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tidal wave of publicity that had engulfed her drowned everything, so that the inquest, the funeral, the horrible, endless questions about her father, seemed like little islands of events in a featureless sea.
    One thing she had been sure about, and that was she didn’t want to stay in Stoke Horam. Every room in the house, every cottage and building in the village, reminded her of Dad.
    Steve proposed a move to London and found a ground floor flat in Mottram Place, off Sackville Street. The domestic distractions of moving house were a welcome relief. There were practical decisions to be taken, such as furniture and food and where everyone would sleep. Steve solved that tricky problem by cutting the domestic staff down to a cook and two maids and suggesting Hugo Ragnall should live out. She found the new arrangements unexpectedly agreeable and she was glad to escape to the anonymous bustle of London.
    She should, she knew, be grateful to Steve. He seemed to have inexhaustible energy as he flung himself into work, defying the speculators who hovered round, waiting for the crash. ‘Every penny,’ he vowed to a fascinated public, ‘will be repaid. Not one of Otterbourne’s employees will come off worse.’ Which, if it wasn’t quite true, was true enough to satisfy the press. He plunged his own money into the firm, cut the unprofitable lines, sold off some of the cottages and land and re-opened negotiations with Dunbar. He tried to comfort her and she should have been grateful, but she seemed incapable of feeling anything; she was completely numb.
    It was a fortnight after her father died that Steve came into her dressing room. Molly was in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. They had been invited to dinner with Mrs Soames-Pensford, a neighbour in Mottram Place. Mrs Soames-Pensford was, Molly dully knew, a kind-hearted, gossipy soul with three chattering daughters. Steve wanted to accept the invitation and she went along with as little enthusiasm as a puppet on wires.
    He leaned forward and gently took the hairbrush from her hand.
    ‘Shouldn’t you be dressing for dinner?’ she snapped, irritated by his presence.
    He flicked his finger along the bristles, then leaned forward and ran the brush through her hair. ‘We’ve plenty of time.’
    ‘Steve . . .’ she began wearily.
    ‘You used to like me doing this,’ he said softly. His fingers caressed the back of her neck and she moved involuntarily. The light from her dressing table lamp caught the faint golden stubble on his chin. She had liked him stroking her hair. He hadn’t done it for a long time. ‘You’ve got beautiful hair,’ he said, looping a dark-brown lock round his finger. ‘It’s the first thing I noticed about you. It’s such a rich chestnut, with deep red lights. That, and your smile.’
    He smiled, that wickedly engaging smile, and she knew he wanted her to smile back. When she didn’t, he dropped his hand. ‘Come on, Molly. We used to have fun, remember?’ He picked up her lipstick and idly twisted it in and out of the tube. ‘I used to be able to make you laugh. You used to like me clowning around.’ He leaned forward and, looking in the mirror, blobbed a smudge of red lipstick on his nose. ‘You remember?’
    ‘Steve, don’t be a idiot,’ she said, amused despite herself. ‘You can’t turn up for dinner wearing lipstick on your nose.’
    ‘It comes off, doesn’t it?’ he said worriedly scrubbing at the mark. ‘Oh, Lord, it’s gone everywhere. Molly, how the dickens do I get this stuff off ? I don’t mind being Koko the Clown for you but the Soames-Pensfords will think I’m off my chump.’
    ‘You need some cold cream,’ she said laughing. She picked up the tub. ‘Here, bend down and let me wipe it off for you.’
    He stood obediently still while she rubbed his nose. ‘That’s it, I think.’
    He caught her hands and kissed them. ‘That’s better. I haven’t seen you smile for ages.’ She couldn’t help but