I’m so glad my younger brother has become so successful with his business. I always put him in the shade academically, and even though he was sporty, on all the teams, Mum and Dad despaired of his exam results and his teachers’ comments. Look at him now, with his flat in Chelsea, his chalet in St Moritz, his villa on Barbados. My parents had nothing to worry about. Except perhaps his plumpness. Typical sportsman; eating like a horse, even when no longer active, and so piling on the pounds, damaging his once athletic figure.

Despite stellar financial success, it’s a pity he hasn’t had more luck in his relationships. Things didn’t work out with Julie, but I’m sure he’ll meet someone else. Someone like you, Saffron. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just needs friendship right now.

You shake your head and your silky hair caresses your shoulders. You smile at me and I watch your Julia Roberts lips stretch across your face. Every time I look at you, I know I’m lucky.

But then a shadow moves across my mind. Is Aiden still jealous of me, after all these years, despite all his money?

Perhaps.

10

Caprice

I met my husband Rupert the day I stepped into his office, as his temporary secretary. I wanted the job to become permanent. My mother had recently died of breast cancer. My father’s wood yard was struggling. I needed some cash to help pay our bills.

Rupert Jackson’s office was untidy, the desk strewn with piles of paperwork, empty coffee cups, full ashtrays, dead packets of Benson and Hedges. Machinery manuals littered the floor. I wove a path between them to approach his desk as he stood up to greet me.

He wasn’t a good-looking man. His heavy nose was hatchet-shaped, and his eyes bulged slightly. His most appealing features were his full head of copper-coloured hair, and his cheeky grin. I’m not really sure how, with such a heavy-featured father, Miles became so good-looking. It must be my genes he has inherited.

‘Welcome,’ Rupert said, in a strong Yorkshire accent.

Welcome, sounded more like a punch in the air, than a word. I was a sun-ripened southerner, used to people who spoke with drawling vowels, wondering what this Yorkshireman was doing setting up a business in West London. He leant across his desk and shook my hand, his palm strong and warm against mine.

‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.

‘You can start by tidying up this office.’

I emptied the ashtrays and washed them. Opened the window to air the fug of cigarette smoke. Picked up the rubbish and arranged the manuals in alphabetical order on the windowsill. He began talking on the phone. Arguing with someone about a shipment of drill bits. Shouting through his straight, wide teeth. His accent seemed stronger than ever. He slammed the phone down.