Meanwhile, her mind returned to tomorrow morning, as it had many times that day.

Nine, he’d said he would pick her up. Less than fifteen hours to go. So why did it feel like an eternity away?

Natalie found herself wandering through the house in a highly restless state, not settling to anything, her thoughts as agitated as she was.

At six-thirty, she decided to stop pacing and go down to Bertollini’s for some pasta. Cooking herself something did not appeal.

Stopping in front of the hall mirror on the way out, Natalie scowled at her hair, which was up in a rather severe French pleat. Okay, so it was glossy and healthy-looking from a treatment the hairdresser had put in this morning. But Mike was right. Her hairstyle was boring. And ageing.

He was right about something else, too. She hadn’t let her hair down—not in the way he meant—in a long time.

She shook her head and walked on to the front door, before grinding to an unhappy halt. The thought that Mamma Bertollini might ask her questions about her missing boyfriend was unbearable. So was the prospect that she might not ask at all, just look at her with pity in her eyes.

Natalie groaned.

The temptation to call Mike was acute, but she resisted.

Tomorrow was only one sleep away now. She could last. She had to last.

So where else could she go? Who else could she call?

She still had friends from her old job, she supposed. But she’d said no to their invitations to go to drinks on a Friday night with them so often that they’d stopped calling. Kathy had been her only close friend at work, but she was married now and expecting a baby. Natalie didn’t want to visit her and see how happy she was.

Maybe she should go down to the local video shop and get herself a couple of new releases, as well as half a dozen chocolate bars. Boost her spirits that way. She might pick up some wine as well, and get plastered.

Her own phone ringing interrupted her waffling and sent her heartbeat into the stratosphere.

It wouldn’t be her mother. Her parents always went to the club on a Friday evening.

It had to be Mike.

As Natalie raced to answer it it came to her that maybe he was going to put off tomorrow. If he did, she’d just die!

‘Natalie Fairlane,’ she said in a much less crisp voice than the one she usually used for answering the phone.

‘Natalie. It’s Alanna. Alanna Diamond.’

‘Alanna!’ Natalie exclaimed whilst she struggled to contain her disappointment that it wasn’t Mike. ‘What a nice surprise. How are you?’

‘Marvellous.’

‘Your memory is obviously still fine.’

Alanna laughed. She had a very nice laugh. Very feminine. There again, she was a very feminine woman.