a position where she would have to respond with anything more than a laugh or a question, sensing that for the moment she was too shy to assert an opinion. On the few occasions he’d seen her, usually at the Chateau with her cousin and her friends, she had always been on the periphery, trying very hard not to look left out, but never quite succeeding. Her bright, intelligent eyes were what had first drawn his attention, though he’d given her no more than a cursory glance at the time. Had Madeleine but known it, it was her interest in him that had provoked his in Marian. Girls like Madeleine were two-a-penny – maybe not quite so beautiful, nor quite so vain, but they were all predictable, empty-headed, and on the whole, coarse. But if Madeleine hadn’t made such an obvious play for him, he might not have given Marian a second thought. As it was, he hadn’t been able to help noticing her sinking embarrassment on the occasions when Madeleine engaged him in what she considered a flirtatious exchange, nor had he missed Marian’s many but fruitless attempts at joining in the inane conversations and raucous laughter that circled her cousin.

It was because of Marian that he’d turned up at the New Year’s Eve party – he had sensed something different about her, something unusual. He’d never been involved with anyone quite so plain before, but looks meant little to him. It was her mind he found intriguing, and that impish sense of humour he’d caught a glimpse of on New Year’s Eve. He admired her humility, though it was a touch extreme; and her obvious love for Madeleine, and the way she so subtly tried to protect her, fascinated him. She would make for an engaging character study, he felt – probably worthy of a novel if she was as pliable as he suspected. If not, then she would be an entertaining diversion for a while.

An hour later, sitting in the tapas bar, he said, ‘It’s your turn now. You know all about me, what’s there to tell about you – and don’t say not much.’

Marian laughed, because that was exactly what she’d been about to say. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘I didn’t go to Harrow like some.’ She threw him a look and he winked. ‘Neither do I come from the north. I’ve never flown in Concorde, written a book or danced barefoot with the Prince of Wales.’

‘Who said anything about the Prince of Wales?’

‘Me.’

He laughed. ‘So what have you done?’

‘I got my degree in philosophy, which I don’t know what the heck I’m going to do with. I learned to type, and can barely get a job with that either. I accumulate bills the way a teenager gathers spots, and apart from the thrills and spills of the occasional museum lecture my life is so ordinary that one day I’m sure I shall disappear inside one gigantic yawn.’

She’d hoped to make him laugh again, but he was serious as he said, ‘It’s not really that bad, is it? I mean to say, having a cousin like Madeleine must make life – well, interesting at the very least.’

‘Oh it does,’ Marian agreed. ‘But I’m a bit like an outsider looking in; I expect you’ve noticed. Sometimes I think it’s a bit spineless of me to live through Madeleine, but I’m not one of the world’s great extroverts, I’m afraid. People don’t exactly beat a path to my door begging for the stimulus of my conversation, or insist that a party wouldn’t be complete without me, like they do with Madeleine. So yes, she does make life more exciting – in fact, I couldn’t imagine it without her. But it’ll change one day, and I’ll be forced into making some decisions about myself. I dread that, to be honest, because I haven’t got the first idea what I want to do, but I’ll think about it when it happens. Until then, Madeleine and her career must come first.’ She stopped, feeling suddenly dizzy and hardly able to believe she’d said so much.

‘Why must she?’ he asked. When Marian only looked at him he went on. ‘It seems to me that your cousin is more than capable of looking after herself.’

‘That’s just where you’re wrong. But she will be.’

‘And you? Are you capable of looking after yourself?’

Marian laughed. ‘I doubt it. But until Madeleine achieves her dream I suppose I won’t really know. The trouble is, I’m weak and cowardly, and I wouldn’t have any friends at all if it weren’t for her. Not now Rob and Mary have gone to Tibet.’

‘Why do you say you’re weak and cowardly?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she smiled. ‘Because I am. I’m not proud of it, but knowing your limitations, your faults, is partway to beating them, don’t you think?’

He nodded thoughtfully. During the pause Marian felt embarrassment take a nauseating grip on her stomach. She couldn’t understand why she was saying all this. She’d never spoken to anyone about her inmost feelings before, she’d hardly even admitted them to herself. He must be appalled by what she had told him, disgusted even. Her hand trembled as she pushed her cup away, then she jumped as he took it between his.

‘I think you’re right about knowing your faults,’ he said, his black eyes seeming to reach right into hers. ‘It can help to overcome them. But you’re wrong in thinking you know what yours are. You’re not a coward, Marian, and neither are you weak. You’re simply afraid of being alone, and guilty of needing someone to love. If that’s a fault, then it’s one common to the entire human race. Tell me about your boyfriends.’

