I leant over and cupped her wet face in my hands. My own was wet with tears, too, but I was laughing at her fierceness and indignation, which was unfair. Her skin felt as smooth as that of the tiny baby I had once held so closely. ‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Shush, Poppy.’

As promised Kim Boyle contacted me. ‘Right, my girl, this is the best I can do. Not a full-time job but part-time, to do serial. Will the finances permit? Can I have you next week?’

At six thirty on 21 January, the alarm shrilled. I got dressed in a black felt skirt, a red jumper and a pair of heels as high as I could manage, given that I was going to wear them all day. For breakfast I ate raw porridge oats with a banana, and drank two cups of strong black coffee.

With a lightish heart, I retrieved my book bag from its peg and left the house. The overgrown bay tree brushed wet fingers across my back as I passed, and I was in the office by nine twenty.

Kim arrived at half past ten. His assistant, Deirdre, had already installed me at a desk and issued me with security and canteen cards. These slotted back with no trouble into the worn niche in my wallet.

‘Good.’ Kim ran an eye over the bright-eyed bushy-tailed me. ‘We’ll do nicely. I believe in sauce for the feminist goose and her gander, and since I want to see the children in the mornings, you will come in early and I will stay late.’

The office was smaller and less architecturally evolved than that of the Vistemax Group, which meant it was nicer to work in. Its smaller size was, however, indicative of the Daily Dispatch’s rank in the ratings war. Not a bad thing, for there was a buzz in the office and the distinct sound of warriors buckling on armour.

‘Here…’ Kim tossed me a volume on Handel and a top-secret ghost-written biography of a female pop-star. ‘See what you make of them.’

Proust may have had his madeleine, whose taste and scent goaded him into writing his masterpiece of past loves and hates, despairs and longing. My madeleine was more prosaic, less delicately sensuous, but, as surely, as powerfully, the fonts, spines and promise of books pulled me back.

Handel was an interesting man, but the apparent lack of women in his life shocked his biographer. Even so, the female characters in his operas were invariably arresting for he gave them great buffeting passions and the gift of emotional authenticity. Not that the paper would be in the least interested in that. However, the story of the female pop star…

‘Hmm,’ said Kim, at the end of the day ‘Not sure about Handel.’

‘I didn’t think you would be, so I’ve concentrated on the other.’

‘You’ve got the idea quickly’ I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Of course I’ve got the idea.’ He leafed through my suggestions and jabbed his pen here and there on the pages – the role I used to have. But I didn’t mind. ‘How does it feel to be back in an office?’

‘Bit like pulling on an old but favourite jumper.’

Kim shoved the work back at me. ‘A bit of tinkering’s needed, nothing major, and we’ll go for it. I’ll let you know the budget.’ He gathered up his agenda and headed off to a meeting.

I settled down in the office. By the end of the second week Deirdre and I were well on the way to being friends. I had ascertained that she wore a lot of scent, and kept two pairs of shiny high heels in different colours in her desk. She also had a nose for what would work.

‘What about this?’ I explained that a diet had come in which argued that individuals should eat according to their blood type. You were allowed either proteins or carbohydrates, and only the lucky AB groups ended up with anything approaching normal meals.

‘Do you mean to say that the fact that my hips are two sizes too big has nothing to do with the million chocolate bars I’ve eaten but is down to my blood group?’ She leant over my desk. ‘Dynamite, Rose. If my blood group’s to blame it leaves me free to stuff myself with chocolate. Run it.’

Poppy and I finally managed to pack boxes, lock cases and stuff clothes into bags, and a van took them all away. One day Poppy and Richard had filled the house, the next they had gone, leaving behind a snowfall of tissues, discarded labels and dust.

The following day I telephoned estate agents, all of whom promised to send details of the ‘opportunities’ currently on their lists. Sam came up to London and insisted on going through them with me. It took him two minutes to spot the sensible ‘opportunity’ in Clapham. ‘That one,’ he said.

We went to view it on Poppy’s birthday and were discussing its pros and cons as we arrived at the Kensington flat for a celebration supper. Looking exceptionally smart in a tailored grey suit and gold jewellery, Alice joined us. She offered Sam a cheek to kiss and kept a hand possessively on his arm as she turned to me. ‘Rose, you’re looking better.’

Poppy was in one of her floaty muslin numbers, to which she had added a mass of beads. I kissed her but she was preoccupied and, as soon we had settled in the sitting room, disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam and I batted flat talk between each other. ‘I don’t trust you to be sensible,’ he was saying, as Richard, who had been giving Alice a guided tour of the flat, ushered her back into the room.

