'OK.'

'And Petra?' Lucy paused. 'You're beautiful and gorgeous and it would be wrong to settle for anyone less than a man who adores you.'

'OK.'

'And Petra? Double-lock your door tonight. Hide the key in the coffee jar right now and put the coffee jar at the back of your cupboard and balance something like a shoe on top of the cupboard door so it will clonk you if you open it. Go on. Just in case. You know how trauma can set you off.'

'OK. But I wish you were here, Luce, really here. Round the corner, like you used to be.'

'We'll be back later in the year. We'll be back for good in a couple of years' time.'

'OK. But please don't hang up yet.'

Petra didn't sleepwalk, she didn't have nightmares, she didn't even dream. She slept without knowing she slept; hours of uninterrupted nothingness making time pa.s.s, giving the brain a rest, allowing the heart to beat a little more calmly. And when she awoke, she was momentarily tricked by the charm of those first gentle minutes of reverie, by sunlight seeping in through the gap in the curtains promising a fair spring day. It was only when her slumbery focus sharpened to settle on the strange sight of her Birkenstock sandal perched on top of her ajar cupboard door, that she recalled what had caused her to sleep to such numb depths.

Sandals.

Cupboard.

Coffee jar.

Door keys.

Sleepwalk.

Lucy.

Rob.

Birthday.

And Laura.

And not me.

Her spirits tumbled with the thudding realization of the horrible truth. She closed her eyes though she knew it was pointless there would be no sleep while her heart was busy beating double time and the cogs of her brain were in over-drive. And closing her eyes didn't stop her tears and it didn't prevent her from staring straight into the bare facts of the situation.

Yet looking around her room, she suddenly hated every inch of it. She hated the trickery of the sunshine. It was all a lie. It wasn't a nice spring day at all. How could it be. She was waking up very alone, and for Petra that was a terrible place to be. A whole day more, an entire weekend stretched ahead of her as one long enervating slog.

I've spent my adult life avoiding weekends on my own.

Petra stumbled from bed and hurried to phone Eric.

'He's been s.h.a.gging someone else.'

'I'll bring wine I'll bring f.a.gs I'll bring chocolate I'll bring scented candles I'll bring Jerry Maguire I'll bring my Eve Lom stuff and give you a facial that'll make the world seem all right again. I'll bring all this stuff with me and much much more. I'll be over at lunch-time.'

Petra clung to the phone and loved Eric very much just then.

He brought a carpet picnic fit for a queen.

'I haven't heard a word from him,' Petra said quietly, having eaten her fill.

'He was s.h.a.gging someone else! There is no explanation!' Eric protested. 'You deserve so much more. It's s.h.i.tty and it hurts but it's for the best. He was no good for you, the t.o.s.s.e.r. I never much liked him. None of us did. He's not your type and you're not his.'

Petra ruminated over this. 'But why didn't you say something sooner?'

'We did try but you were so full of how much you loved him. Note you loved him. You were very happy to love him, too. You wouldn't have heard me. Anyway, you wouldn't have listened.'

'He didn't love me,' said Petra, her strength rapidly sapping. 'I tried so hard.'

'Love should never be such a one-sided effort. Anyway, do you know what I think? I think he's a sad fat f.u.c.k, that's what. He probably did love you in his own way, to his own inadequate limit.'

'That's what Lucy says.'

'Petra, much better to have your propensity for great love big generous s.e.xy caring love than his limit for only so much lukewarm love. You'll be able to bestow it on a very lucky chap and next time, it'll be reciprocated.'

'I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be on my own.'

'That's why you worked so hard on Rob. Not because he was worth it but because you didn't want to be on your own.'

Early evening, a text message bleeped through to her phone and in the instant she prayed it would be from Rob, Eric prayed it would be from Lucy. Petra's prayer, it seemed, was heard first.

u ok? I can xplain!! plus jamais!! promise!! x.x.x 'Christ,' Eric muttered, 'if ever there was a time to go easy on exclamation marks.' But he felt bad when he saw how his cynicism, however reasonable, had swiftly stripped the hope and joy from Petra's face.

'Three kisses, Eric he never usually does kisses at all.'

Eric decided not to comment but to give Petra a look instead which said, I've known you for over fifteen years will you please just trust me.

'But maybe it's only now that he realizes that he does really love me,' Petra said, 'and he's come to his senses.'

Eric gave Petra the look again. He thought how if Kitty was here she'd be yelling at Petra and physically shaking her. Or if Rob were here then yelling at him and physically shaking him too. But harder.

'Are you going to forgive him?' Eric asked, feigning nonchalance by laying out his jars of Eve Lom facial products like a chef preparing to cook up a treat.

'I read somewhere that we all make mistakes but it's how we make amends that defines us.'

