Oh. So he had read the letter. ‘Well, what do you think?’

He sighed. ‘No. I’ve got plenty of friends and they’re none of them like you.’

‘But I hope it won’t mean Toby and I can’t see each other. I’d be really sorry not to. I love him.’ The words came out on a sigh. It was true, she did love Toby, but she also loved the man she was talking to. It was like blowing a kiss in the wrong direction.

Ben nodded.

‘Thea!’ Molly called downstairs. ‘Petal’s father’s driving her over now. But you’ll have to come and mind the phone. I’ve got to see the caterers and pick up the postcards. Oh, and Rory rang to say he’s coming.’

Ben gave a wry smile. ‘Well, I’ll go now. I’ve got a house to have another look at.’

‘In Bristol?’

‘No. Near here, actually. So you and Toby can carry on your relationship.’

Thea spent a few seconds trying to find an appropriate response.

‘It’s in Goldenley,’ Ben went on when she failed.

‘Oh. Lovely views up there.’

‘I know. It’s why I bought it.’

‘I look forward to seeing it some time.’

‘I’m sure you will. Molly will make me have a housewarming party.’

If Thea hadn’t been so ferociously busy she’d have wept.

Rory was wonderfully uncomplicated and when he appeared in the gallery doorway, Thea went to embrace him. His strong arms were comforting and she clung on to him, wishing they belonged to someone else – someone not comforting at all.

‘Hey, Thea! Put me down!’

‘I’m just so pleased to see you.’

‘Well, I’m not staying long. There’s a woman over towards Gloucester I’ve got to see. Now what’s happened? You’re not usually so keen to put your arms round me.’

Thea laughed, feeling better. ‘Nothing’s happened, exactly. It’s just the phone is ringing constantly and until Petal arrives to answer it I’ve got to. And Molly is stressing about your statements. She says if we’re to get them typed, copied and laminated, she has to have it now. Or yesterday, for preference.’

‘I’m not writing a statement.’

‘Not even one? Molly wants one for each picture.’

‘Well, she can’t have it. They’re a load of shite.’ He grinned. ‘Or, at least, mine would be.’

‘I could help you write it. If you’re not so hot on the written word.’

‘Why is it, for Christ’s sake, that artists, who communicate visually are expected to become writers? It’s like asking novelists to illustrate their work, or paint pictures for their covers.’

Thea laughed. ‘That sounds like a well-rehearsed argument. You’d better polish it up for when Molly gets back from the printer’s.’

‘I’m back now,’ said Molly from behind a pile of boxes. ‘What argument?’