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Third World.
     
    Wow. Abby had been expecting some Home Counties housewife. Rosamund sounded like Superwoman.
    She scrolled through the many archived articles the woman had written: ‘What Price a Life?’, ‘The Conservative Approach to Poverty’, ‘Must We Rattle America’s Sabres for Them?’ She only had to dip into them to see they were left-leaning polemics. The biography went on: ban the bomb and CND marches, demonstrations at Downing Street, actions to stop the Vietnam War. Throughout the following decades, Rosamund had been involved in a variety of government think tanks and appeared on heavyweight TV and radio programmes. Abby was surprised she hadn’t heard of her before now.
    ‘Blimey. Bit of an odd match. The playboy adventurer and the firebrand feminist,’ she said thoughtfully.
    ‘Do you think she’s still alive?’
    ‘She’s probably not that old,’ said Abby, doing the mental maths. ‘Mid-seventies?’
    ‘You should track her down. Invite her to the exhibition.’
    As Abby returned to the basement, she was stopped by Mr Smith, who was holding an enormous bunch of flowers.
    ‘These were just delivered for you, Ms Gordon,’ he said with a hint of embarrassment. He held them out to her; when she didn’t immediately clasp them to her bosom, he added uncertainly, ‘There is a card.’
    She felta sinking feeling in her stomach. She opened the envelope and read the message.
    I will always love you.
    She stared at the flowers sadly. They were beautiful: a delicious arrangement of peonies and lilies from her favourite – and usually too expensive – florist in South Kensington.
    She closed her eyes and steadied her resolve. It was a trick, a bribe, an empty gesture of flattery . . . She wasn’t going to fall for this. Not today.
    She removed the card and handed the flowers back to Mr Smith.
    ‘I think there’s been a mistake. They are for Lauren Stone in the library.’
    ‘That’s not what the man said . . .’ said the security guard, looking confused.
    ‘Please,’ she said softly, and Mr Smith nodded as if he understood.
    By the time she got back to the archive, Lauren had already called her extension.
    ‘I got flowers,’ she said sounding as if she was hyperventilating. ‘Alex sent me flowers.’
    Abby cursed herself for not thinking that one through, panicking at the idea of her friend calling Alex Scott to thank him for flowers he had not even sent.
    The truth was on the tip of her tongue, before she heard the joy and excitement in her friend’s voice.
    If Lauren called Alex Scott and he was interested in her, it would sort itself out. If he had no romantic intentions, then at least the flowers would make Lauren look popular. It was a win-win situation, thought Abby, deciding to keep quiet and let the flowers make somebody happy.
    Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was lunchtime. The basement was feeling stuffy and lifeless again. She had to get out; she needed to breathe fresh air, see trees and people and . . .
    She recognised him instantly, even before she was through the revolving doors of the Institute. She almost spun herself back into the building again, but this was it. Time for confrontation.
    ‘Hello, Nick,’ she said brusquely.
    ‘Happy anniversary, Abby.’

Chapter Four
     
    He was still as handsome as ever.
    Part of Abby was hoping that in the past six weeks he’d have aged a decade. That his thick dark hair would have turned thin and grey and those deep green eyes lost their sparkle. But no. He still looked bloody gorgeous. A little slimmer in the face, perhaps, but he even had the cheek to have a tan.
    ‘Please, Abby, talk to me,’ said Nick, trotting to catch up with her. ‘We owe each other that.’
    ‘I owe you nothing,’ she replied, not even looking at him, surprised at the venom in her voice, a venom she hadn’t thought she was capable of possessing.
    She willed herself to stay calm. She had to do this. She had to remain mature and