– 25 –

Sergio was in his study at the Accademia. Outside in the corridors the pandemonium of students returning after the summer break rose to an almost intolerable pitch, and as he paced up and down his room his hands were clasped over his ears in an effort to block out the din and keep in his temper. With each footstep he swore violently under his breath, and each time he turned he threw a virulent look at the newspapers strewn across his desk.

At last the phone rang, and in his haste to snatch it up he sent a miniature bust crashing to the floor. ‘Pronto!’ he snapped, kicking the marble fragments under the desk.

‘You sound angry,’ Deidre told him.

‘Why have you taken so long to call?’

‘I spoke to you last night, Sergio, there wasn’t much point in ringing you again until I had some news.’

‘And have you?’

‘Yes. She arrived back in England about an hour ago.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘At home, with her cousin.’

‘Her cousin? Do you mean Marian Deacon?’

‘Yes,’ Deidre answered, sounding surprised. ‘She flew out to Sardinia to bring Madeleine home.’

‘What! Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘I didn’t think it was important. All you wanted was that Madeleine should be got away from Tarallo. Besides, I didn’t know you even knew about Marian.’

‘Of course I know about Marian,’ he spat, ‘do you think I am an idiot? How long was she there?’

‘Just one night. Why? Why does it matter?’

‘Did she speak with Sylvestra?’

‘I don’t know,’ Deidre answered, quite bewildered by this sudden turn in the conversation, ‘I didn’t ask her. I was more concerned about Madeleine.’

‘Then you must find out if she has told Sylvestra what she is doing.’

‘Why? What is she doing?’

‘She is working on the film about the life of Olivia.’

There was a long silence at the other end which only increased Sergio’s rage. ‘Deidre, are you still there?’ he shouted.

‘What does Sylvestra Tarallo have to do with it?’ Deidre asked finally. ‘Come to that, why were you so keen that Madeleine should be got away from Enrico? What are these people to you, Sergio?’

‘They are people I care about, Deidre, people I do not want to become involved. They have suffered a great deal . . .’

‘Suffered? What do you mean, suffered?’

He thought quickly. ‘Tarallo has lost his wife, you must have read it in the papers.’

‘Yes, I have,’ she said, ‘but there’s more to it than that, Sergio, I can tell by your voice.’

‘Do not ask any more questions. Just make certain that Madeleine and Marian are kept away from the Tarallo family. Have you spoken with Paul?’

‘Last night. He’s waiting to hear from me so that I can let him know when she gets back. But he’ll probably have heard it on the radio by now.’

‘What does he plan to do?’

‘Come back to London when she does, I believe. He wants to see her, in fact he’s asked me to . . .’

‘You must make certain that he does. Speak with Madeleine, tell her she must see him. Then speak with Marian, ask her if . . .’ He stopped, realising that if Sylvestra had told Marian about the bottega, it was already too late.

‘Ask her what?’ Deidre prompted.

‘Ask her nothing. Do not speak to her of her visit, it is not important.’

‘But only a moment ago . . .’

‘It is not important, I tell you. Now, you are to see to it that Madeleine has no further contact with Tarallo, that she is reunited with Paul as soon as possible.’

‘And if she doesn’t want to be?’

‘It will not change the fact that I want her here in two weeks, but I also want him to be with her.’ Suddenly his voice softened. ‘Try your best, cara. I know it is difficult for you, but I love you, and after this is done we will be together, as man and wife. Now I must go, but I am sorry, my love, for the way I have shouted at you these last few days. You do so much for me, and one day you will see that it was worth it.’

‘I hope so,’ Deidre mumbled, and she was just on the point of ringing off when something occurred to her. ‘Sergio?’ she said.

‘Sì?’

‘If Marian is involved in the film about Olivia’s life, well . . . have you met her?’

‘Yes. She came here to Florence and spoke to me.’

‘I see,’ Deidre said.

‘Why?’

‘I just wondered how you knew her, that was all. I’ll speak to you again once I’ve some more news of Madeleine and Paul. But you’re no longer interested in Marian, is that right?’

‘That is correct,’ he lied, and he waited only until the line had been disconnected before dialling Rubin Meyer’s number in New York.

