‘That could account for your sister’s spoiling her own children.’

‘But back with my story, I went to Wellesley for Christmas, got the idea for my novel, mentioned it to Norma and she offered me the loft to work in. I sometimes worked evenings as well as days, but she never made me feel I was just making use of her.’

‘I’m looking forward to having her for a sister-in-law,’ said Marianne.

‘But first we have to get married. How about a quick elopement? I only flew in to Heathrow this morning, my bag is still packed.’

‘I couldn’t do that to the family.’

Simon laughed. ‘No, hon, of course you couldn’t.’

Chapter Seventeen

The third love affair of Marianne’s life was with the island of Bermuda, where she and Simon spent a delayed honeymoon.

Sweet-scented blossom dripping from trees forming natural canopies overhead, frangipani mingling with honeysuckle in tall hedges lining the narrow lanes, the plethora of flowers of delicate hue and of a shimmering brilliance upon which to feast the eye, combined with the overall air of repose to enthrall her.

‘Bermuda truly is paradise,’ she said to Simon when they had returned from a morning stroll to the balcony of their suite, which afforded a view beyond the hotel’s terraced garden of an ocean too blue to believe it was the Atlantic lapping the creamy pink shore.

‘So you keep saying, hon,’ he replied with a smile.

‘And if I lived in New York, I’d take time off to spend some long weekends here.’

‘Given it’s such a short flight, a lot of folk who live on the East Coast do that. Only a cancellation could have got us this suite at such short notice at this time of year.’

‘Short notice is right,’ said Marianne, ‘and I remain uneasy about nobody knowing where we are. Not even your agent, and I told the family if they needed to get in touch with me they could do so via him—’

‘We made a bargain, didn’t we, hon?’ Simon reminded her. ‘When we decided to come here instead of returning to London immediately my business in New York was done. That we’d have one week entirely to ourselves, let nothing impinge upon it. I don’t see your family grudging you that.’

They had married in September and on their wedding eve Simon’s agent had called with good news. A publisher was interested in his novel, but had suggested changes for Simon to consider and make if he agreed.

This had seemed more important to both than the holiday in Antibes that was to have been their honeymoon. Simon had already moved into Marianne’s flat, a more spacious home for a couple than his Highgate pad, and it was there that he settled down to work, Marianne finding that her reservations about sharing her life with another writer could be set aside.