No, she wasn’t. His eyes were drawn to Sophie again as he tried to understand his feelings. Was this just a casual physical attraction, easily satisfied by a few nights together? He’d not bothered about women much lately, not for lack of offers, but for lack of interest. Why did it feel different with Sophie? He didn’t know, only that he wanted to spend time with her and find out whether what was between them might last.

He didn’t want to do anything to hurt Sophie, though. He hadn’t made women happy in the past; why should it be any different in the future?

Donna nudged him to get his attention. ‘You still with me, Jez?’

He forced himself to turn away from the window. ‘Yes, sorry. Go on. About the house …’

‘You’ll let me do the bargaining, won’t you? We can get it for much less than they’re asking, because it’s such a monstrosity. Most people would only buy it to knock it down, only it’s been heritage listed so they’d have trouble doing that.’

He waved one hand. ‘Whatever. Just buy it for me quickly.’

‘Right. Let’s get you back to the hotel, then I’ll make a start.’

He took one last glance at the garden next door, not wanting to leave. But Sophie had gone inside again. Oh, hell, he was being stupid today, absolutely stupid.

Donna gave him one of her serene professional smiles as they got into the limo. ‘Peter Shane wants to do an in-depth interview on you. I said maybe.’

‘I don’t need any publicity.’

‘But it might help with this Sophie thing if you explained what you were doing at her house that day.’

He sighed. ‘Slave-driver. I’ll think about it. I’m promising nothing, though.’

The hotel felt stuffy. He was bored, wanted to make loud music, send it shivering along his veins and filling his head with sound. But he didn’t have his electric guitars here, just a couple of acoustics.

He stood by the window looking at a magnificent panorama of the Thames. He’d rather see Sophie among her flowers, go out and draw her into his arms and …

Stop it! he told himself. But the image wouldn’t go away.

In the end he toyed with some food then went to bed for a nap, waking heavy-eyed and unrefreshed.

The hotel phone rang early that evening. Stephen Perriman, Tom’s divorce lawyer, was reporting in from Lancashire.

‘Did you fix it?’ Jez asked.

‘I can, but she wants money. I think her cousin’s been putting inflated ideas into her head.’ He summarised the legal ins and outs.

‘Just get on with it. Pay whatever it costs to set Tom free – and to get him custody of the children.’

‘Nothing is ever guaranteed, Mr Winter. Mrs Prichard could sober up and weep all over a sympathetic judge, who might then give her another chance with the children. But we did get the neighbour in to witness the state the wife was in, which may help. It won’t hurt if you have a home ready for them.’