He had a long wait while the maid went to rouse Meyer from his bed, which, as it turned out, was a good thing; it gave him time to calm down, to think things through a little more rationally than he had with Deidre. He pressed a hand to his forehead in an effort to ease the throbbing in his temples. Now that Madeleine was away from Tarallo, he would sleep easier, because whatever happened in the next few weeks, he wanted at all costs to avoid the Tarallo family being involved again. He had caused them so much pain and anguish in the past that he shrank from the idea of doing it again; his remorse for what had happened to Arsenio was greater than Sylvestra would ever know. As for Marian, if Sylvestra had told her about the bottega, then the police would almost certainly have been here by now. But he could only find out for certain from Rubin Meyer and the men he had following Marian. If she knew, and was keeping the information to herself for the sake of her film, she would be bound to do something to give herself away – and if she did, well, he would have to take her before he was ready. And if Sylvestra had informed Marian of his connection with Paul O’Connell . . . He closed his mind to the possibility, because if she had, then everything, but everything, would be at an end.

Almost immediately after Deidre had finished her call to Sergio, the phone rang again.

‘I don’t care who it is,’ she told Anne, ‘I’m not in.’

‘It’s Paul O’Connell,’ Anne said in her usual flat voice, and knowing it was a call Deidre would take, she flicked the buttons and put him through.

Deidre waited, holding the receiver away from her ear as Paul yelled down the line. ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was back in the country?’ he demanded. ‘And why the hell didn’t you tell me that Marian was with her?’

‘Good afternoon, Paul,’ she said mildly. ‘I was about to ring you, but you beat me to it. Yes, she’s back, and yes, Marian’s with her. Are you still in the north?’

‘Yes. But I’m coming back to London tomorrow. Did you find out what the delay was? Why didn’t she come back yesterday?’

‘Apparently Marian broke the news of her aunt’s death to her and she took it badly. She had to be put under sedation, so Tarallo tells me.’

‘If you hadn’t had the damned ridiculous idea of sending Marian out there, that wouldn’t have happened. For Christ’s sake, Deidre, what the hell were you thinking of, asking her of all people to . . .’

‘Now look here,’ Deidre yelled back, ‘I’ve had just about enough of your bloody tantrums. In the first place it wasn’t my idea to send Marian out there, it was Tarallo’s. In the second, I was no happier with the delay than you were, but I’m not the one who drove her away. You have caused me more trouble than you’ll ever know this past week, Paul O’Connell. I don’t know what your game is, but I’d say you’re sick! You say you’re in love with her; well, I say you’ve got a funny way of showing it. And why the hell is everyone panicking about Marian?’

‘What do you mean, everyone?’

She sighed, realising that she had chosen her words badly. ‘Oh, I don’t mean anything, I’ve just had a rough day that’s all, so I can do without you yelling at me as though it’s all my fault.’

‘Have you asked Madeleine if she’ll see me?’ he asked, making the effort to sound a little calmer.

‘No. I left it to Marian.’

‘Oh, that’s just great!’ he fumed. ‘You do know about our history, don’t you, Deidre? How Marian and I had a thing going, how I practically asked her to marry me, then dumped her for Madeleine?’

‘No, Paul, I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me. After all, you’ve just proved what a bastard you are with that stroke you pulled in the south of France. Shamir and Madeleine were best friends, so what the hell did you think you were doing?’

‘I don’t have to explain anything to you, Deidre. I just want Madeleine back where she belongs, with me. And if you’re as keen as you say you are to see that happen, you’d better get Marian out of the way.’

‘Impossible! Madeleine would never hear of it. Besides, you flatter yourself if you think Marian still cares about you, because I have it on the best authority that she doesn’t.’

‘And whose might that be?’

‘Marian herself. She told me, before she left here to go to Sardinia, that if Madeleine was still in love with you she would do nothing to stand in the way of your getting back together. But it doesn’t stop her seeing you for the despicable shit you are.’

‘Ease up, Deidre,’ he laughed. ‘I had my reasons for doing what I did, and though they weren’t particularly honourable, in time you’ll see why I had to do it.’

‘For your damned book, I suppose?’

‘In this case, no. But I still have one stage further to go with the book, so remember, Deidre, that I’m looking for a “murder” victim.’

‘Is that some kind of threat?’ she demanded.

‘Take it as you like. But I’d say Marian fitted the bill rather nicely, wouldn’t you?’ He laughed. ‘In the meantime, as I said, I’m returning to London tomorrow, so until Madeleine agrees to take me back I’ll need somewhere to stay. How about with you?’

‘Forget it. I’ll talk to Roy, you can stay with him. Have you spoken to anyone from the press, by the way?’

‘No, I’m keeping a low profile. How about you?’

‘Same here.’

‘Before you go, Deidre, when you spoke to Marian this morning did she tell you anything . . . anything unusual?’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything about the Tarallo family, or people they know?’

