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they were currently producing . . .
     
    This didn’t happen, of course, but Izzy had never tired of the fantasy. Singing was her passion, what she was best at. She was doing what she had to do and Katerina didn’t begrudge her a single impoverished moment of it. Who, after all, could possibly begrudge a mother who would cheerfully splurge on a primrose-yellow mohair sweater for her daughter and survive on peanut-butter sandwiches for the next week in order to redress the precarious financial balance? And if her impulsive generosity never failed to alarm Mike, who was one of those people who got twitchy if their electricity bills weren’t paid by return of post, Katerina adored her mother’s blissful disregard for such mundane matters as financial security. If the bomb was dropped tomorrow she’d much rather have a deliciously soft, mohair sweater to keep her warm, than wander the rubble-strewn streets wondering how all this was going to affect her pension plan.
     
    She was a third of the way through the Liquorice Allsorts and already on to the second page of her essay when the phone rang. It was two minutes past eight. Smiling to herself - for despite all his apparent sophistication Ralph could never bring himself to miss Coronation Street - Katerina picked up the receiver.
     
    ‘I suppose your mother’s out,’ said the brusque voice of Lester Markham.
     
    Katerina replied sweetly, ‘I’m afraid she is. How are you, Mr Markham? And how is—’
     
    ‘Never mind that,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I’ll be a damn sight better when I receive the last two months’ rent your mother owes me. Tell her I’ll be round at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for payment. In full.’
     
    Katerina popped another Liquorice Allsort - a black-and-brown triple-decker, her particular favourite - into her mouth and gave the matter some thought. Lester Markham looked a lot like Jim Royle from The Royle Family , only maybe a bit grubbier. He didn’t have as much of a sense of humour either.
     
    ‘I thought we only owed one month,’ she said carefully.
     
    ‘Plus another month in advance,’ snapped Lester Markham, ‘which she used up in December and conveniently appears to have forgotten about.’
     
    Oops, thought Katerina. So that was how Izzy had acquired the money for their splendid Christmas Eve dinner at Chez Nico.
     
    ‘Of course,’ she replied in conciliatory tones. ‘I’ll tell her as soon as she gets home, Mr Markham. Don’t worry about a thing.’
     
    ‘I’m not worried,’ he said in grim tones. ‘You’re the one who should be worried. Just tell your mother that if I don’t receive that money - and I mean all the money - tomorrow morning, you’ll both be out of that flat by the end of the week.’ He sniffed, then added quite unnecessarily, ‘And I’m not joking, either.’
     

Chapter 3
     
    Gina didn’t know why she was doing this - she wasn’t even sure any more where she was - but she did know that she couldn’t go home. Anything was better than returning to that empty house and having to relive the nightmare of Andrew’s departure.
     
    Her fingers tightened convulsively, gripping the steering wheel of the Golf so hard that she wondered whether she’d ever be able to prise them free. And she was definitely lost now, but since she didn’t have anywhere to go, it hardly seemed to matter.
     
    Having packed a couple of suitcases with guilt-ridden haste, Andrew had left their Kensington home at ten minutes past six and Gina, not knowing what else to do, had switched off the oven and run herself a hot bath. Then, unable to face the thought of taking off her clothes - she felt vulnerable enough as it was - she had pulled out the bath plug, watched the foaming, lilac-scented water spiral away, and reached instead for her coat and car keys.
     
    Driving around the Barbican for forty minutes had been both stupid and unproductive. Gina knew that, but knowing too that somewhere amid the