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earlier—only worse, because Leah’s father had walked out on his
     wife and small daughter. At least Patrick hadn’t been married to Hannah, and no children were involved—not that there was
     anything to be gained by pointing that out, of course.
    And it was definitely not the right moment to break her other news—although time was running out for keeping quiet about it.
    “Can we meet for lunch?” she asked instead. “My treat. Maybe Wednesday?”
    Her mother’s sniff was perfectly audible over the mobile network. “I might be busy. I’ll have to check my diary.”
    Leah dug her nails into her palm. “Well, give me a ring,” she said lightly. “I’ll keep one o’clock free. Let me know, okay?”
    Hanging up, she opened the appointments book, took a pencil from the jar, and wrote “Lunch with Mum” in the one-o’clock slot on Wednesday. She lifted the phone again and made a reservation at Giovanni’s; her mother liked it
     there.
    Leah would wait until after the pasta to tell her what had to be told—and her mother would rant and rave all over again and
     probably not talk to her for another month.
    Leah lowered her head into her hands and groaned quietly. It wasn’t as if she’d set out to lure any man away from another
     woman—that had never been her intention. Not that she hadn’t been attracted, right from the first time they’d met, when he’d
     walked into the salon to claim his massage. She remembered privately admiring the broad chest, the muscular arms. She remembered
     him flirting with her, warning her to leave his towel alone.
    She’d been disappointed when he’d mentioned a girlfriend, but not surprised—the gift of a massage generally came from a woman.
     And that had been it as far as she was concerned. He was with someone else, no point in going there. Even after he’d made
     it plain that he was interested, she’d resisted him for as long as she could, insisting over and over that she didn’t want
     an affair—particularly when she discovered the identity of his girlfriend and realized that they’d known each other, albeit
     slightly, at school.
    But in the end he’d charmed his way into her bed. He’d said the things she wanted to hear, convinced her that it was over
     between him and Hannah in all but name. She means nothing to me, he’d insisted. I just have to find the right time to leave her. I will leave her, I swear.
    Was it so bad then, that Leah had finally given him the incentive he needed to do just that?
    The doorbell rang. She raised her head, pasted on a smile, and crossed the room to let Martina Hennessy in for her Indian
     head massage.

    Alice spooned more peas onto her husband’s plate as he lifted the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. She wouldn’t finish
     hers—one glass was all she could manage comfortably—but if it was in her glass, it meant he couldn’t drink it.
    They never used to have wine with dinner; this was a new thing. Tom had received a case for Christmas from a patient who imported
     it, and they’d gotten into the habit of a glass or two in the evening. Alice could have lived without it quite happily—she’d
     never taken a drink until well into her thirties, apart from the odd brandy—but now it was a given. A bottle opened half an
     hour before dinnertime and, more often than not, gone by the end of the meal.
    “There’s more potatoes,” she said.
    “I’m all right, thanks.”
    He was well able to drink; he’d always been well able. There’d been times, mercifully few, when she’d had to put him to bed.
     But up till now he’d drunk only when they were out, and most of the time he managed to stop before it went too far, when he
     was still the life and soul of the party.
    And it wasn’t much, she supposed, a bottle of wine between two people. Where was the harm in his relaxing after a day’s work?
     Except that he drank at least two-thirds of the bottle each night, and sometimes she noticed a slur in his