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the holder on the table, crosses out the address for La Place Velma and scribbles his own on the back. His handwriting is languid and flowing, and even if you didn’t know, you’d probably guess it was an artist’s hand. “You might find yourself passing that way and want to drop by.”
    I take it from him and politely study the card. “My sister has a dress shop near there. She sells vintage clothes.”
    â€œCool.”
    â€œCool,” I echo with a laugh, and suddenly Christian looks shy. He can only be twenty-two or twenty-three and here am I, thirty-eight, fast approaching thirty-nine. What are we doing here together?
    â€œI’ve put my mobile number on there too.” He points it out. Even impoverished art students have the latest technology these days, just like fifteen-year-old daughters do.
    â€œThanks,” I say, but I’ve no idea why. I start to gather my belongings and my senses. “I’d better get back. Things to do.” Yeah, like typing and filing and a bit of staring out of the window.
    â€œCan I see you again?”
    â€œSee me?” I resist the temptation to snort incredulously.
    â€œI’d like to.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œAli!”
    â€œI don’t know….” I chew my lip uncertainly, and there is the sweet lingering taste of strawberry on it.
    â€œWe can be just friends,” he insists. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
    â€œNo.” I chew my lip some more.
    He takes my hand and, I’ll tell you this for nothing, no other friend has ever sent a jolt through my fingers like that before.

CHAPTER 6
    â€œI ’m in love.” Christian doled the curry out of its carton and into a chipped Wedgwood serving dish that he put in the microwave. The gold edge had long worn off, and the dish no longer hissed and crackled viciously as it heated up.
    Robbie looked up from the Metro paper that he’d picked up at the Tube station yesterday morning. “You said that last week.”
    â€œI did not.”
    Rebecca had her foot up on the table and was painting her toenails and wearing a painstaking expression. She was daubing them with lime-green varnish. “You did.”
    â€œSee?” Robbie returned to his paper.
    â€œI did not.”
    â€œYou did,” Rebecca insisted. “It was that pasty girl from the late-night deli. You’d been going on about her for weeks. You said she’d got eyes like Michelle Pfeiffer.” Rebecca looked up. “Personally, I thought she’d got a squint.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter when they’re closed in ecstasy,” Christian countered pleasantly as he arranged pilau rice as artistically as he could manage on three matching Wedgwood plates. “Besides, that wasn’t love. That was merely a boyish infatuation.”
    â€œShe blew you off when you asked her to go for a drink,” Robbie reminded him.
    â€œThen more fool her,” Christian huffed. “Anyway, I shan’t tell you if you’re going to be pedantic about the whole thing.” The microwave pinged and Christian retrieved the bowl.
    The kitchen was huge, fitted with stripped pine that had seen better days and was due a revamp before too long. An original terra-cotta tiled floor made the room sound echoey rather than cozy. The big refectory table was at one end and looked out through the French doors over an enclosed garden that had run wild due to lack of gardening knowledge or enthusiasm among its current residents. A Clematis Montana, the only thing in flower, rambled freely over the walls, threatening to engulf everything in its path. The other shrubs were fresh, green and burgeoning due to the extremely wet winter and equally sodden spring, and were in need of judicious pruning. A tumbledown shed with broken windows nestled at the bottom and hid from work-shy eyes the myriad of spider-laden tools that had lain unused for some considerable time.