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‘Worse!’ Paulina exclaimed. She had the body of a swimsuit model and the wit of Joan Rivers. She wore her jet-black hair short and spiky, and could be as funny as the writers of the comedy shows she oversaw for a television network. ‘We shared salads!’

‘It was hell! But you’re here now, and all’s right with the world.’ Julia lovingly cut a large slab of rich pâté, plopped it on a plate and pushed it towards Claire. Julia was the chef at Gumbo, the hotspot just off Park Avenue on 83rd Street in Manhattan. She and her partner, Alexa, had opened it five years ago. They specialised in food from Julia’s hometown of New Orleans.

Julia had an ongoing love affair with food. She had been raised in a city where eating was a religion, and not enjoying food was a sin. Gathering her flaming red hair into a ponytail, as though preparing for battle, she tore off a large chunk of bread for Claire and one for herself. ‘I think I’ll torture myself and just sit here and watch you eat that, Claire, and not gain an ounce! It’s very hard being the friend of someone who stays slim whatever she eats.’

Claire ate with gusto, and moaned with delight, ‘It’s perfection!’

Julia did the same. ‘See. I just put on a pound and you look just the same. One day soon I won’t be able to wear clothes, even those fabulous rags you pick out for me at Gilda. I’ll have to be upholstered, like a chair.’

‘Stop it,’ laughed Paulina. ‘You are beautiful, Julia.’

‘And don’t worry,’ Claire said, taking a sip of the wine. ‘Curves are back!’

‘In that case …’ Julia helped herself to another slice of the gourmet pâté.

Claire looked at Sasha who had been somewhat quiet. ‘You all right, Sash?’

‘Of course I am. Just speechless at all this pigging out.’ Sasha signalled for Marty, and continued, ‘We missed you on the train this week, Claire.’

Sasha reached over and gently squeezed Claire’s hand, just as Marty arrived at the table.

‘I see you’re all happy now the band is back together.’ The other women always insisted he had a crush on Claire, which was probably true. ‘Glad to have you back, pretty lady,’ he now murmured, looking at her.

‘Thanks, Marty. The place looks great!’

‘So, ladies, what’s your pleasure?’

Sasha topped up Claire’s wine glass. ‘You know what we like to eat, Marty. You choose. Just bring more wine, please.’

Lunch had lasted until three o’clock. Claire and Sasha lingered over their espressos after the other women had gone off for their usual Saturday activities. The good feelings Claire had felt on her run had begun to return, surrounded as she was by the warmth of her friends. But Sasha, usually the life of the party, had been quiet all through lunch. Claire studied her. ‘So what’s going on with you?’

‘I’m worried about you.’ Sasha added another cube of sugar to her coffee.

‘You didn’t say anything to the others?’

‘Claire, they’re not blind. We’ve all been friends for ever. I would expect that they know. Wouldn’t you know if something was going on with one of them?’

‘I suppose.’

‘They’re just nicer than I am, and keep their mouths shut. But they’re worried too.’ Another cube of sugar went into her cup. Sasha was nervous and trying not to show it. ‘Any word from Mark?’

‘Not a word. He usually calls every morning, whatever time zone he’s in.’ Claire forced a smile. ‘But I know he’s all right. If he so much as sneezed, the press corps would have it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.’

‘I’m not worried about Mark, and you know it.’

Claire leaned back, staring at her hands. All week she had tried to push Mark’s warning from her mind. ‘Don’t sleep too soundly,’ he had said. ‘This isn’t over.’

‘Do you have any idea what sets him off? Is it really just that he wants you to quit working?’ Sasha tried not to look at her friend’s wounded arm.

Claire took a sip of her coffee, remembering Mark’s questions about Deborah’s birth father. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘No idea.’

‘When is he back?’

‘Tonight, late. It’s okay. We’ll talk things through.’

Sasha was ready to cry out with frustration. ‘What is the matter with you, Claire? You need to see a lawyer. Get some sort of restraining order.’

‘You know I can’t do that! The newspapers—’

Sasha cut her off, her voice rising. ‘To hell with the newspapers! Your life is at stake.’

‘There’s nothing I can do right now, Sasha. Believe me, I would if I could!’ Claire was crying now. ‘I’m trapped.’

Marty suddenly loomed over the table, a worried look on his face. ‘Everything okay here?’

‘Fine, Marty, thanks. Just, you know, missing Deborah. Her birthday was last week.’ Claire slipped out of the booth and grabbed her bag. ‘I’ve got to get to the cleaners before they close at four. Marty, lunch was more than wonderful.’ She blew Sasha a kiss and headed for the door. ‘I’ll see you on the train Monday.’

It was a full five minutes before Sasha could bring herself to move from the table.

Five (#ulink_29e322f8-5227-5732-acb0-a23d287c932f)

Claire guided her sleek navy blue Audi into a parking space behind Green Earth Cleaners. As usual, hers was the only car in the small car park that was reserved for employees and delivery vans. It meant entering the dry-cleaners through the back door, and making her way through racks of plastic-wrapped garments, but she preferred that to the Saturday bustle of the car park at the front.

‘Mummy, are you still there?’ Deborah’s voice came through the car’s built-in telephone system.

‘Just parking. So tell me more about your performance for the college. Were you nervous?’

‘At first. But once I started to play, I just got lost in the music. I played the Rach, masterfully I might add, and then Mozart, a sonata, and finally I finished off with a little Bach.’

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. ‘A little Bach? Only you would be so at home with that mighty music that you call it little. Are you happy there, my Deborah? Do you really love London?’

‘Soooo much. I miss you and Daddy, of course, but this is where I want to be for now. Is he back from Cairo yet?’

‘Tonight,’ Claire said, trying to keep the dread from her voice. ‘Has he called you?’

‘No call, but he sent me about ten over-the-top birthday presents. You know how he is.’

Claire forced herself to sound casual. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know how he is. So I’ll call you next Saturday?’

‘Yep! Oh, and thanks for all your birthday goodies. The clothes are gorgeous, of course, but that book, the David Dubal, how did you get your hands on that?’

‘I can’t tell you all my secrets.’

‘I read the Horowitz piece three times – my favourite pianist. You always know what will really thrill me.’

‘That’s what we moms do.’

‘You do it better than most. Take care, Mums.’