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give him space. Tess’s workroom, upstairs, had been fully functioning for ages.
    Unfairly, Olly was now grumbling that Tess was lucky to have moved first and have the entire hassle behind her. Hadn’t that been his plan? Anyway, unpacking things she didn’t want wasn’t her idea of relaxation. She added the wok to the others hanging from the rack, wondering how many stir-fries people expected them to have.
    Sod it, she’d finish later.
    In a moment she was at the table in the deep blue of her workroom, picking up a pencil. The next book commission wasn’t to begin until after the honeymoon that Olly was organising. Somewhere hot and exotic, he’d promised, somewhere beautiful to walk entwined as lovers do. Bahamas ? Scilly Isles? With a happy little hop of the heart, she sketched a cat in a wedding dress woven with ribbons, the dress she’d designed herself. Perhaps Africa ?
    She checked her e-mail. One new message: Tess, no easy way to say this so will be direct. Given it loads of thought and the idea of moving in with you & your messy workroom has got to me. I’ve gone cold on the wedding … But probably not as cold as her heart as she read his words.

But the casual I expect you will want to see to the return of the prezzies & whatnot had evoked a despairing, ‘I’ve only just finished unpacking all the bloody prezzies!’
    And, then, a whoosh of reality, as if she’d gone down too fast in a lift. Olly was jilting her, to use a melodramatic, old-fashioned word. How could he? Why? What was wrong with her? Was she messy? What had changed for the tall, sexy god who until the last weeks had held her and murmured about love? OK, things had been a bit cooler recently, she’d noticed that – but surely they were just wound up in anticipation of the big day? Was it she who’d wanted the greater commitment?
    If so, why had he proposed?
    And then her parents arrived, ready to attend her wedding on the following Saturday, and she had to confess with floods of tears her failure to keep Olly, to howl out the ruins of her wedding day.
    ‘The bastard !’ Her mother clasped Tess too tightly to the cushions of her chest.
    Her father, James, said very little to Tess, but he spent hours on the telephone dealing in a hushed way with guests and caterers, photographer and cars.
    Tess lay on her bed, very still.
    But later she overheard her father remark to her mother, ‘Olly must have had his reasons.’ He must. He must! And they must be down to Tess.
    And then she’d miscarried her baby.
    It had been safe inside her body and she’d let it seep out.
    Steaming cup in hand, she trod back up Honeybun’s winding stairs, opening her wardrobe door for the full-length mirror, shrugging out of her robe and nightshirt. She examined her nakedness objectively.
    Still a bit generous and soft.
    When she’d been thinner and tauter, Olly had gone from lust to indifference in a month.
    Last night, in distorted appreciation of her body, Simeon had snogged her half-senseless in a big muddy field.
    Men. She shook her head as she dragged out a fresh sweater and jeans. Who could understand them?
    She worked for the remainder of the night and into the day on a new wolf illustration, breaking only for coffee and a toasted sandwich.
    She watched from the window as Angel came knocking and she explored shades of blue for Slider from The Dragons of Diggleditch .
    Jos wandered up the drive and shouted for her. But hadn’t Jos, however worried-looking, stood by as Simeon Carlysle invaded?
    In anticipation of the delicious, plum Dragons commission she played with the opacity and fairy-tale colours of gouache and ink. A very thin gouache mix for fragility and delicacy. Ink for emphasis and line. She washed out her pens, turning on the lamp as daylight levelled out to create shadows.
    Even when Ratty escorted a sullenly hunched Simeon to rap the door, she paused only to watch them arrive and watch them leave.
    She was working. Working like she used to