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desk and a wispy voice asked to speak to him.
    'I'm afraid Mr Latham is in a meeting and can't be disturbed,' Clea coolly informed the caller. 'Can I take a message, or get him to call you back?'
    A breathy sigh. 'If you could just tell him it's Dianne,' the voice said. 'Then I think he would spare me a moment now.'
    Clea frowned; she couldn't recall a Dianne from anywhere. 'I could buzz through and ask him, but he won't like it...' Some strange instinct made her treat the caller with wary respect.
    Another breathy sigh, that played on Clea's nerve-ends. 'Oh ... ' sighed the voice. 'Perhaps it isn't that important...' Then the woman giggled at something that eluded Clea. 'He can be rather forceful, can't he?
    And he did tell me not to call him at the office ... but I ... I didn't know ... Saturday night, when I saw him, that ... ' Clea's stomach knotted, while the breathy Dianne trailed into silence. 'You see, we should be having dinner again tonight, but I can't make it... ' Clea sat like a statue, the air around her suddenly too thick to inhale. 'I'm a fashion model, you see, and I've been called urgently to Paris ...'
    Among the cries of shock that exploded in her head, Clea registered the other girl's hesitation as an uncertainty of her role in Max's life, and, even as she fielded the numbing shock of finding out that there was a 'Dianne' on the scene, she could sympathise with her. Uncertainty was a way of life where Max was concerned.
    'Will he be really cross at me for calling him, do you think?'
    Incensed, I would say, Clea thought bitterly. Max didn't like ugly scenes, and Dianne's call was liable to cause a humdinger of one if he found out about it. 'I tell you what ... ' She had to swallow to make herself heard clearly, for the whole of her system seemed to have gone into self-destruct. 'Why don't you call his apartment—and leave a message with his housekeeper? He'll receive it the moment he gets home, then, and you won't need to worry about him becoming angry at you calling here.'
    'Oh—what a good idea!' The breathiness was beginning to grate. 'He really doesn't like his girlfriends disturbing him at work, does he? I can tell by your voice.'
    Clea recited Max's home telephone number, uncaring that he would be furious at her giving it out so carelessly.
    'You've been very understanding—thank you,' said the breathless Dianne.
    Oh, I'm full of understanding! scorned Clea as she replaced the receiver. Little did the breathless Dianne know that the last thing she wanted to do was pass a message on to Max like that one!
    Damn him! Damn, damn, damn him!
    She'd known, just known it was coming to an end. Even without the baby to complicate things. She'd sensed it in him—seen the signs. But did he have to do it this way—find himself a replacement before he let her go?
    Oh—Max!
    He had come to her on Friday because the lovely Dianne hadn't come up with the goods. Heat rose in a prickly wave from her stomach to her head, and Clea made a lurching grab for her handbag and ran.
    She made it to the Ladies just in time. With the toilet door locked behind her, she knelt weakly against the bowl and retched on the small amount of food she'd managed to keep down that morning. Limp and sickly hot, she stayed where she was for a while, breathing carefully when she wanted to gulp for air, and waited for her racing pulses to settle down. She felt like crying, but refused to allow herself the luxury.
    Max was seeing another woman, and that did more than hurt, it crushed her. She leaned her brow against the cool cleanness of the tiled wall, feeling the heat slowly diminish. If she got through the rest of today, it would be a miracle.
    It was a while before she felt fit enough to leave the toilet cubicle. Mandy was leaning against one of the washbasins, her arms folded across her front, her pretty face concerned. Clea came to an abrupt halt, disconcerted to find her malaise had been witnessed.
    'That was some performance,' Mandy