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‘You’re not like all the others. And that’s why you’re the one I love. You’re the woman I want to spend my life with, have children with, grow old with and —’
    ‘Trip the magical ley lines with?’ she cut in, her humour returned.
    ‘Absolutely. We’re on a straight track together. Not even death can break it.’ At her shaken expression he sighed. ‘Come on, how do you fancy a tour of the Tower? And then I’ll buy you a slap-up lunch at the Arts Club.’
    She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve seen it many times.’ She knew he’d also toured London previously. ‘Are you a member of the Arts Club?’
    ‘Fully paid up, of course, by my father. He knows about these things.’
    A Porsche screeched to a halt at the traffic lights and a couple, not long past their teens and dressed in the aggressive clothing of the emerging punk movement, banged the hood. The driver, dressed in a dazzling disco-style burnt-orange shirt and burgundy jacket, had to be a stockbroker, Jane thought. And she imagined that the burgundy jacket had matching disco flares that would further offend his attackers. He glared, but wasn’t prepared to say anything to the scary-looking pair in T-shirts bearing swastikas. The man’s jeans were deliberately torn, she was sure, as were the girl’s fishnet tights emerging from a too-tight, short leather skirt. Must be freezing, that get-up , Jane mused, noting the spiked cuffs around their wrists and the chains hung from their waists, but most of all the impressively spiky mohicans towering from their otherwise shaved heads. She didn’t dare stare until she and Will were well past them.
    The lights changed, the disco Porsche roared off and Jane had to wonder whether the political message of moderation was having an effect on any demographic. It was being called ‘the winter of discontent’: industrial disputes just seemed to be gathering more and more momentum, affecting every aspect of daily life. A general election was looming and that likely meant even more financial indecision and everyone feeling unsettled. Not only was a change of leadership for Labour in the air, but also the potential for Tory-led government and a new broom. Margaret Thatcher was exciting, her father thought, even though she was a woman. ‘Now we’ll see some change,’ he had promised as the new Tory campaign began to yell that Labour Isn’t Working . And, truth be told, it wasn’t. Yet though Jane had no interest in politics, her history studies had shown her thatno matter who was in power people always found something to complain about.
    The rich just always get richer, Jane , one of her university colleagues had quipped. It was an oblique dig at her social situation, which she generally avoided discussing … but then, her brand of jeans alone said more than enough about her financial standing. She knew it was hopeless to join in political discussions. No one took her seriously.
    They were now meandering out of the Seven Dials area, sharing a smile as they passed the hotel and their bedroom, overlooking the central point from which all the roads radiated, then wandered toward the Royal Opera House.
    ‘This whole area is about to get a major redevelopment,’ Jane remarked. ‘I’ve always loved Covent Garden as it is, though. I hope they don’t clean it up too much.’
    The noise from the pubs they passed was relentless. She knew from her past experience of living in London that this area always seemed to be throbbing and full of people no matter what time or season it was, or which government was in power.
    They strolled down onto the Strand, where double-decker buses ground past. She saw advertisements on two of them promoting Evita , with a little-known singer in the title role of Eva Peron. The singer, Elaine Paige, was causing a stir in the entertainment sections of the newspapers, she’d noticed, and besides, it was a Lloyd Webber musical — it had to be great. She made a note to get some tickets