'Petra, it's easy enough to think, Ooh, desolate text message! Ooh, three Xs. But are you intending to forgive a man who didn't bother with kisses until now and, more to the point, who's been f.u.c.king someone else behind your back but claims it's readily explainable?'

'You're not helping, Eric and anyway, who says he was pathologically unfaithful? It was just the once. It was his birthday. He was a bit p.i.s.sed. He never meant for me to walk in.'

'And that makes it OK? Petra, why are you defending him? He hasn't been nice enough to you from the start. Please use this as an opportunity to walk away. Please. You're too good for him. He doesn't suit you.'

Oh G.o.d, won't you just take your Eve Lom lotions and potions and sod off. Petra went quiet, not because the sense of Eric's sentiment struck home, nor because he was slathering a thick, aromatic gloop on her face. She was really tired of talking, tired of trying to think, she didn't have the energy to know what she ought to do next but she just wanted to be allowed to make up her own mind as to whether Rob was as much of a sod as those who loved her best decreed him to be. It was a strange thing: desperate not to be alone yet suddenly wanting to be all by herself.

So, when Eric suggested they crack open the wine and watch Jerry Maguire, Petra told him that actually she'd rather go to bed because she was exhausted. Before he left her flat, he checked all the windows were locked and then hid her keys, texting her the next morning to tell her under which cushion they could be found.

Chapter Thirteen.

She may think she's all alone, she may bemoan the fact that her best friend lives abroad and that Eric's facial didn't really help much at all, but although a little self-pity can be constructively cathartic in times of crisis, if it lasts too long it becomes destructively self-indulgent. Sunday morning finds Petra very quiet. The sunshine is tauntingly brilliant, Rob has resent his text message to her and she feels she needs someone to tell her what to do next. Kitty has left the sweetest message about a friend of a friend who does voodoo and though Gina has sent a text inviting her to supper in SW3, Petra suspects neither approach is what she needs just now. She could catch Lucy, she could phone Eric again but they wouldn't have any new answers for her. They'd be happy to hear from her, they'd be pleased to be there for her, they would sweetly say the same things they said yesterday and they wouldn't mind her repeating herself and crying afresh, but until Petra gives them her thoughts, they can't really shed any new light on her situation.

She goes back into her bedroom and gets back into bed, sliding her hand under the mattress for her tanzanite, her touchstone, perhaps today her crystal ball. She tries to lose herself in its mesmeric colours and facets but she sees only its pure beauty which lifts her spirits but gives her no answers. What it does do, though, is transport her back in her mind's eye to peaceful afternoons spent in the company of this tanzanite's original owner. What succour was to be found with Lillian McNeil.

Petra at just-turned sixteen. Having a tough old time of it at home and a c.r.a.p time at school because mocks loomed after half-term and she hated maths and didn't understand why it was compulsory at O level when she felt sure she'd fail anyway. Plus, she wasn't picked for the first or second netball teams and she'd rather not play at all than be a reserve. And her dad has gone away on his second honeymoon and her mum needed to sort her head out so she's gone to a Tibetan centre in Scotland.

'Bizarrely, the climate and the soil in Tibet are similar to areas of Scotland and they share many indigenous plants and herbs,' Lillian McNeil said carefully because she had yet to ascertain who was looking after the child.

'Oh. Did you ever live there? In Tibet or in areas of Scotland?'

'I am Scottish but I haven't been back for years and I've never been to Tibet.'

'Oh.'

'How is your revision going, Petra?'

'Well, I revise hard at the stuff I find easy at the expense of the stuff I find hard.'

'I'm sure your mother will be helping you?'

'She's in Scotland.'

'Silly me. You did say. Well, who do you have to test your French vocab instead?'

'Well, you could, if you like. I could bring a list along next visit? Shall I come back tomorrow?'

'Yes, do but I mean, I'm sure whoever's house-sitting could help you with maths this evening?'

And from Petra's embarra.s.sed smile, Lillian McNeil had her answer: the child was alone.

'When is your mother back?'

'When her head is sorted, she said.'

The elderly lady and the schoolgirl looked at each other, aware that the dynamic had swung completely. The point of Pensioners' Link was that Petra could pa.s.s on any concerns from or for Mrs McNeil. Just then, her pensioner was wondering whom she could contact on Petra's behalf.

'Please don't tell,' Petra pre-empted. 'Please.'

Mrs McNeil lowered her voice. 'Do you have money and food?'

Petra nodded and Lillian thought, What on earth is the value of money and food when there's no parent to nourish the child?

'My mum said it was a credit to me that she felt she could go.'

'If you have a sleeping bag, you are welcome to stay with me, Petra.'

'Oh, I'm fine. Thank you. If anything, I get more revision done without my mum doing her chanting or getting me to henna her hair.'

'And you feel safe?'

'Oh yes.'