The House on Willow Street. Cathy Kelly

top-of-the-range cosmetic surgery did not come cheap. Not that a tweak and a mini droplet of Botox here and there didn’t fit in with feminism, but her public might think otherwise. God forbid that Suki Richardson should be outed as having resorted to Sculptra to keep her face looking young. Not after she’d publicly declared that ‘women should stop trying to stop the years! Wrinkles are the proof that we have lived!’

      Unfortunately she had acquired a little too much proof of having lived. At forty-eight, she seemed to have more than her fair share of lines. Who knew that smoking created all those lines around the mouth?

      And she’d probably have a whole new set of frown lines after the phone call from Eric Gold.

      Eric had always been straight with her. She wished they were still friends, because he was one of the few people she could rely on to tell her the truth, even when it hurt.

      ‘I got a letter requesting an interview from this guy who’s writing a book about the Richardsons.’

      ‘Ye-s,’ said Suki.

      She’d been enjoying a nice afternoon relaxing in her cosy house in Falmouth, lying on the couch watching TV.

      ‘He’s particularly interested in you. Says you’re mysterious. His words, not mine.’

      Suki had stood up to get the phone: now, she groped for a chair to sit on.

      ‘You still there?’

      ‘I’m still here, Eric.’

      ‘Yeah, well, I told him he’d have to get clearance from you first if he wanted me to talk to you. After all, I was your publisher, the book’s still in print so we do business together.’

      Once, Eric might have said I’m your friend, but not any more. Not that it mattered right now; there was no time to think about old friendships destroyed with someone out there talking about putting her in a biography.

      Or autobiography, perhaps?

      ‘Is he writing it with Kyle?’ she asked hopefully.

      That would be fine. Tricky, but fine. Kyle wouldn’t want to rock any boats, so he’d stick to the official story of their divorce: We were just two very different people who got married too young. We have the greatest affection for each other even after all these years.

      There were plenty of nice photos of their marriage to illustrate a coffee-table book. They’d made a photogenic couple. Suki had moved her wardrobe up a notch, trying to fit in with the waspy Richardson clan – in vain, as it happened. Nobody could have impressed Junior’s mother, Antoinette the Ice Queen.

      ‘No.’ Eric’s mellow voice interrupted her fantasy. ‘It’s a Redmond Suarez book.’

      Suki nearly dropped the phone but she managed to steady herself. Suarez was the sort of unofficial biographer to make a subject’s blood run cold. His work was always unauthorized – nobody would authorize the things he wrote. He invariably managed to dig out everything, every little secret a person had hoped would remain hidden. If he was trawling through the Richardson family, then they would all be shaking in their shoes. And so was she.

      ‘Oh God,’ she said.

      ‘Oy vey,’ agreed Eric. ‘Not good news for anyone involved, I take it.’

      ‘Well, you know …’ she said helplessly.

      ‘Yeah, I know. He says he’s researching now and will be writing next year with a view to publication in the fall.’

      ‘Nearly a year of research,’ breathed Suki.

      Imagine what he could find out in a year! Suki hated research. That was one of the obstacles getting in the way of the new book. That and the fact that everything was riding on it.

      ‘I’ll get my assistant to scan the letter and email it to you,’ Eric said. ‘I won’t be cooperating, but you can bet your bottom dollar that other people will, Suki.’

      ‘I’m sure,’ she said dully. ‘Thanks for the call. How is … ?’ Too late, she realized she’d forgotten the name of his wife.

      ‘Keren,’ he said drily. ‘She’s great. Ciao.’

      Suki winced as she placed the receiver on the cradle. Eric was one of those she’d burned during the Jethro years. It had all seemed so much fun at the time: living the high life on the touring scene, never returning phone calls, being too stoned to care about old friends. In turn, the old friends had moved on with their lives.

      It was only after Suki had hung up that she realized he hadn’t asked her how she was or if she was happy. At least she’d made the effort, even if she couldn’t remember his damned wife’s name.

      Her sister, Tess could stay friends forever. Tess had maintained contact with her old classmates from school, she’d go to dinner with them and have civilized conversations about life. Suki wouldn’t recognize any of her old classmates in a police line-up. It was crash and burn with old acquaintances where she was concerned. Always had been.

      Suddenly, she became aware of the sound of clapping. Her introduction was over. It was time to stand up and do her thing, become the Suki who fought the feminist fight, not the Suki who was scared to the pit of her stomach.

      Suki opted out of dinner with the faculty when someone suggested a vegan restaurant in town that served organic, low-alcohol wine. Give her strength! Screw vegans and all who sailed in them. She wanted pasta with a cream sauce or steak Diane, thank you very much.

      Plus, she’d bet her fee that they’d order one glass of crappy organic wine each. Nobody drank any more. Two drinks and they were offering rehab advice, and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

      Back in the horrible little hotel room the faculty had booked for her she took off her ball-busting purple trouser suit with satin lapels and hung it in the wardrobe. Her speech outfit scared the hell out of men; maybe because purple was such a sexual colour.

      ‘I hate that goddamn purple pant suit,’ Mick had said as she was leaving the house earlier that day to catch the train to Kirkenfeld.

      He was leaning against the doorjamb of their bedroom, still in the T-shirt he’d worn in bed. He’d done what he did most days and just pulled his jeans and boots on. Even so shabbily dressed, he was incredibly attractive: part-Irish, part-Italian, part something else, with intense blue eyes and jet black hair. His band hadn’t landed a gig in over a month, so he spent a lot of time sitting on the porch, smoking weed and messing around on her laptop.

      ‘New song ideas, honey,’ he said when she tried to ask what he was doing.

      She didn’t believe him.

      They were so broke, yet she couldn’t ask him to get a regular job. It wouldn’t be fair. He wasn’t that sort of person.

      ‘Music is a calling, babe,’ he’d say. ‘I don’t turn up at nine like regular guys. I need the muse.’

      No, it was no good depending on Mick, Suki thought as she changed into her brown sweatpants. She was going to have to sort out their lack of money by herself.

      First, however, she needed a drink. She closed the wardrobe and went to check out the mini bar. It was entirely empty.

      Please phone if you’d like the mini bar filled, said a plaintive little note on the top shelf. Damn straight she wanted it filled up. A stiff drink might help her unwind.

      She ordered a double vodka tonic from room service. She’d have dinner downstairs with wine, and then, hopefully, she’d sleep. Provided she could get that damned Suarez book out of her mind.

      Suddenly, even a boring night with the vegans sounded better than another evening of worrying herself sick.

      Throwing open her suitcase – Suki never unpacked; what was the point for one night? – she began rifling through her stuff in search of the loose gold cashmere knit