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she originated from there. Perhaps she was bubbly simply because she had to be. Maybe when she went home at night, to her boyfriend or whomever, she released all the vitriol she’d been storing up all day. Maybe tonight she would kick off her shoes, fling herself on the settee and say, “God, I had to take one of our authors, Jack Stone, out for lunch today. What a drag!”
    Jack held the menu in front of his face to conceal his smile at the thought. Gail often accused him of being insecure and cynical and he hotly denied it every time. But it was true; he found it hard to trust people completely. He wondered whether this was a result of living in London or whether the roots were buried deeper, in the bitter soil of his childhood in Beckford.
    â€œAre you ready to order?” Tamsin asked.
    â€œI know what I want, but do you think we could wait for Gail? She should be here any minute.”
    â€œSure. No problem. Shall we have some drinks while we’re waiting?”
    â€œYeah, great. I’ll have a Kingfisher if they serve it here.”
    When their drinks arrived, Tamsin said, “Do you mind if I smoke? Please say if you do.”
    â€œNot at all. In fact, I wouldn’t mind one myself, though I’m trying to cut down.”
    â€œYou do right,” said Tamsin. “Disgusting habit.” But she laughed easily to show that it was a habit she had no intention of stopping.
    As Jack drew on the cigarette he felt the familiar twinge of emotion that was too slight to be termed fear or dread. His grandfather and great-grandfather had both died of lung cancer in their early sixties, though Jack consoled himself with the thought that as far as he knew his father was still going strong and he must be sixty-seven or sixty-eight by now. Tamsin began to speak enthusiastically about
Splinter Kiss
and asked him how the new one was coming.
    â€œ
The Laughter
? Very well, so far, though I never like to say too much about the novel I’m working on. I don’t know why, it just makes me uncomfortable. Maybe because I’m so close to it, or perhaps it’s just a superstition of mine that I don’t even know about.”
    Tamsin nodded and Jack said, “God, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?”
    She laughed, flashing small white teeth. “No,” she said, “not at all.”
    Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw the restaurant door open and he looked up. Gail had black hair cut as short as a choirboy’s, large dark eyes, a dainty nose and lips that seemed to be pouting appealingly even when they weren’t. Perhaps her most attractive feature, however, was her skin—lightly tanned, perfectly smooth, blemish-free. Jack’s heart gave a joyous leap, as it always did when he saw her. Before he could raise his hand to wave, Tamsin said, “She’s here, isn’t she?”
    Jack looked momentarily surprised, then broke into a wide, bashful grin. “Is it really that obvious?” he said.

2
S EAFOOD
    He and Gail had met nine months earlier.
    It had been May. May 16 th , to be precise. A Friday. Two days after Jack had delivered the final proofs of
Splinter Kiss
to Cormorant and was subsequently in the process of taking what he’d thought would be a fully-deserved week off. To Jack the idea of a week off seemed blissful. It meant no toiling for hours over a word processor, no frying his brains as he searched his thesaurus for the exact word or phrase he was looking for (the one that normally he would pluck from his mental vocabulary with ease, but which today, because he needed it, had decided to play hide-and-seek), no feeling inadequate because he couldn’t capture the atmosphere of a particular setting or the essence of a particular character, no feeling guilty because he was making tea, doing some housework, doing some “research,” doing everything but starting writing.
    A week off. Paradise. But it was only Friday and