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said, flicking the top of the elastic (with some effort, admittedly; he’d probably broken a finger in the attempt). ‘They’re all Matron-esque and forbidding. I’m getting stirrings just thinking about them.’
    She pulled a face. ‘I’m glad someone is. I feel completely numb from the waist down. God knows how I’m ever going to get them off again.’
    He made a growling noise in his throat. ‘Now there’s a challenge . . . Come here, gorgeous. Let’s see if we can do something about that.’
    Forty-five minutes later, Robert left in a cloud of aftershave and further apologies and Harriet tried not to feel too disconsolate. Oh well, she told herself, putting on her
pyjamas and trudging downstairs. There would be other parties, wouldn’t there? Lots of other parties. Not going tonight would give her more time to brush up on some clever things to say and
hunt down a fancy dress and sparkly shoes.
    She tried not to think about those fabulous white stucco houses near Regent’s Park where the publisher lived – she’d been dying to have a nose around inside – and poured
herself an exceedingly pokey vodka tonic instead. ‘Cocktails, shlocktails,’ she said, drinking it down in three eye-watering gulps.
    Just as she was on the verge of nosediving into a gloomy all-by-myself mood, Molly came back from Chloe’s house – ‘I got a lift from Chlo’s dad, don’t worry,
Mum’ – and she was pink in the cheeks and giggly, her phone pinging with new text messages which made her eyes shine even more. Harriet felt better listening to her daughter talk about
her day and the forthcoming end-of-term party the Year 10s were throwing, and was warmed by thoughts of what a beautiful creature Molly was, all long legs and Bambi eyes and big tawny hair.
    She flicked on the television. The Alan Carr show was just starting, and they snuggled up together on the sofa, both cackling as Alan exclaimed theatrically about the week he’d just had. There were worse Friday nights, Harriet reminded herself as Molly leaned against her. As for the party . . . what party? She was so over it already.
    Meanwhile, Robert glanced over his shoulder as he came out of Tottenham Court Road Tube station, then let himself become swallowed up by the crowd as he headed into Soho. He
loved warm, grimy London on a Friday evening in summer, when everyone was in a good mood from finishing work and there was nothing better to do than sit outside your favourite pub and put the world
to rights with your mates. It was at times like this he missed having a proper job and being able to clock off, bosh, on the stroke of five thirty. He even missed the camaraderie of the courier
firm, the banter between the lads, the adrenalin rush as you bested a van driver, the joy of being outdoors each day rather than on the wrong side of a window. Still. He’d made his bed. He
had to lie in it now.
    He wandered past pizzerias and nail bars, second-hand bookshops and bondage gear haunts, past the theatres and brightly lit restaurants which were already drawing in queues of backpack-laden,
selfie-snapping tourists. On and on he walked, winding his way through the busy streets until he ducked down a side road and, with a final check over his shoulder, slipped into The Loyal Hound pub,
dingy and beer-smelling, the perfect place to hide. He ordered a pint of bitter and a plate of chips then parked himself at an empty table with a good view of the boxing match now starting on the
TV. Just for good measure, he switched off his phone.
    With a flash of guilt, he thought about his wife at home, with her party dresses returned to the darkness of the wardrobe. ‘Sorry, love,’ he had said, and he
was
sorry. Harriet was all good. She was cherry-red lipstick and a great bum in a pencil skirt. A woman who cried at soap opera weddings (seriously) and strung fairy lights around the bedroom, yet went out
each day and fought hard for all the vulnerable children in her care.