I can’t bear this. Smuggling letters, for God’s sake. Why didn’t they have mobile phones in the 1920s? Think how many misunderstandings in the world could have been avoided. Archduke Ferdinand could have texted his people-I think a weirdo’s following me-and he wouldn’t have got assassinated. World War I wouldn’t have happened. And Sadie could have called her man; they could have talked it through…

“Is he still alive now?” I’m gripped by irrational hope. “We could track him down! We could Google him, we could go to France, I bet we’d find him-”

“He died young.” Sadie cuts me off, her voice remote. “Twelve years after he left England. They brought home his remains and had a funeral in the village. I was living abroad by then. I wasn’t invited, anyway. And I wouldn’t have gone.”

I’m so horrified, I can’t reply. Not only did he leave her, he died. This is a rubbish story with a terrible ending, and I wish I’d never asked.

Sadie’s face is drawn as she gazes out of the window. Her skin seems paler than ever, and there are shadows under her eyes. In her silver-gray dress she looks like a vulnerable little wisp. I feel tears spring to my eyes. She loved this artist. It’s obvious. Underneath all the bravado and the back chat, she really loved him. All her life, probably.

How could he not have loved her back? Bastard. If he were alive now I’d go and find him and beat him up. Even if he was some quavery million-year-old man with twenty grandchildren. “It’s so sad.” I rub my nose. “It’s just so sad.” “It’s not sad,” she retorts at once, her old flippant air returning. “It’s the way things are. There are other men, there are other countries, there are other lives to live. But that’s why I know.” She suddenly rounds on me. “I know, and you have to believe me.”

“Know what?” I’m not following her at all. “Believe what?”

“You’ll never work things out with your chap. Your Josh.”

“Why?” I glare back at her defensively. Trust her to bring Josh into it.

“Because you can want and want and want.” She turns away, hugging her knees. I can see the bony line of her spine through her dress. “But if he doesn’t want you back… you might as well wish the sky were red.”

I’m not panicking. Even though it’s Wednesday and I still don’t have a solution and Janet Grady is on the warpath.

I’m kind of beyond panic. I’m in an altered state. Like a yogi.

I’ve been dodging calls from Janet all day. Kate’s told her I’m in the loo, at lunch, trapped in the loo, and then at last I heard her saying desperately, “I can’t disturb her, I really can’t disturb her… Janet, I don’t know who the candidate is… Janet, please don’t threaten me…”

She put the phone down, shaking. Apparently Janet’s in a vicious mood. I think she’s become a bit obsessed by this short list. So am I. Resumes are swimming in front of my eyes, and the phone feels like it’s welded to my ear.

Yesterday I had a flash of inspiration. At least, it felt like inspiration. Maybe it was just desperation. Tonya! She’s tough and hard and ironlike and all those scary qualities. She’d be a total match for Janet Grady.

So I called up and casually asked if she’d thought about returning to work, now the twins had turned two. Had she thought about moving into marketing, maybe? In sportswear, perhaps? Tonya was quite senior at Shell before she had the boys. I bet her resume looks really impressive.

“But I’m on a career break,” she objected. “Mag-da! NOT those fish fingers. Look in the bottom drawer of the freezer-”

“You’ve had enough of a break, surely. A woman with your talents-you must be dying to get back to work.”

“Not really.”

“But your brain will go soggy!”

“It won’t go soggy!” She sounded affronted. “You know, I do Suzuki music every week with the boys. It’s stimulating for both children and parents, and I’ve met some other great mums there.”

“You’re telling me you’d rather do Suzuki music and drink cappuccinos than be a top marketing director.” I tried to inject an incredulous note, even though I would a million times rather be doing Suzuki music and drinking cappuccinos right now than dealing with all this.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I would. Why are you approaching me, anyway, Lara?” Suddenly her voice was more alert. “What’s going on? Have you got a problem? Because you can always talk to me about it, you know, if things are going wrong…”

Oh God. Not the fake-o sympathy.

“Nothing’s going wrong! Just trying to do my big sister a favor.” I left it a moment or two before adding casually, “So, those mums you’ve met at Suzuki music. None of them used to be a top marketing director, did they?”

You’d think out of eight formerly professional mothers there’d have been one marketing director with retail experience who wanted to return to work at once. You’d think.

Anyway. So much for that bright idea. In fact, so much for all my ideas. The only possibility I’ve found is a guy in Birmingham who might move if Leonidas Sports pays for his helicopter commute every week. Which is never going to happen in a million years. I’m doomed. All in all, you’d think now would not be the best time to be glammed up and going to a party.

Nevertheless, here I am in a taxi, glammed up and going to a party.

“We’re here! Park Lane!” Sadie peers out of the window. “Pay the driver! Let’s go!”

Bright flashes from cameras are filling our taxi, and I can hear the hubbub of people greeting one another. I see a group of about ten people in evening dress arriving on the red carpet leading up to the Spencer Hotel, where the Business People dinner is taking place. According to the Financial Times, four hundred of the top business talents in London are going to be gathered here tonight.

As one of those talents, I was all set to cancel, for many, many reasons:

1. I’m back with Josh now and shouldn’t be attending dinners with other men.

2. I’m too stressed out by work.

3. I mean, really stressed out.

4. Janet Grady might be here and yell at me.

5. Clive Hoxton, ditto. Not to mention:

6. Have to talk to Mr. American Frown all night.

But then it hit me. Four hundred businesspeople, all together in one room. Some of them have got to be top-level marketing executives. And some of them have got to want a new job. Surely.

So this is my last-ditch plan. I’m going to find a candidate for Leonidas Sports tonight, at the dinner.

I double-check that my evening bag is well stocked with business cards and glance at my reflection in the window. Needless to say, Sadie took charge of my outfit again. I’m in a black sequined vintage dress with fringed sleeves and beaded Egyptian-style medallions at the shoulders. Over this I’m wearing a cloak. My eyes are heavily kohled, I have a long gold snake bracelet, and even a pair of original stockings, just like Sadie used to wear, apparently. And on my head is a close-fitting diamante mesh cap, which Sadie found at some antique market.

Tonight I feel a lot more confident, though. For a start, everyone else will be dressed up too. And even though I protested about the cap, I secretly think I look quite cool. I look kind of glam and retro.

Sadie’s dolled up too, in a fringed dress, all turquoise and green, with a peacock feather shawl. She’s wearing about ten necklaces, and on her head is the most ludicrous headdress, with a diamante waterfall cascading past her ear. She keeps flipping her evening bag open and shut and seems in a manic mood. In fact, she’s been manic ever since she told me that story about her old dead lover. I’ve tried to ask her more about it, but no dice. She just glides away or vanishes or changes the subject. So I’ve given up.