Poor man. Money didn’t buy you happiness, did it? Well, she’d found that out herself, though she wasn’t in Jez Winter’s league money-wise, nowhere near. It was so unfair that she’d done well as a writer only after Bill’s death, so the husband who’d supported her through all those years of rejections hadn’t reaped the rewards.

A story idea slid into her mind, the way they did sometimes, and she sat very still, letting it flourish and bring other details about the characters with it. Suddenly she knew exactly how she was going to start this new book. Forgetting her guest completely, she created a new computer file and began roughing out the opening scene.

When Jez woke up, he couldn’t think where he was and jerked upright in the comfortable recliner chair, staring round in panic.

It was a book lying on the table that reminded him of his rescue by – what was she called? Oh, yes, Sophie. An unlikely heroine, softly curved, gently spoken and nothing like the elegant, brittle women he seemed to attract these days.

He stood up, wincing at his stiffness. The left side, which had caught the brunt of the car smash, had been damaged in so many ways. He looked down at his hand. The feeling was nearly back in full now, thank heavens. At first it had seemed as if he’d lost the ability to play guitar or piano properly and no amount of reassurances by his specialist and a top physiotherapist that things would improve had taken away that fear. It had haunted many a sleepless night till the improvement began to show and he was able to make music again, albeit very clumsily at first.

His hand was a little less dexterous than it had been but was still improving, and he could play well enough for his own pleasure, not to mention his needs as a composer. He wasn’t a concert pianist or a classical guitarist, after all. Even if he did more gigs – and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to bother – it was writing music he enjoyed most these days, and recording it in his own studio.

He also jammed occasionally with a few old friends, solely for their own pleasure. When these friends, also famous, were in London, they usually managed a get-together, though that didn’t happen often enough for him.

Half the guys who’d been his friends in the early days were dead now, though. Just like the cliché, they’d succumbed to sex, drugs and rock and roll. He’d tried all those things, too, but had settled for the music. Unlike drugs, it didn’t come back to bite you. And sex was overrated, really. He hadn’t felt much need since he and Cheryl had split.

He walked out of the sitting room, past a wide staircase and along to the cloakroom, then on to the office. Sophie was sitting at the computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard, her shoulder-length, honey-coloured hair gleaming in a stray ray of sunshine, showing occasional silver threads. Not dyed, then. What a pretty colour it was!