Deidre was immediately wary. ‘Not that I can think of. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, other than that the family intrigues me.’

‘Why? They’re just a family like any other, aren’t they?’

‘I don’t know, Deidre. You tell me.’

Deidre closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. ‘For God’s sake!’ she seethed, clenching her fist and only just managing to refrain from banging the desk. ‘Why the hell is everyone talking in riddles today? Why can’t you just come straight out and ask the question?’

‘What question?’

At that, the last strand of her control snapped. ‘That’s it!’ she declared. ‘I can’t take any more.’ And before he could even so much as laugh at her confusion, she hung up.

As the taxi drew to a halt outside the film production offices in Soho, the door flew open and Marian almost fell onto the pavement she was laughing so hard.

‘Quick! Quick!’ she said to Matthew, who was getting out behind her. ‘Look, he’s down there, just getting out of a taxi. No, don’t look, he’ll see you.’

‘Well, do I or don’t I look?’ Matthew laughed, as he delved into his pocket for the fare.

‘Don’t,’ Marian said, sidling round him and glancing shiftily out of the corner of her eye, ‘he’s watching. Oh look, he’s just ducked into a doorway.’ She collapsed into laughter again. ‘It’s like something out of an Agatha Christie movie,’ she gasped. ‘He must realise we know he’s there.’

‘Cheers,’ Matthew said, as the taxi driver handed him his change. Then turning to Marian, he said, ‘I expect he does, especially as you keep laughing at him.’

‘You can hardly blame me, can you?’ she said. ‘Oh! My painting!’ But as she started to make off after the taxi, Matthew caught her arm and dragged her back.

‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to the brown paper parcel balanced between his legs.

‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ she cried. ‘I would have taken it as a very bad omen to lose the painting I bought with my mother’s money.’

‘But you’re not too worried about him?’ Matthew said, nodding his head towards the sandy-haired man who was studiously not watching them further up the street.

‘Well, you have to admit, it’s difficult to take him seriously when he gets himself into such a pickle trying follow me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that woman’s face as he hauled her out of her taxi when we left Christie’s. Thanks,’ she added, as he handed her the painting. ‘Do you know, I think life would seem extremely dull if he went away – I’ve become rather attached to him in a funny sort of way.’ And looking back up the street she gave Boris – as she now called him – a friendly wave.

‘I despair of you,’ Matthew chuckled, draping an arm round her shoulders and steering her towards the office.

‘Cup of tea?’ she offered, as they walked in through the door.

‘I’d love one,’ Josey piped up.

‘Me too,’ Woody added.

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Matthew said, laughing at the long-suffering look Marian gave them.

‘Stephanie’s looking for you, Matthew,’ Hazel said, as they started to walk out to the kitchen, and her tone was so sharp that Marian’s eyes flew to Matthew’s face.

‘Really?’ he said, quite unruffled by Hazel’s manner. ‘Where is she?’

‘Upstairs, where do you think?’

‘In that case, once Marian and I have made the tea I’ll take her one up, OK?’ And treating Hazel to an exaggerated smile, he took Marian by the shoulders and pushed her into the kitchen.

‘Matthew,’ Marian began as he filled the kettle.

‘Don’t give it another thought.’

‘But you don’t know what I was going to say.’

‘I do, and there’s no point. If Hazel has a problem about you and me going to an auction, then let her sort it.’

‘I wasn’t thinking so much about Hazel, as a matter of fact, I was thinking about Stephanie.’

‘Were you? She’s probably only looking for me to find out if I’ve read the stuff Bronwen gave me last night.’

‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’

‘You’re right, I do, but this is hardly the time or the place to discuss it, is it? Now, if you’ll excuse me I’d like to get some cups out of the cupboard and you’re in my way.’ And taking her by the arms, he pulled her towards him.

Marian giggled as he stuck his head under her arm to bend down to the cupboard, and was just about to give him a playful push when Stephanie appeared in the doorway.

‘I don’t wish to interrupt anything,’ she said acidly, ‘but I’d like to have a word with you, please, Matthew. When you can spare the time.’ And after fixing Marian with an inimical glare, she turned and walked out.

‘Oh God,’ Matthew groaned, getting up from the cupboard. ‘Women, they’re the bane of my life.’

‘Mine too. Especially when they make me feel so guilty.’ Marian laughed, but the tease didn’t quite reach her voice and there was a sudden pounding in her ears as she realised the implications of what she’d said. ‘You shouldn’t have come in to help me make the teas,’ she added hastily, succeeding only in compounding her discomfort.

