September

her head, she reached into the basket and took out her letters. One from Paris. One from her lawyer in New York. A postcard from Venice. She turned it over. Emily Richter, still staying at the Cipriani. A large stiff white envelope, addressed to Croy and readdressed in Archie's handwriting. She opened it and read, in disbelief and then with some amusement, Verena Steynton's invitation.

At Home For Katy

Extraordinary. As though she were receiving a summons from another age, another world. And yet a world which, by some strange coincidence, like it or not, she had inhabited for the whole of the day. She knew uncertainty. Was it an omen of some sort? Should she pay heed? And if it was an omen, did she believe in omens in the first place?

At Home Fof Katy. She remembered other invitations, 'stiffies' she and Archie had called them, propped on the mantelpiece of the library at Croy. Invitations to garden parties, cricket matches, dances. Dances galore. There had been a week in September when one scarcely slept, somehow surviving with the stolen naps in the backs of cars, or a doze in the sun while others played tennis. She remembered a wardrobe filled with ball dresses, and she herself perpetually complaining to her mother that she had nothing to wear. Everybody had seen the ice-blue satin because she'd worn it at the Northern Meetings, and anyway, some man had spilt champagne all down the front and the stain wouldn't come out. And the rose-pink? The hem was torn and one of the straps had come loose. Whereupon her mother, the most indulgent and patient of women, instead of suggesting that Pandora find a needle and thread and mend the rose-pink, would put her daughter into the car and drive to Relkirk or Edinburgh and there suffer the traumas of Pandora's capricious whims, trudging from shop to shop until the most beautiful-and inevitably most costly-dress was finally run to earth.

How spoilt Pandora had been, how adored, how cherished. And in return…

She laid down the card and looked up at the sea. The waiter came with her coffee and brandy on a little tray. She thanked him and paid. As she drank the bitter, black, scalding coffee, Pandora watched the windsurfers and the slow ambling flow of passers-by. The evening sun slipped down out of the sky and the sea became like molten gold.

She had never gone back. Her own decision. Nobody else's. They had not come chasing after her but they had never lost touch. Always letters, still filled with love. After her parents died, she thought the letters would stop but they didn't, because then Archie took over. Detailed descriptions of shoots, news of his children, scraps of village gossip. Always they ended in the same way. 'We miss you. Why don't you come and stay for a few days? It is too long since we have seen you.'

A yacht was moving out of the Marina, motoring gently until it was clear of the beach and able to fill its sails with wind. Idly, she watched its passage. She saw it, but her inner eye was filled with images of Croy. Her thoughts, once more, ran ahead and this time she did not pull them back, but let them go. To the house. Up the steps to the front door. The door stood open. Nothing to stop her. She could go…

She set down her coffee-cup with some force. What was the point? The past was always golden because one recalled only the good times. But what about the darker side of memory? Happenings better left where they were, shut away, like sad mementoes stuffed in a trunk, the lid closed down, the key turned in the lock. Besides, the past was people, not places. Places without people were like railway stations where no trains ran. I am thirty-nine. Nostalgia drains all energy from the present, and I am too old for nostalgia.

She reached for her brandy. As she did this, a shadow came between herself and the sun, to lie across her table. Startled, she looked up and into the face of the man who stood beside her. He gave a little bow.

'Pandora.'

'Oh, Carlos! What are you doing creeping up on me?'

'I have been to the Casa Rosa but found nobody there. You see, if you don't come to me, then I have to come to you.'

'I am sorry.'

'So I tried the port. I thought that I should find you somewhere here.'

'I was shopping.'

'May I join you?'

'Of course.'

He drew out a chair and sat facing her. He was a tall man in his mid-forties, formally attired in collar and tie and a light jacket. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and even on this sultry evening his appearance was cool and crisp. He spoke impeccable English and looked, Pandora always thought, like a Frenchman. But he was, in fact, a Spaniard.

As well, extremely attractive. She smiled. She said, 'Let me order you a brandy.'

4

Wednesday the Twenty-fourth

Virginia Aird shouldered her way through the swing-doors of Harrods and stepped out into the street. In the store, the heat and the hassle had become oppressive. Outside, it was scarcely better. The day was humid, the air heavy with petrol fumes and the claustrophobia of surging humanity. Brampton Road stood solid with traffic, and the pavements were choked with a slow-moving river of people. She had forgotten that city streets could contain so many people. Some had to be Londoners, one supposed, going about their daily business, but the general impression was of some global immigration from all points of the compass. Tourists and visitors. More visitors than one could have believed possible. Great blond students with backpacks passed by. Entire families of Italians or possibly Spaniards; two Indian ladies in brilliant saris. And, of course, Americans. My fellow countrymen, thought Virginia wryly. They were instantly recognizable by their clothes and the plethora of camera equipment slung about their necks. One huge man was even wearing his ten-gallon hat.

It was four-thirty in the afternoon. She had been shopping all day and was now laden with loot, carrier bags, and parcels. Her feet hurt. But still she stood there, because she had not yet made up her mind what she was going to do next.

There were two alternatives.

She could return forthwith, by any means of transport that made itself available, to Cadgewith Mews, where she was staying in great comfort with her friend Felicity Crowe. She had been given a latchkey, so even if the house was empty-Felicity out shopping, or taking her dachshund for a turn around the gardens-Virginia could let herself in, kick off her shoes, make a cup of tea, and fall, in a stupor of exhaustion, onto her bed. The prospect of such a course of action was immensely tempting.

Or she could go to Ovington Street and risk finding Alexa out. This was what she ought to do. Alexa was not exactly on her conscience, but there could be no question of returning to Scotland without having made contact with her stepdaughter. She had already tried to do this, telephoning last night from Felicity's, but there had been no answer to the call and she had finally replaced the receiver, deciding that, for once, Alexa was out on some spree. Then she had tried again this morning, and at lunch-time, and again from the hairdresser's, boiled with heat from the blow drier. Still no reply. Was Alexa perhaps out of London?

At that moment a small Japanese, gazing in the opposite direction, barged into her and knocked one of her parcels to the ground. He apologized profusely in his polite Japanese way, picked up the parcel, dusted it off, returned it to her, bowed, smiled, raised his hat, and went on his way. Enough. A taxi drew up to unload its cargo and, before anyone else could claim it, Virginia did so.

'Where to, love?'

She had made up her mind. 'Ovington Street.' If Alexa was not at home, she would keep the taxi and go on to Felicity's. With the small decision taken, she felt better. She opened the window, sat back, thought about taking off her shoes.

It was a short journey. As the taxi turned into Ovington Street, Virginia sat forward to search for Alexa's car. If her car was there, then, in all probability, Alexa would be at home. It was-a white minivan with a red stripe was parked at the pavement outside the blue front door. Relief. She directed the cab driver and he drew up in the middle of the street.

'Can you wait a moment? I just want to make sure somebody's in.'