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“Hi,” she said through her perfumed aura. “I’m back. Hope I’m not intruding, Max, but I ordered this Thai chicken salad from the new organic take-away and there’s too much for me. I wondered—” she flashed a pearly smile “—if you’d like to share it.”
    He thought of his stale bread and Coffee Time biscuits. “Thanks,” he said, “that’s really thoughtful of you. Come in, have a seat—I’ll find us a couple of plates.”
    She carried the foil tray to the kitchen. He placed two plates on the table and she divided the salad between them. She had changed from the suit, which had made her look rather scary, into a floral summery frock and pale blue cardi. Over her potent fragrance Max could smell chili and lime from the salad. His mouth watered. Veronica opened the cutlery drawer and took out two forks. “I hope I’m not imposing,” she added.
    He glimpsed the biscuits’ cheap-looking red-and-yellow wrapper on the worktop. “Of course you’re not. This looks great.”
    The first forkful tasted delicious. Veronica looked up at him across the table, widening her eyes as if to say, isn’t this good ? “Hey,” Max said, “there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Why don’t I pour us a glass?”
    â€œThat would be lovely.”
    Max found two tumblers at the back of the cupboard, poured the wine and took a large gulp. Veronica sipped hers daintily.
    He glanced at her, and a surge of warmth fluttered through him. She wasn’t remotely his type, and he had zero intention of getting involved on any intimate level. Yet sitting here, drinking wine and eating Thai salad, he’d begun to feel better. Better, in fact, than he’d felt in a long time. Max was sick of painting, sick of Hazy Dawn, and sick to the pit of his stomach of being alone.

5
    W henever Ollie Tibbs was around, Hannah was aware of every cell of her body, every nerve ending and hair on her skin. It was as if she’d morphed into an incredibly lifelike android, and the most instinctive of acts—walking, blinking, sipping Coke from a can—now consisted of hundreds of separate, minutely connected movements. No wonder she hadn’t been given the part of Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors when Beth had announced the leads at theater workshop tonight. She was ungainly, embarrassing—a robotic fake.
    â€œIt’s not fair, Han,” Ollie was telling her as they wandered along the towpath beside the murky canal. “You deserve a main part. You’re really good, you know that? You should say something to Beth.”
    Hannah forced a laugh. “I’m not bothered. Anyway, she’s already decided—there’s no point in arguing and making a fuss.”
    Ollie cast her a quick glance. “You really don’t care?”
    â€œIt’s just a crappy little club,” Hannah murmured. Why had she said that? It sounded as if theater workshop was some dumb activity she involved herself with solely to while away Monday afternoons. In truth, she loved it; it was where she could lose herself, be whoever she wanted—though not Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors, obviously.
    It had rained while they’d been inside the church, and their footsteps were mushing a thin layer of mud. Hannah was conscious of slowing down her natural pace. Ollie strolled, rather than walked. He had an angular, rich boy’s face, and a rich boy’s accent—faintly posh, but stopping short of the kind of laughable plumminess that made Hannah think of polo matches and shooting pheasants. He managed to sound confident, yet warm and interested.
    Ollie’s fair hair flopped around his finely sculpted face. He had pronounced cheekbones, gray-blue eyes fringed by long, curving eyelashes and full lips, which made Hannah think of them pressing against hers as she breathed in the scent of his skin. Despite the fact