Lost and Found. Jane Sigaloff

multiple programme ideas that had been bubbling under since he’d started reading it this morning.

      ‘Hardly. You’re the creep who went to the copy shop.’ Ali took the magazine and the pages and stuffed them into one of the bags he was guarding for her before taking it away.

      ‘You were having a manicure…and I didn’t want it to get thumbed.’ Ben could see that neither was a winning argument.

      ‘So, what? Now I have to check your pockets and I can’t leave you on your own? We’ll discuss this later.’ Ali re-entered the changing area.

      ‘How about I buy you the sweater?’ Ben shouted after her.

      ‘Jumper,’ Ali corrected him.

      ‘Just because you’ve got an English husband doesn’t mean you have to let go of your American roots completely.’

      ‘We’ve got an English father. And stop changing the subject. I’ll accept the bribe, but don’t think this is over yet. This is the only the beginning of that conversation.’

      Somehow Ben had suspected that already. Plus, now he was bored.

      Sam lay in the bath and watched the shadows flickering on the blue and green mosaic tiles. Her candles were failing to live up to their calming aromatherapy promise. Holding her breath, she allowed herself to slip under the hot water and, crossing her legs to remove her knees from the cold air of the bathroom, she cocooned herself in muted warmth. Bed beckoned. When the going got tough, the tough hibernated.

      ‘Next, please.’

      Ben shuffled a little closer to the till, clutching a tower of CDs to his chest. Mid-season sale. Not that he was sure which season they were mid at the moment, but he wasn’t complaining. He needed coffee. He still had a good hour before he was due back uptown. And the more time Ali had to calm down the better. Women.

      Leaving the store, he walked a couple of blocks east to Grand Central Station and ordered a coffee at Cipriani’s. Absorbed by the swirling crowds on the main concourse below, he let his mind wander back to the diary. Having drained his cup, and ignoring the waiter’s scowl at his failure to order a second, he found a pen and started scribbling on a napkin.

      Chapter Four

      Kicking the front door closed behind her, laden with shopping bags, Sam rustled her way along the corridor to the kitchen before her arms gave out. Her quads were smarting slightly after the intensity of her gym session, but thank God for endorphins. It was almost impossible to feel morose with your heart-rate at one hundred and sixty. Determined to keep her activity levels high, she switched the radio on for instant company and automatically re-boxed the CDs lying on the work-top while she searched for a station with a little less bass line and a few ‘classic’ tunes. Classic meaning old. Old enough for her to remember.

      Having explored every possible plan of action on the running machine, she had come to the somewhat unsatisfactory, if definite conclusion that there was nothing she could do. According to calendar convention it was a new day, and so, for the time being, Captain Optimistic was back in town, having finally shaken off Assume-The-Worst Woman on the rowing machine.

      As she restocked her cupboards Sam noticed a tell-tale slick of grease on the floor tiles. Obligingly, the Chinese take-away diva had left her foil containers out, and it appeared that the insatiable George had gone for self-service.

      Roused from a warm corner of the flat by the crinkle of a supermarket carrier, he careered into the kitchen, anxious not to miss a potential feeding moment, and once in full view attempted to feign nonchalance but failed miserably thanks to the negative braking properties of claw and paw on terracotta. Having regained his composure, from the purr crescendo and surprisingly powerful shoves Sam was getting, he was claiming to be hungry. Not physiologically possible but he was one of the few who knew, contrary to popular myth, his owner had a slushy core.

      Sam retched at the intense aroma burst of meat, offal and jelly as she opened a new can. Living on her own hadn’t been a problem, but living on her own with a kitten? Cliché-tastic. Now Gemma was around. That had been Sophie’s idea too. Breathing through her mouth, she put George’s dish on the floor and carefully washed up the fork. According to the clock on the oven door it was nearly eleven-thirty, and there was no evidence that the Queen of Peking had even surfaced to make herself a cup of tea.

      Sam flicked the kettle switch and turned the radio up in an attempt to mask her enthusiastic, if somewhat atonal sing-a-long. No more tiptoeing around in her own flat. Today had started hours ago.

      Gemma appeared in the doorway almost exactly as the kettle boiled, bleary-eyed, her unruly hair even wilder than normal. And she seemed to be wearing a strappy top and pyjama shorts. Obviously the latest in naughty-but-nice-girl-next-door sleepwear, and much more Sarah Jessica Parker in dishevelled sexiness, Sam noted, than it would have been on her. Gem was a natural. The sort of girl who’d never sat at the side of the school hall at the end-of-term disco. Who’d never had to pretend that she didn’t want to dance to ‘The Power of Love’ or the ‘Lady in Red’. Boys had always sidled up to her on the off chance. They still did.

      ‘Morning.’ Gemma started rubbing her eyes in an attempt to uncrust last night’s mascara and restore the individual lash look.

      ‘Only just… Look, do you think you could try not to leave food out? He’s a cat—he’s going to help himself. And he’s definitely not designed to eat spring onions drenched in plum sauce.’

      Sam had her head in the fridge and was in the process of jettisoning most of the salad drawer, which had apparently liquidised itself in its bags since last week. This had never happened when Sophie had lived there. Mark was a lucky man. Sophie was a rare find in the twenty-first century—perfect wife material. And Sam was speaking from experience. Having a flatmate who’d enjoyed cooking, worked irregular hours and often from home might not have been great for the phone bill, but it had been fantastic for leftovers and getting her washing done.

      As she replaced the old bags with new ones, freshly shopped, she knew it would be as good for her nutrition as buying them was for her conscience if she actually ate the stuff—but she never seemed to have time to eat at home at the moment.

      ‘Sorry. Chuck us the milk. I need tea.’ Gemma might not get up until late, but she was always incredibly perky when she did finally surface.

      Sam handed her the plastic container, simultaneously liberating a shrivelled courgette from a dark corner of the second shelf, and did her best not to appear fazed by the similarly dishevelled young man now standing in her kitchen. From his slicked-back hair it looked as if he had at least managed a shower. In fact, he smelt familiarly citrusy.

      ‘Good shower?’ Her tone was mordacious.

      The bastard reeked of her Jo Malone bodywash. And the whole point of paying a mortgage was so that you didn’t have to carry your towels and products in and out of the bathroom each morning.

      ‘Yes, thanks.’ His reply was hesitant. Small talk or sarcasm? His eyes darted to Gemma and back, hoping for a clue. Gemma, however, was concentrating on squeezing every last drip of caffeine into her cup.

      ‘Well, hi. I’m Sam.’ She faked a smile.

      Now she’d sodding well have to change all the towels. She couldn’t risk drying her face in his pubes, even if Jo Malone had given them the once-over. She swapped neurotic for civil. At least for the short term. Giving her hands a quick rinse with antibacterial wash, she dried them on a teatowel, absent-mindedly polishing the fridge door with it before re-hanging it over the handle on the matching stainless steel oven.

      Finally Gemma looked up. She must have sensed the tension because she was actually taking her teabag to the kitchen bin, albeit leaving a trail of drips in her wake, only to realise that she’d filled the bin to capacity before