Celia was silent. She knew I was angry and probably guessed, as I did, that I'd been outmaneuvered by Peter, and didn't necessarily disagree with him. I'd felt Tommy's eyes on me at lunch, watching in a how-the-mighty-have fallen sort of way. Look what you're reduced to. Working for your ex. Admittedly he'd been more serious than usual, chatting to Roger about sailing, in an effort, I felt, to impress Janey, who was wiser than him, a commissioning editor at a famous publishing house. A cool job, surely? Although she'd assured me darkly it had its moments.

"Now and again you get an author who's written precisely one novel and thinks he's the next John Grisham. It's my job to gently inform him every thriller writer thinks that. A friend of Tommy's was one, it won't surprise you to know," she said wickedly. “That's how we met. This guy was doing a reading down at Barnes and Noble, and to my horror, he didn't just stop at one page as agreed, he went on and on like he was going to finish the book. I tried to interrupt but he wouldn't shut up. Eventually Tommy started clapping loudly at the back, and everyone joined in, which finally stopped him in his tracks. When I thanked Tommy afterwards, he told me the warm white wine I was serving was undrinkable and we should repair to the Monkey Bar forthwith. Naturally he worked his magic." Her hazel eyes had sparkled at me.

"Naturally. And what a suitable-sounding venue."

"Wasn't it just?"

I glanced at Tommy who was obviously listening and loving every minute of this. More tales of derring-do. More rake's progress. An involuntary mouth twitch gave him away as he purported to listen to Roger, and Janey winked at him, letting him know she'd seen. I could tell she had his measure. I was just surprised he had hers. I also had a sudden feeling they'd just had sex. They had that recently showered, bedroom-eyed look about them.

"Hey, is this it?" Celia broke into my reverie as I stopped the car. “This isn't too shabby, is it?"

I came to. She was gazing delightedly at the cottage I'd parked in front of. Belinda had wanted to drive us down here, but I knew exactly which cottage she had in mind. It was right at the bottom of the track, before the lane plunged into the sea: squat, white, small and comforting, the very last house before the dunes. No rambling rose or clematis snaked up these white walls; the stiff sea breeze saw to that. Instead, flaming banks of crocosmia and tough sea grasses blew defiantly about it. The front of the house gave on to the lane, but the back, aside from a few rocks, almost merged with the beach, just a little picket fence dividing it. Even in my deranged mental state I could see it was idyllic.