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trying to grab at her wrist. She shook him off.

      ‘Please,’ she called out, her voice rising in panic, ‘I really do need our bill right now …’ Despite having risen to lofty heights in the fashion world, Roxanne hated to cause a fuss. In a world where kindness wasn’t always apparent, she was renowned for being a delight to work with, no matter how difficult or spoilt a model happened to be. On a shoot, she was virtually unflappable, even if the make-up artist fell out with the hairdresser, or a hovering seagull happened to do its business on a £1000 chiffon gown. However right now, she felt her blood pressure soaring. ‘Excuse me!’ she shrieked.

      All heads swivelled towards her. The waitress widened her eyes.

      ‘Sorry, but we really have to go,’ Roxanne implored, conscious of Sean gawping at her.

      ‘We can still have dessert,’ he insisted.

      ‘We can’t. I’m sorry.’

      ‘Rox, they’ll just be a bit burnt. Nothing terrible’s going to happen …’

      ‘You don’t know that!’

      ‘Well, I don’t want to seem rude,’ he said, sighing, ‘but I probably know ovens better than you do. How many times have you used yours?’

      The waitress reappeared with their bill, and Roxanne snatched her purse from her bag. ‘That was the first time,’ she muttered.

      ‘You’d never turned on your oven before?’ Sean exclaimed.

      ‘I’ve never needed to,’ she mumbled, deciding not to add that she had in fact used it – continuously – as a storage facility for the vintage china tea sets she had taken from Rosemary Cottage when her mother died.

      She handed the waitress her credit card and stabbed her pin number into the little machine. ‘Thank you,’ the woman said primly. ‘I hope you enjoyed—’

      ‘It was lovely, thanks,’ Roxanne cut in quickly.

      ‘Sorry you’re having to dash …’ But Roxanne didn’t hear any more as, rude though it was, she had blundered out into the humid London night without properly saying goodbye.

      She wasn’t a natural runner. Just as she had failed to fully engage with the new mandatory workplace yoga, so Roxanne had managed to get by for almost half a century without ever having participated in aerobic exercise apart from the occasional dash through the rain into a heated shop. However, she was running now, in a rather ungainly style, sandals clattering on the pavement.

      ‘This is mad,’ Sean exclaimed at her side. ‘We don’t have to run; it’s not going to make any difference …’

      ‘It might. What if the place is on fire?’

      ‘Don’t be crazy! It’s just a few biscuits …’

      Just a few biscuits! She must remember not to bother baking anything for him ever again.

      ‘You’ll break your neck in those,’ he added, meaning her beautiful suede sandals which she had spotted in the window of a vintage shop, a size too small as it happened, but heck, she had managed to cram her feet into them and they’d eventually stretched enough so as not to be completely agonising.

      She stopped abruptly and tugged them off. Damn Sean and his practical trainers.

      ‘You’re not going to run home barefoot?’ he gasped.

      ‘It’s fine …’

      ‘It’s not fine. You’ll cut your feet or stand in something disgusting. Come on, darling, put your sandals back on and let’s just walk …’ She glared at him, then realised he was probably right and slipped them back on. Sean took her hand as they fell into a brisk walking pace. ‘I still can’t believe you were baking something for me,’ he added, throwing her a fond glance.

      ‘Hmm. Well, I probably won’t again.’

      ‘No, it’s really sweet of you. But it’s not very … you, is it?’

      ‘Obviously not,’ she muttered.

      ‘I mean, it seems more like something your sister would do. Didn’t she send you that tin of edible tree decorations at Christmas?’

      ‘Yes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t got it together to buy a tree …’ In fact, Roxanne had taken the delicious snowflake-shaped butter cookies into the office, and everyone had swooped upon them over drinks one afternoon. This was when Cathy was still editor and it was possible to have fun at work, in the days when there were frequent gales of laughter and the sound of a cork being popped.

      ‘I’d never have thought of you as a baker,’ he added.

      ‘Yes, okay, Sean …’

      ‘It’s quite sexy actually,’ he added, grinning now.

      Despite the turn of events, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘I knew it. You actually want a wifey type in an apron, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been holding out for …’

      ‘God, yes,’ he teased. ‘Floury hands and lipstick on, waiting for your man to come home …’ He fell silent as they turned the corner into Roxanne’s tree-lined street.

      ‘Sean, look!’ They both stared. A fire engine was parked outside her block.

      ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said quickly, taking hold of her arm. ‘It might not be your place. It could be another flat …’ But this time, she shook him off and broke into an actual sprint. Despite her unsuitable footwear, she clattered towards the vehicle. She quickly spotted Isabelle, who was looking her usual elegant self – chic silver bob, simple navy blue dress – and hovering at the main door.

      ‘It was Henry who called them, love,’ she announced. ‘I told him it’d be nothing – that you’re always burning toast. A waste of resources, I said! I phoned your mobile a couple of times but it just rang—’

      ‘Sorry, Isabelle, I didn’t realise …’ Roxanne hurried past her and charged upstairs. She always put her phone on silent when she was out on a date with Sean.

      ‘I said you once burnt your fringe off the gas ring,’ Isabelle called after her, ‘when you were lighting a cigarette …’ The elderly woman’s voice faded, to be replaced by strident male tones on Roxanne’s landing on the top floor: ‘Sounds like someone’s coming now – finally. Christ, what a bloody waste of time …’

      Sean had lagged behind. Roxanne could hear him being accosted by Henry, the boorish thirty-something solicitor who must have sprung out of his flat on the first floor, one short flight of stairs below hers. ‘Sorry if I called them over nothing but the smell’s awful. Emma’s worried that her clients will complain. I mean, it’s hardly conducive …’ Never mind Emma, Henry’s wife, and her psychotherapy clients. What about Roxanne’s irreplaceable French wardrobe? She reached the top floor to find two firemen emerging from her flat.

      ‘How bad is it?’ she gasped.

      The younger man frowned. ‘This is your place?’

      ‘Yes, it is …’ Sean appeared at her side, catching his breath as she took in the damage. Her door was splintered, having been smashed open, and an acrid stench hung in the air.

      ‘You’re very lucky,’ the fireman remarked as his companion made his way back downstairs. ‘Your neighbour smelt smoke but there hasn’t actually been a fire.’

      ‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Roxanne felt like hugging him.

      ‘But there could have been.’

      ‘Yes, I know …’ Impatient now, she peered behind him into her flat but this young man – this boy, who looked barely old enough to have any sort of paid job – was blocking her way.

      ‘You need to understand that it’s very dangerous to

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