Eyebrows raised, he looked down into her face, and her heart skipped a beat as she saw that lazy smile come into his eyes. ‘Are you objecting to my services?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘But nothing. We are making tea, Marian, there is nothing to feel guilty about.’

He was standing so close and was looking at her so intently that her eyes moved involuntarily to his mouth, and she felt the colour burn in her cheeks as she turned away. ‘Isn’t there?’ she mumbled.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. Except that I think you should go and see what she wants.’

‘I guess you’re right.’ And chucking her under the chin, he went off upstairs.

Sighing, Marian fell back against the wall. She just didn’t know what to think any more. She didn’t know what he was feeling, whether there was hope, or whether she was just imagining everything. One touch, one glance, one smile, and it was as if her whole body came suddenly to life. To make matters worse, she knew that as soon as she’d left for Sardinia Stephanie had moved back into her flat – though whether it was a gesture intended to let Marian know she wouldn’t be welcome back, or whether she had walked out on Matthew, Marian didn’t know. All she did know was that her premonition had proved right: New York had been the turning point for her and Matthew; yet she had no idea in which direction they were now travelling.

It was strange how she’d found the courage to deal with so much these past few months, but now, faced with asking Matthew what he really felt about her, she was as timorous as she’d ever been.

What the hell’s the matter with me? she sighed to herself as she switched off the kettle and started spooning tea into the pot. Why can’t I just come right out and ask him? She pulled a face; she knew only too well why she couldn’t – she was afraid of the answer, afraid that what had passed between them that night in New York had meant nothing to him. Yet she had only to think about the way he had behaved to her since to know that that couldn’t be true.

She threw up her hands in frustration. She was simply going round and round in circles.

Upstairs in Stephanie’s office Bronwen, Matthew and Stephanie were sitting round Stephanie’s desk going over the suggestions Bronwen and Deborah Foreman had come up with for the final sequence of the film. With Bronwen present, neither Matthew nor Stephanie had referred to the incident in the kitchen, though Bronwen was acutely aware of the hostility between them.

‘Anyway,’ she was saying, ‘I know these ideas fall a long way short of being brilliant, but I wanted to see if they might inspire some genius in either of you.’

‘Mm,’ Matthew said, tapping his fingers on the desk and looking down at the scenes with an ambiguous expression. ‘They’re not as bad as you think, Bron, but –’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out several sheets of handwritten notes; then, avoiding Stephanie’s eye, he went on, ‘In my opinion, with some careful scripting, this will work. But I do stress careful scripting; it comes pretty close to being libellous.’

‘In that case there’s no point in us looking at it, is there?’ Stephanie said.

He looked across the desk at her sour face, and as their eyes met Bronwen almost winced at the enmity that sparked between them. ‘I think you should,’ he said.

‘Why?’ Stephanie asked.

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘I mean, why should we look? Because the idea is good, or because the idea is Marian’s?’

Bronwen started to get to her feet. ‘Look, I think we’d better resume . . .’

‘Sit down, Bron,’ Stephanie said, and sighing heavily, Bronwen sank back in her chair. ‘Well?’ Stephanie said, glaring at Matthew.

‘Does it matter whose the idea is as long as it’s good?’ he asked.

‘In this case, yes.’

‘And you call yourself a producer.’

For one moment Bronwen thought Stephanie was going to hit him, but instead she folded her hands on the desk in front of her and said, ‘As a matter of fact, I do. And what, besides a director, do you call yourself?’

‘I’m not staying for any more of this,’ Bronwen said. ‘If you two have got something to say to one another, then say it, only wait until I’ve gone. But just for the record, I think you’re both behaving extremely unprofessionally. We haven’t got an end sequence worked out yet, and that’s what this meeting should be about, not . . .’

‘It’s all right, Bronwen,’ Stephanie said, ‘it’s my fault, and you’re right, we have to get this sorted out.’ She turned back to Matthew. ‘So what has Marian come up with?’

‘You can read it for yourself,’ he said, pushing the notes across the desk.

She picked them up, and after barely more than a cursory glance said, ‘A solitary car driving down the autostrada in Tuscany? Is that it?’

‘Why don’t you finish reading it?’

‘“The car,”’ she read aloud, ‘“belongs to the American student. He drives Olivia down an empty autostrada at dusk, stops halfway up the hill to Paesetto di Pittore, and Olivia gets out. In the background we can just make out the village through the mist. Olivia starts to walk up the hill – camera on high shot – and as she approaches the village the credits start to roll.” ’ She looked at Matthew. ‘I’m supposed to be impressed?’

