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Rebecca seriously unamused, the rest fell somewhere in between.
    â€˜What I want to do is see what happens to a group of people who actually try to change things … All of you – if you’re willing. If you could each tell me a bit about your lives, I’ll send you an email every week or so. The email will ask you to do something differently. Nothing dramatic, nothing weird. Just little things that you can’t see for yourself when you’re so stuck in the middle of everything. Some of the tasks may be related specifically to your life, some may not be.’
    Alice was speaking freely now, moving away from her carefully prepared words.
    â€˜And so I know what’s going on, you post a diary entry on my website. The entry can be one sentence or five pages, just write what you feel like. Even a diary entry before you receive your first task would be great – maybe talking about what you thought this whole invitation was about. There’s a password, so no one other than the people here can look at the site. It would also be good, I think, to get together each month or so for a drink, just to talk face to face.’
    She was getting a couple of suspicious looks.
    â€˜Look, to be honest, I’m not really sure how this will work. I don’t have any complicated analysis or tests to apply to outcomes. I just want to read your stories and see if my ideas make a difference. You might decide it’s a waste of time. If you don’t like it just stop. But if it does work I’d like to write about it. It goes without saying that I would change your names in any book and make sure you weren’t identifiable at all – I give you my word on that.’
    Alice took a deep breath. She was into the home straight.
    She pulled out a pile of folders bound in soft red leather from the large paper carry bag and placed them on the table. They’d been expensive, but as soon as she’d seen them, she’d known they were right.
    â€˜That’s it. If it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. But if it does, then have a look in these folders, fill out the questionnaire and send it back to me. We can go from there. I thought,’ she added hesitantly, ‘that perhaps we could call it the Red Folder Project.’
    Picking up her glass she drained the remainder of the champagne.
    â€˜I’m going to leave you to it. There’s plenty of champagne for you all – on me. Thank you for coming and I hope to hear from some of you soon.’
    Alice walked away as confidently as she could. About to sweep out the door, she felt a hand on her elbow.
    â€˜Alice?’
    â€˜Look, this is weird I know, but would you mind signing this for my mum? It’s her birthday on the weekend and she’s a huge fan of yours.’
    Alice looked at the copy of Her Life, My Life in Megan’s hands. At least that explained why Megan was here – and why she’d sent so many entry forms.
    â€˜What’s your mum’s name?’ Alice asked.
    â€˜Ah – it’s Patricia, she’s turning seventy,’ answered Megan, holding out a pen.
    Alice wrote on the title page with a flourish, slipping easily back into the habit of years ago.
    â€˜Thanks,’ Megan said. ‘You’ve saved my life.’
    â€˜Well that was easy,’ Alice laughed.
    And with that she left.

K erry threw his keys onto the table. They skidded along the wooden surface, halting against a pile of dirty washing. He swore quietly, out of habit. But remembering that Annie wasn’t there he swore again – loudly this time. Just for the hell of it.
    Feeling marginally better, he looked back at the wrinkled heap of clothing. A single person’s washing was depressing. His mother had drilled into him that clothes had to be sorted and each colour group washed separately. Putting a pair of jeans in with his father’s white shirts had been a serious crime in their household,