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Belgrave Nursery’s van, driven by their outdoor-plant adviser. Thea expected a small rather weedy man called Keith but when the dark green van turned up, a picture of a mimosa in full bloom on its side, the outdoor-plant adviser was a tall well-built man with a black beard, the badge on his dark green uniform jacket informing her that he was Khalid.
    The urns were to have red and purple hyacinths and white multi-flower narcissi, he told her, the window boxes dwarf tulips. A new variety that the Belgrave Nursery were very proud to stock was a peach-coloured double called Shalimar. He would put some of those in, mingled with a fringed tulip in a dark red colour and a yellow-leaved miniature ivy. What was the squirrel situation in Hexam Place?
    ‘Pardon?’ said Thea.
    ‘Do you have squirrels? Only let a squirrel smell a tulip bulb a mile off and he will be here, rooting in your pots for his breakfast.’ His mild facetiousness made Khalid laugh at his own joke, though it had no effect on Thea. ‘Oh, no doubt about it.’
    ‘Then don’t put them in,’ said Thea, sour-faced.
    ‘Rather we plant them and supply you with our anti-squirrel pot guards, the latest thing, only come on the market in the past month.’
    When it came to haggling, Thea found herself no match for Khalid. She was unaware that though a British citizen since the age of twelve, he came from a long line of Islamabad market stallholders, and after only ten minutes she had agreed to the anti-squirrel pot guards and Khalid was planting tulips in the window boxes. An hour later he had moved the van, made another parking permission phone call to Westminster City Council and was ringing the front doorbell of number 7.No servants’ entrances for him. Montserrat let him in and took him straight up to the drawing room with his bag of tools and bag of bulbs, having first glanced at his shoes as if she expected to see them encased in mud-encrusted boots.
    Khalid, who wore elegant highly polished footwear, said in a sarcastic tone, ‘Perhaps you would like me to remove my shoes as is the rule at UK airports.’
    ‘Oh, no, your shoes are spotless.’
    Lucy had gone out to lunch at Le Rossignol. Preston Still was of course in the City. The girls were both at school and Thomas was upstairs with Rabia, having his nappy changed and being dressed in a new navy-blue jumpsuit and new camel-coloured cashmere coat with brass buttons. One thing Lucy enjoyed doing for her children, Rabia had noticed, was choosing their clothes, the more expensive the better. But she appreciated her employer’s taste. Nothing was too good for Thomas who looked so gorgeous that she couldn’t help hugging him. The hugging over, Thomas was gently lifted into his sumptuous baby carriage and Rabia, in her hijab, was pushing him along the gallery when Montserrat came up the stairs and with her a man she recognised as a member of her father’s plant team. She recognised too the name on his dark green jacket and knew why he was there and the principal purpose of his visit. This tall, black-bearded and admittedly handsome man was her father’s choice for her as a second husband.
    ‘Good morning,’ said Rabia.
    ‘Good morning, Miss Siddiqui.’
    ‘Thank you but it’s Mrs Ali.’
    A gratified smile appeared on Khalid’s face. ‘Let me assist you to carry the perambulator to the ground floor.’
    ‘Perambulator’ was a word Rabia had never come across before and it silenced her. An obviously strong man, Khalidpicked up the pushchair with Thomas in it and carried both single-handed down the stairs. Rabia followed, said a rather subdued ‘Thank you’, and hurriedly began pushing Thomas towards the front door.
    ‘How will you manage steps outside?’ Khalid called after her.
    ‘I will manage as I always do,’ said Rabia and closed the front door with a soft but firm click.
    ‘A lovely-looking woman,’ said Khalid.
    Montserrat, who disliked hearing any woman praised but herself, said it