Biting back what he would really like to say, Matthew fixed her with an obdurate glare and remained silent.

‘Why is it libellous?’ she asked uninterestedly.

‘That part of it isn’t. It’s the montage of shots that comes before, which you haven’t bothered to read. It involves close-ups of the characters we most strongly suspect.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Stephanie stated. ‘We can’t do that, I wouldn’t allow it and neither would the lawyers.’

‘They might if we found a way round it.’

‘There isn’t a way round it. Libel is libel.’

‘And you’re not even going to try, are you?’

‘Well, I am,’ Bronwen said. ‘It’s the best ending there is, because it’s the real one, and so far not one of us has had the guts to admit that we’re frightened to death of doing something like this because of what Frank Hastings might say. What else have we got to end with? A whole bunch of half-baked theories that wouldn’t lend themselves to a soap opera, let alone a feature film. Thank God someone’s come to their senses at last and had the courage to do this, even if it is libellous. And I think that if we temper the approach, and combine some of Marian’s notes with what Deborah and I have come up with, we’re there. The only other solution is for us to find out what really did happen, and that’s not very likely, is it?’

‘She’s right, and you know it,’ Matthew said, looking at Stephanie who was staring down at her hands. He hated himself for doing this to her, and he wished it wasn’t Marian who had written the sequence; he knew Stephanie couldn’t take much more. But what the hell more could he do to reassure her? He’d told her he loved her, he’d asked her to marry him, he’d all but pleaded with her not to move her things back to her own flat, but none of it seemed to convince her that his feelings towards her hadn’t changed. And they hadn’t, he was certain of it. But what he couldn’t get to the bottom of were his feelings for Marian. After that night in New York things had changed between them, he couldn’t deny it; but how could he talk about that to Stephanie when he didn’t even understand it himself?

At last Stephanie lifted her head, and looking from one to the other of them, said, ‘OK, moderate it, check it with Frank Hastings, and if he approves, so will I.’

Matthew refrained from breathing a sigh of relief, then bracing himself for her reaction to what he was about to say, he looked straight into Stephanie’s eyes. ‘It won’t be easy to persuade Frank, of course, but I think Marian should be the one to do it.’

‘Why?’ Stephanie demanded angrily, the strain she was under beginning to show.

‘I can’t explain why, I just think she should.’

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ she spat. ‘Bronwen is the co-producer and editor of this screenplay, not Marian, or are you planning some sort of take-over?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Then Bronwen will talk to Frank.’ And she snatched up the phone as it rang.

Matthew turned to Bronwen. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘If I told you what’s really going through my mind, Matthew, I don’t think you’d like it much. Anyway, I have to be going.’

‘It’s for you,’ Stephanie said, thrusting the receiver at Matthew. ‘Come along, Bron, I’ll walk you downstairs.’

‘Who was that on the phone?’ Bronwen asked as she and Stephanie walked out into the street.

Stephanie shrugged. ‘Sounded like his son. Bron, I’m sorry about all that just now, it must have embarrassed the hell out of you.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Bronwen answered, placing a comforting hand on Stephanie’s arm. ‘Just sort things out with him.’

‘When I get the time.’

‘Make it, or you’re going to drive yourself insane. I’ll never know why you moved yourself back to your own flat.’

‘I’ll tell you why. We weren’t having sex any longer, that’s why. Now, doesn’t that tell you something?’

‘Me, no. But obviously it does you. Look, Steph,’ she said, giving her a quick hug, ‘I’m sorry but I have to run, I’ve promised to have tea with my aging aunt at five o’clock. I’ll come over to the flat later, if you like, and we can discuss this idea of Matthew’s that Marian should speak to Frank.’

‘But in principle what do you think of it?’ Stephanie asked.

‘I think he might be right. Don’t ask me why, but I get the feeling she’s got some influence – if that’s the right word – with Frank, or if not with him then with Grace. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. In the meantime, keep your chin up, cariad.’

‘I will,’ Stephanie smiled, and as Bronwen ran off down the street she wandered back inside.

She was about to go upstairs to her office when her eye was caught by the brown paper parcel propped against Marian’s desk, and turning back, she put her head in through the door. ‘You got it, then? The painting?’

Marian looked up. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her discomfort more than evident.

‘Can I see it?’

‘Of course.’ Getting to her feet, Marian walked round her desk, glancing nervously towards Hazel and Josey – but they were both studiously engrossed in their own business.