‘I don’t believe Rose is ever not sensible,’ Richard said, but his expression suggested that he believed exactly the opposite. He was dressed in corduroy trousers, which strained a little too tightly across the buttocks, and Sam and I exchanged undercover grins. The new Richard still required getting used to.

‘Does Poppy need any help?’

Richard looked a trifle grim. ‘Poppy and cooking are combustible. I’d better go and check.’

Sam inspected the large, elegant room, which housed a pair of American colonial gilt chairs, a French provincial mirror with the original glass, and an exquisitely inlaid half-moon side-table. ‘Hell,’ he muttered. ‘I thought they were into grass skirts, flowers in the hair and that sort of stuff.’

‘It’s lovely’ Alice fiddled with her bracelet, a heavy gold chain. Her eyes grazed the room hungrily. ‘Richard’s parents must have been very generous.’

‘None of your business.’ Sam was uncharacteristically sharp. I was startled and, if I was not mistaken, so was Alice.

The doorbell rang and Richard went to answer it. ‘Nathan,’ we heard him say. ‘Were we expecting you?’

‘I thought I’d just drop this in…’ In his office suit, Nathan appeared in the doorway carrying a large, beribboned parcel. He stopped. ‘I didn’t realize you were having a family party,’ he said, in a cold, hurt way.

I got up and kissed him, for I, of all people, knew how often Nathan had planned surprises for Sam and Poppy, and how much he would mind being sidelined.

‘Dad.’ Sam hugged him.

In a man-to-man gesture that showed a great deal of pride in his son, Nathan rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder and ran a fatherly eye over him. ‘Why are you in town?’

Sam explained that he had come up to help me look for flats and Nathan’s smile switched off. ‘Nice of you, Sam,’ he said woodenly

Without warning, the old pain nagged away, and I felt unutterably weary with the process of disconnection from Nathan which, however we handled it, would be prolonged and pitted with obstacles.

Poppy materialized, wild-haired and frantic. She started visibly when she saw her father. ‘Bit of a crisis in the kitchen. Hallo, Dad. How nice. Ooh, a present. Can you stay for supper? I need two pairs of strong hands.’

Sam and Richard obliged, leaving me with Alice and Nathan. Alice hauled out her mobile phone. ‘Do you mind? I’ve forgotten something urgent.’ She proceeded to conduct a conversation to do with deal-tunnels, brokerage, leverage and breakfast.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ said Nathan.

‘Everything all right at work?’ I asked.

‘Sure, sure,’ he said, too heartily ‘Figures are up. Everyone’s behaving. Couldn’t be better.’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘I’m doing some work for Kim at the Daily Dispatch.’

‘Oh.’ He looked startled. ‘Well, that’s good.’

We lapsed into silence.

‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine.’

Poppy did her best to make him stay but Minty was waiting at home and Nathan would not be persuaded. I turned to Alice, who had finished her conversation. ‘It was nice of you to make the effort for Poppy.’

She slid her phone into her bag. ‘No trouble. I had a meeting and I crave London from time to time.’ She looked straight past me to Richard. ‘How’s the new job?’

He looked smug. ‘Not all number-crunching, I’m happy to say. Strategy, no mercy and lots of money’

I found myself staring at Richard, wondering if his cynicism was real or feigned and, if the former, could Poppy be inoculated against it. Or was he conducting a prolonged tease with his parents-in-law? ‘Tell me more,’ begged Alice, and I knew then that Bath was never going to be big enough to contain her. ‘Which are your sectors?’

Richard purred. ‘Manufacturing bases, specifically textile firms in the Midlands, small family enterprises that have lost crucial contracts. We advise them on cutting the workforce and contracting out East.’

‘I thought you didn’t approve of capitalism,’ I interjected.

Richard leant over towards me. ‘Rose,’ he said kindly, ‘these are the realities.’

At this point, I caught Nathan’s eye and we exchanged a tentative private smile.

He tossed down the last of his wine. ‘I must go.’ He kissed Poppy and Alice then, after a hesitation, kissed me too.

The front door closed behind him, and the assembled company relaxed.

‘Poor Dad.’ Poppy had drunk too much wine in the kitchen. She hustled me into a corner and hissed, ‘He’s having a terrible time with Minty’s fertility treatment. He’s told me all about it. Horrible.’