Marian tensed and quickly drew her hand away. She was looking past him when she answered, staring sightlessly at the people passing outside. ‘I’ve never had one,’ she said candidly. And then she gave a slight toss of her head. ‘Please don’t pretend surprise, I’m quite aware of my shortcomings in the looks department.’

‘You really don’t like yourself too much, do you?’ he laughed. ‘Well, I’m going to let you into a secret. I do.’

Marian’s grey eyes rounded, and as she stared at his handsome face it was as if the room had started to spin, and she felt suddenly faint.

‘Why do you really make such a fuss of Madeleine?’ he asked. ‘The truth.’

She swallowed hard, trying to get a grip on herself. ‘The truth is all that I’ve just told you,’ she answered.

‘Uh-uh,’ he shook his head. ‘There’s more. Something in the past.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because you’re so protective. You know her failings better than anyone else, you know she doesn’t match up to you intellectually and you secretly despise her exhibitionism, yet you tolerate it all. Why?’

Marian’s face was stiff. ‘Because her parents, my uncle and aunt, as good as abandoned her when she was only eight years old. They went off to America, promising they would come back, and they never did. Then when Maddy was ten they were killed in a plane crash. She’s never shown any signs of grief, and that’s why my mother and I make such a fuss, as you call it. So did my father when he was alive. You shouldn’t look down on Madeleine, you know. She might seem flighty and capricious to you, but she has feelings like anyone else, and she’s the most generous person I know.’

‘And probably the most selfish, too. No, don’t look at me like that. It’s true. She’s sapping every ounce of self-esteem from you, and you can’t see it.’

‘That’s not true,’ Marian replied hotly. ‘She includes me in everything she does. I’d be nothing without her. And really you shouldn’t pass judgement on people you don’t know and situations you have no understanding of.’

Paul’s face was comically contrite, and after a moment or two Marian gave a grudging smile.

‘You think it’s you who needs her,’ he said, ‘but it’s the other way round. She’s a very lucky girl to have a cousin who cares about her as much as you do. But one of these days it’ll be you who’s swept off her feet with love, not Madeleine. I wonder what she’ll do then?’

Marian couldn’t help being flattered that he should think that even remotely possible, so she didn’t answer.

He rested his chin on his hand and looked at her. ‘How old are you?’ he said.

‘Twenty-two. Madeleine’s twenty.’

‘Is she? Well, I’m thirty. And if you don’t think I’m too old for you, I’d like to court you, Marian. Now, what do you say to such an old-fashioned proposal?’

She blinked, as if trying to wake herself up. The corners of his eyes were creased in a smile. Then, suddenly aware that her mouth was gaping, she snapped it shut.

He signalled to the waiter for the bill, then reaching into his raincoat, he took out his wallet. ‘I can do it with flowers and chocolates,’ he said. ‘Or with walks across the Downs. We can go to the theatre, more lectures, the cinema. We could even drink at the Chateau if that’s what you’d like. In fact, we could do it all.’ He took a pen from his inside pocket and scribbled something onto a card. ‘I can see you’re not going to give me an answer now, so here’s my number. Give me a call when you’re ready. Now, can I walk you home?’

Dazedly, Marian got to her feet. A damburst of joy, of incredulity, of sheer amazement was threatening to engulf her, but she struggled to suppress it. She was afraid. If she gave in to it now, then her life would never be the same again. The safe obscurity she had always known would be smashed, the door would close on her mundane, everyday life and she would step into a world of recognition and excitement that until now she had only ever known when she stood beside Madeleine. Paul O’Connell would be her boyfriend, his time would be spent with her, his secrets would be hers, his desires, his ambitions. She would know him in a way no one else would. She gasped as pictures of their life together unfolded in a crazy, euphoric pattern. At last she was going to be somebody. Marian Deacon had a boyfriend, and it was Paul O’Connell. How could she go through with it? But how could she not? Suddenly she burst out laughing. He had asked to court her and shock had jolted her mind into a ludicrous turmoil of melodrama and trepidation.

He didn’t ask what had amused her but pulled her arm through his, and they walked off down the road. She had no idea, that night, of how accurate her instincts were, how right she was to think of melodrama, because she had no way of knowing, then, the earthshattering effect that Paul O’Connell was going to have on her life and on Madeleine’s.