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find herself anything but as good as the other female skiers in the party – and spent a dizzily expensive morning at Snow and Rock, equipping them all with new skiwear. She was a lucky woman, she thought, able as she was to bestride the best of both her worlds, her family and her career.
    ‘Cool,’ said Milly, surveying her loot later.
    ‘Really cool,’ said Fergie.
    ‘I hope I’ll be better this time,’ said Ruby, her voice showing just a slight lack of conviction. She had spent much of the previous skiing holiday falling over.
    ‘Of course you will be,’ said Milly. ‘It was only because that instructor was such rubbish last time. I’ll help you lots, promise.’
    ‘I’m just going to do snowboarding,’ said Fergie. ‘Skiing’s no fun. Can you get me a board, Mum?’
    ‘I already did,’ said Bianca.
    ‘You’re the best !’ said Fergie.
    ‘I know,’ said Bianca modestly.
    Patrick had actually had some trouble persuading the other two partners that the huge audit he was supposed to complete within the next seven days could wait until the week after that. And it had meant postponing his meeting with his friend Jonjo Bartlett which he’d been rather looking forward to. But Bianca did holidays like she did everything else – one hundred per cent. She was the best companion, joyfully energetic, full of ideas, up early, urging them all out of bed to go and see or do something before the day proper began, bringing an extra dimension to everywhere they went. And it would be great to have a real family holiday. The last one, sailing off the Turkish coast the previous summer, had been interrupted when Bianca had to fly home halfway through.
    It was Bertie who first heard the bad news: Bertie, white with apprehension, who was forced into being the messenger, therefore, and thus placing himself in the firing line – being too decent to insist on that role going to the people actually responsible, Bernard Whittle and Sons, the firm of accountants employed by Farrell’s ever since Cornelius and Athina had founded the firm.
    It turned out that someone had totally failed to declare the income from The Shop for the last three years – and with interest and VAT a million and a half was owed.
    ‘Well, of course it’s absolutely ridiculous,’ said Athina. ‘But it’s not our fault, except possibly yours, Bertie.’
    ‘Why me?’ asked Bertie, quite mildly. ‘I don’t do the accounts.’
    ‘As financial director,’ said Athina, ‘it’s the sort of thing that surely comes under your watch? Although I’m surprised at Bernard Whittle, I have to say. We shall have to tell those people, I suppose,’ – she continued to refer to Porter Bingham as those people – ‘because it’s not the sort of money we can get out of petty cash, and another million won’t mean anything to them, surely? You’d better get on to them today. Just ring them up and tell them – I’m sure they won’t mind.’
    ‘I think it would be better, Mother, if you did it,’ said Bertie, ‘or at least we should see them together. This isn’t petty cash. It’s quite major. I think we owe them the courtesy of a formal representation.’
    ‘I see,’ said Mike Russell, struggling to remain calm in the face of Lady Farrell’s blithe assumption that a demand for a further one and a half million was a minor matter set against the overall sum they were investing in Farrell’s, as she put it.
    ‘Lady Farrell, we’re talking quite serious money here. And a considerable incompetency on the part of your accountants. Frankly, I’m appalled. We shall have to go back to our board. Every deal has to be approved and I had trouble getting this one past them. I might have to ask you to find the extra money yourselves.’
    ‘Well, that’s ridiculous! We can’t lay our hands on that sort of sum.’
    ‘Perhaps one of you could sell your own property? You’re all living in very expensive places, and—’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said