‘Did you actually bid yourself?’ Stephanie asked, as Marian started to unwrap the parcel. ‘I’ve never been to an auction myself. I keep saying I will but I never get round to it. Was it fun?’

‘It was OK,’ Marian answered, pulling the painting from the protective padding and handing it to Stephanie. ‘Here it is. It might not be quite your taste, but Mum always loved flowers so I thought . . .’

‘Oh, it’s beautiful, Marian,’ Stephanie cried. ‘Have you seen it, Hazel?’

Hazel looked up. ‘Yes, isn’t it divine?’ she said, then turned back to what she was doing.

At that moment the phone rang, and as Marian leaned across the desk to answer it, she noticed Hazel glance up again and saw the strange, almost malicious smile that came over her face as she caught Stephanie’s eye.

‘Hello, Ryder and Evans,’ Marian said into the receiver, but she was barely listening to the voice at the other end because she was watching Stephanie and Hazel, certain that they were going to do something to damage the painting. Then she realised that it was Madeleine speaking to her, pleading with her to go home, and because of the panic in Madeleine’s voice Marian turned her back on the room and whispered down the line, ‘It’s all right, I’ll be there in half an hour.’ And before Madeleine could say anything else, she rang off.

When she turned back, Stephanie was still admiring the painting and telling Hazel what wonderful taste Marian had. There was no sarcasm in her tone, but the remark hung so heavily in the air that Marian wanted to snatch the painting away and tell her to mind her own business. Then Stephanie asked who was going to hang it for her.

‘I’m sure Maddy and I can manage between us,’ Marian answered shakily. Inside her there was a fomenting rage which she knew came from guilt, making her want to yell at Stephanie, strike her, even – anything to make Stephanie lash out with the hatred she must be feeling. They all knew that she, Marian, was to blame for the way things were between Stephanie and Matthew, yet no one, not even Matthew, would talk about it.

‘Would it be all right if I left now?’ she said, taking the painting from Stephanie. ‘I’ll come in early tomorrow to make up for it, but I . . . something’s come up at home.’

‘Of course it would be all right,’ Stephanie said, starting to help her with the wrapping. ‘Nothing’s wrong, I hope?’

‘No, no,’ Marian answered. ‘It’s . . . Ever since Madeleine found out that my mother was dead, she’s been in a pretty bad way, and now Paul’s just rung her and she’s agreed to see him.’

Stephanie picked up the phone. ‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ she said. ‘You don’t want that painting getting crushed on the tube, do you?’

‘There’s really no need,’ Marian insisted. ‘I’ll hail one.’ And taking her coat from the stand, she started to leave the office.

‘Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Matthew?’ Stephanie enquired.

Marian tensed. ‘No, he’s still on the phone,’ she said, without turning round. Then, with a muttered good-bye to Josey and Hazel, she left.

Stephanie’s and Hazel’s eyes met, and without relinquishing the gaze Hazel asked Josey to leave the room.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Hazel said, when they were alone.

Stephanie’s smile was sardonic. ‘Neither do I, but what else can I do? So he did take her to the auction. I don’t know why I’m surprised, he said he was going to. The day after a night shoot, as well. What won’t he do for her, I ask myself?’

Hazel turned quickly as Matthew walked in. ‘Off now,’ he said. ‘Shall I see you later?’

Stephanie looked up. ‘No, sorry. I’ve got a lot to finish off here, then I promised to call in on the accountants.’

Matthew turned to Hazel. ‘Stood up again,’ he joked, but his anger was obvious. ‘See you in the morning, Haze. Seven o’clock call?’

Hazel nodded, and watched him walk out into the street. ‘Why did you do that?’ she said, turning back to Stephanie.

Stephanie shook her head. ‘What’s the point in seeing him? He won’t give me any answers, he can’t even meet my eyes when I ask him a question.’

‘But you can’t keep running away from him.’

‘I can and I will, until he’s sorted himself out and made up his mind what he wants.’ She paused. ‘Do you think Marian’s trying to find out where she stands, too? Maybe she already knows.’

‘For heaven’s sake, darling, she doesn’t even come into the picture.’

‘Are you blind, Hazel?’

‘No, and nor am I so riddled with jealousy that I can’t see what’s staring me in the face. You’re driving him away, behaving like this, Stephanie. Instead of talking to him about it and trying to sort it out, you’re just making matters worse by pushing him straight into Marian’s arms.’

‘He doesn’t need pushing, Hazel,’ Stephanie snapped, and before Hazel could answer, she walked out of the office.