‘Aren’t you going to finish your mussels?’ Andy smiled into her eyes, increasing the pressure of his foot.

‘I’d rather you finished my muscles at home.’

The next morning, Bella woke around nine a.m. and stretched contentedly. She still loved the fact she would never again be rudely awoken by a shrill alarm signalling another dreary day in another dreary office. She felt much happier today. The sun was shining through muslin curtains, Andy was wonderful, her life was wonderful, everything was wonderful. She pottered about at a leisurely pace, putting the radio on and making herself a cup of tea. She filled her pretty eau-de-nil watering can and went out onto her balcony to water her window boxes. This little daily act gave her a disproportionate amount of pleasure. Her mint and chives were coming along a treat. She kissed her fingers and patted the plants.

‘Grow, my babies, grow.’ She was glad nobody could see her and wondered if this might be a sign of broodiness. She certainly didn’t yearn for a baby right now. She was perfectly happy with things just as they were, and although she knew she wanted one eventually, and reckoned Andy would make a great father, she had no intention of rocking the boat.

Though her flat was really much too small for two, and she and Andy had talked about selling it and buying somewhere bigger, she loved it too much to leave quite yet. The crappy property market was as good an excuse as any, and Andy was still paying off the enormous loan he’d taken out to pay for his wedding to Alison last year, which had been called off at the last minute. The fact that Alison had been shagging her boss, so it should have been her financial responsibility, still rankled with Bella, but Andy was a slave to his tiresome principles.

By the time she’d showered, dressed, made the bed (arranging and plumping up all the artfully mismatched cushions exactly to her satisfaction) and read a chapter or two of her book over a boiled egg and thickly buttered toast, it was nearly midday. Guiltily, Bella shut the book. There wouldn’t be time for her run now – she’d booked her jointly rented studio for 12.30. She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever managed to get up in time to arrive, bad-tempered and dishevelled, at whichever horrible office she’d been temping at for a nine-a.m.-prompt start. Actually, the promptness had happened rarely, if ever. She felt another surge of happiness that those days were over.

As she walked towards the door and automatically checked herself out in the mirror next to it, she stopped and shook her head in dissatisfaction. Something was wrong. Bella had longish legs and a larger than average bust for her 5 foot 7, size 10/12 frame (despite slender ankles, wrists and shoulders, she always felt like a bloody carthorse next to Poppy). She’d had vague hopes of channelling Audrey Hepburn today in high ponytail, black Capri pants and a boat-necked, horizontally striped T-shirt. From her shoulders up she looked great, the ponytail and boat neck setting off her collarbones, high cheekbones and big brown eyes a treat. Audrey was not an entirely preposterous idea. Her legs were fine in the Capri pants.