This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Century

Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099415282

Contents

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dedication

To Lyn Cluer-Coleman and to
The Stroud House Gallery.
With much love.

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements

To Sue Wilson, photographer, Gilli Allan, writer and travelling companion (who isn’t bossy and doesn’t snore), and to Jane and Alan Ford for an idea. To Pam and Julian Swindell for taking us to Hollow Cottage in County Mayo. To Aix-en-Provence and New York for being so wonderful. But mostly to Lyn Cluer-Coleman for creating The Stroud House Gallery and letting me watch.

Chapter One

Chapter One

Thea was standing in the rubbish bin, trying to crush its contents enough to get the lid on, when she heard people approaching down the hallway. They were talking.

‘Come into the kitchen and excuse the mess, it’s always a tip,’ she heard as she crushed a pizza box beneath her heel.

Petal, her youngest and most demanding lodger, followed by a man Thea had never seen before, entered the kitchen.

‘Hi, Thea! What are you doing in there?’ Petal said, curious but not interested enough to hear the answer. ‘This is my Uncle Ben. Oh, that’s my phone.’

While Petal searched in her bag for her fifth limb, Thea tried to step out of the waste bin without falling over. There was nothing to be ashamed of in compacting takeaway cartons, cereal packets and Pringle’s tubes, thus reducing landfill, but she could have done without witnesses. Petal, having dived on her mobile phone like a gull on a fast-food leftover, went out of the room, talking hard.