The Stepmothers’ Support Group. Sam Baker

that said she was about to commit a cardinal sin.

      He was tall and slim, with a largish nose, made more obvious by his recently cropped hair. But it was the brooding intensity with which he read his book that attracted her. Before he’d even looked up, she’d fallen for her interview subject.

       She never expected to fall for a married man.

      Eve ran that back. Actually, she’d worked hard not to fall for anyone. She could count on one hand the number of lovers she’d had in the last ten years. And she didn’t need any hands at all to count the number whose leaving had given her so much as a sleepless night.

      She had her job, features director on a major magazine at thirty-two, and, apart from one serious relationship in her first year at university, she’d never let anyone get in the way of what she wanted to do. And, if she was honest, she hadn’t let that get in the way, had she?

      So, falling for Ian Newsome was more than a surprise. It was a shock.

      Life didn’t get messy immediately.

      Caroline had been dead for nine months when Eve interviewed Ian; and it was another six months before they ended up in bed. All right, five months, two weeks and three days. But from the minute he stood up, in his jeans and suit jacket, to pull back her chair, Eve was hooked. And during that first meeting he wasn’t even the most accommodating of interview subjects.

      He hadn’t wanted to do the interview at all. He was there, surrounded by tourists, two floors above Oxford Street, under duress. Caroline’s publishers had insisted. Precious Moments, a collection of her columns documenting a three-year battle with breast cancer was due for publication on the first anniversary of her death. And Ian was morally, not to mention contractually, obliged to promote it.

      Since a large percentage of the money was going to the Macmillan Trust, which had provided the cancer nurses who had seen Caroline through her last days, how could he refuse?

      It was a given that The Times, Caroline’s old paper, would extract it; so he agreed to an interview with their Saturday magazine to launch the extract, plus one further interview. Of all the countless requests, he had chosen Beau, the women’s glossy where Eve was features director.

      The first thing he’d said was, ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ (Eve recognized it for the power play it was, but let him anyway.) The second was, ‘I won’t allow the kids to be photographed.’ He fixed Eve with a chilly blue gaze as she took a tentative sip of her scalding Americano and felt the roof of her mouth blister.

      Great start.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Eve said, hearing her voice slide into ‘case study’ mode. ‘But we’ll need something.’ She tried not to run her tongue over the blister. ‘I did make that clear to your publicist right from the start.’

      Ian’s mouth set into a tight line. So tight, his lips almost disappeared. ‘And I made it clear,’ he said. ‘No photography would be allowed. That was my condition. After all they’ve been through, losing their mother and…And everything. Well, protecting them, giving them some…normality. That’s the most important thing. I’m sure you understand.’

      ‘Of course, I do.’

      Eve forced a smile, racking her brains for a way to salvage the interview. She did understand, but she also understood that Miriam, her editor, would kill her if she came back empty-handed. There were pictures of Caroline they could buy from The Times, obviously enough. Also pap shots, taken when she was leaving hospital. Only Miriam would want something new. Something personal. Something that would strike a chord with Beau’s readers, many of whom were in their thirties. The point at which Caroline had discovered, while feeding Alfie, that she had a lump in her breast. A lump that turned out to be what everyone thought was a not-especially life-threatening form of cancer.

      Eve thought fast. She only had an hour with the guy. The last thing she needed was to spend half of it squabbling over pictures. Then it dawned on her. ‘You’re a photographer? I bet your family album is stunning. How about a snap of Caroline with the kids, when they were much younger, before she was ill? The children would scarcely be recognizable. Your youngest, Alfie, would still be a baby. Surely that wouldn’t infringe their privacy?’

      ‘I’ll consider it,’ Ian said grudgingly. His scowl said the subject was now closed.

      The feature was a success. After that early hiccup, Ian had talked candidly about Caro’s life and very public death, even giving Eve some lovely quotes on the children he clearly adored. The following day, he’d e-mailed her three ‘collects’—snapshots from his family album of Caro and the children when they were small. The pictures had never been seen before or since. It was only later, after the interview was published, that Eve looked at the spread and realized there was only one of Ian, standing in the background, behind Caroline and her triumvirate of beatific angels.

      ‘Well, he is a photographer,’ the editorial assistant said. ‘He was behind the camera.’

      All the same, something about the shot troubled her.

      Eve couldn’t have been more surprised when, a week after the issue containing Ian’s story went off-sale, her mobile rang and it was him.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling.’

      ‘No, not at all.’ Eve tensed. She’d been expecting him to ball her out the week it was published; to say he hadn’t said this or didn’t mean that, but his tone wasn’t what she’d come to expect from enraged or regretful case studies. And it wasn’t as if they could have lost his pictures because they were digital. So what did he want?

      ‘It’s just…I was wondering if you’d like a coffee sometime?’

      Even then Eve hadn’t been entirely sure he was asking her out on a date. And to begin with it wasn’t a date; it was a coffee. And then another. And another. Between then and now, Ian Newsome had bought her an awful lot of caffeine.

      ‘I bought you all something,’ Eve said now, as she took off her trench and slung it over the back of her chair. She tried not to notice Hannah eye her stripy T-shirt. Whether the girl’s expression was disapproval or amusement was hard to tell, but it certainly wasn’t covetousness. Maybe she’d tried too hard, Eve thought. Maybe the girl could smell that, like dogs smell fear and cats make a beeline for the one person in the room who’s allergic.

      ‘Here,’ she said, offering a copy of Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights to Hannah. ‘I loved this. I hope you haven’t read it.’

      Hannah smiled politely but didn’t put out her hand. ‘I have, actually. When I was younger…’

      ‘But thank you,’ she added, when Sophie nudged her. ‘I loved it.’

      The book hung in midair, hovering above mugs of cooling hot chocolate. Eve felt her face flame, as she willed Hannah to take the book anyway. The girl studiously ignored it.

      Eve could have kicked herself.

      This was tough enough as it was. Why had she taken a risk like that? It would have been so much easier just to ask Ian what books they had. Only she’d wanted to do it on her own. She’d wanted to prove she could get it right.

      ‘Oh well,’ Eve said, admitting defeat. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll exchange it for something else.’

      ‘Thanks. But there’s no need.’ Hannah held up a dogeared magazine, open at a spread about Gossip Girl. ‘I prefer magazines anyway.’

      ‘What about me?’ demanded Alfie. ‘What did you buy me?’

      ‘It’s not your turn,’ Sophie said, punching Alfie’s arm. ‘It’s mine.’

      ‘Ow-uh!’ Alfie’s face fell. But when he saw Eve watching, he grinned. His heart wasn’t in being upset.

      Regaining her confidence, she gave Sophie a brightlycoloured hardback. ‘It’s the new Jacqueline Wilson; I