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hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Philippa took it. “And Lambert, of course, I’ve already met.”
    “Very briefly,” said Lambert, in discouraging tones. Fleur gave him a curious look, then smiled again at Philippa. Slightly unnerved, Philippa smiled back.
    “I’m sorry we’re a little late,” said Richard, shaking out his napkin. “We ahm . . . we got into a contretemps with apair of nuns. Nuns on the run.” He glanced at Fleur and with no warning they both began to laugh.
    Philippa looked uneasily at Lambert, who raised his eyebrows.
    “I’m sorry,” said Richard, still chuckling. “It’s too long to explain. But it was terribly funny.”
    “I expect it was,” said Lambert. “Have you ordered drinks?”
    “I’ll have a Manhattan,” said Richard.
    “A what?” Philippa stared at him.
    “A Manhattan,” repeated Richard. “Surely you’ve heard of a Manhattan?”
    “Richard was a Manhattan virgin until last week,” said Fleur. “I just adore cocktails. Don’t you?”
    “I don’t know,” said Philippa. “I suppose so.” She took a sip of her fizzy water and tried to remember the last time she’d had a cocktail. Then, to her disbelief, she noticed her father’s hand creeping under the table to meet Fleur’s. She glanced at Lambert; he was gazing, transfixed, at the same thing.
    “And I’ll have one too,” said Fleur cheerfully.
    “I think I’d better have a gin,” said Philippa. She felt slightly faint. Was this really her father? Holding hands with another woman? She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even seen him holding hands with her mother. And here he was, grinning away as though Mummy had never existed. He wasn’t behaving like her father, she thought. He was behaving as though . . . as though he were a normal man.
     
    Lambert was the tricky one, thought Fleur. It was he who kept giving her suspicious looks; who kept quizzing heron her background and probing her on exactly how well she’d known Emily. She could almost see the phrase “gold-digger” forming itself in his mind. Which was good if it meant there was some money to be had—but not if it meant he was going to rumble her. She would have to butter him up.
    So, as the puddings arrived, she turned to him and adopted a deferential, almost awed expression.
    “Richard’s told me that you’re his company’s computer expert.”
    “That’s right,” said Lambert, sounding bored.
    “How marvellous. I know nothing about computers.”
    “Most people don’t.”
    “Lambert designs computer programs for the company,” said Richard, “and sells them to other firms. It’s quite a profitable sideline.”
    “So are you going to be another Bill Gates?”
    “Actually, my approach is completely different from Gates’s,” said Lambert coldly. Fleur looked at him to see if he was joking but his eyes were hard and humourless. Goodness, she thought, trying not to laugh. Never underestimate a man’s vanity.
    “But you still might make billions?” Lambert shrugged.
    “Money doesn’t interest me.”
    “Lambert doesn’t bother about money,” put in Philippa, giving an uncertain little laugh. “I do all our bookkeeping.”
    “A task eminently suited to the female mind,” said Lambert.
    “Hang on a minute, Lambert,” protested Richard. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”
    “It may not be fair,” said Lambert, digging a spoon intohis chocolate mousse, “but it’s true. Men create, women administrate.”
    “Women create babies,” said Fleur.
    “Women
produce
babies,” said Lambert. “Men create them. The woman is the passive partner. And who determines the sex of a baby? The man or the woman?”
    “The clinic,” said Fleur. Lambert looked displeased.
    “You don’t seem to appreciate the point of what I’m saying,” he began. “Quite simply . . .” But before he could continue, he was interrupted by a ringing, female voice.
    “Well, what a surprise! The Favour family
en masse!”
Fleur