Pixie flip-flopped through the drawing room in her slippers, feeling very glad indeed that the weather was so fine that no visitors had been tempted to take their ease by the fire. The conservatory was another matter. There, lounging opposite David in a rattan chair, nursing a Bloody Mary, was Rory McDonagh.

An amused glint came into his eyes when he spotted her. ‘Ms Pirelli. How fetching! So this is what romantic novelists are sporting this season?’

Pixie didn’t feel she knew him well enough to tell him to piss off. ‘I fell in the river,’ she said, ‘and David very kindly volunteered to lend me some clothes.’

‘Yes,’ said Rory. ‘David told me how he happened upon you up to your thighs in the river, wielding your rod.’

The look Pixie threw him told him to mind his own business.

‘Um – can we go now, David?’ she asked. ‘I really do feel terribly self-conscious in this get-up.’

‘Of course.’

She shuffled back to the foyer, and David moved quickly to the door to hold it open for her. Outside on the forecourt he indicated a smart hire car. Pixie climbed into the passenger seat, and as he turned on the ignition and put the car into gear, she could see Rory McDonagh through the window of the conservatory, raising his Bloody Mary at her, and laughing

© 2005 Kate Thompson