'I see your technique for getting rid of people hasn't improved,' Faye said lightly.

He scowled. 'Five minutes. That's all. I'll take it in the study.'

'Can I make myself some tea?'

'This is your home. Go where you like!' He vanished into the study.

The big, glamorous kitchen had all the latest gadgetry cunningly concealed beneath oak and copper pots. That and the dark red tiles on the floor gave it an air of warmth, but Faye had never found it warm. Garth had told her to select whatever decor she liked, but then promoted his own preference so insistently that she'd yielded. It seemed to have been chosen not for herself, but for someone called Garth Clayton's wife. Was it then she'd started to feel that she didn't fit the role? No, much earlier.

How eagerly he'd first shown her the house! It was set in its own grounds on a slight incline, surrounded by elm trees. 'Here you are, darling,' he'd said. 'Welcome to Elm Ridge. Your new home, like you always wanted.' His pride had been touching, and she'd lacked the heart to say that it wasn't the home she'd wanted. Nothing like it.

Her dream home had been 'a little place all our own', as he'd once promised. And two years after their marriage they'd had a small house, for Garth was a man born to succeed. She'd been completely happy. But four years later he'd swept her away into this big, unfriendly mansion. She'd even had a housekeeper, a bustling, kindly soul called Nancy. Faye made friends with her and enjoyed many a chat in the kitchen, for she felt more at home with Nancy than with any of her husband's new, moneyed friends.

When the tea was made she wandered back to the study door, behind which she could hear him arguing with someone. Long experience made her murmur, 'Half an hour at the least.'

Wherever she looked she could see few changes. The pictures on the stair walls were the ones she'd chosen. She'd taken one of them with her, and its place was still blank.