Lessons in Love. Kate Lawson

full-length curtains, pulled back wide to reveal as much of the view out over the park as possible.

      Beyond the picture windows in the moonlight, the herd of deer were gathering around the lakeside, the rippling water backed by a stand of trees picked out in silhouette against the skyline. It was an image that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a painting.

      Around the room there were cupboards to waist height along one wall, neatly arranged with books and stationery, and box files neatly labelled. Above them hung a Tabitha Salmon painting of gondolas on the lagoon in Venice and a whole gallery of photographs.

      Along the other two sides of the room on the slate desktops stood plants, books and catalogues, and Jayne’s Apple Mac. The final wall, with its two large picture windows, was empty, although the deep windowsills were upholstered and had a scatter of gold, blue and red cushions picking up the colours in the painting. Jane looked around, drinking it all in. Working here just had to be better than driving into town every day by about a million miles.

      She switched on the lamps above Jayne’s workstation. On the pin board above the desk, between a couple of postcards and some theatre tickets, was a faded black-and-white photo with curled edges; it was of a good-looking guy with shoulder-length blond hair and a smile that lit up his face like a spotlight. It was impossible not to smile back. Without thinking Jane reached out and took the photo down. On the back someone had written, ‘Andy Turner, Beach-Bum of the Year 1982’. Jane’s smile broadened. So this was the man Jayne had run away from. Hard to see why. He was beautiful in a rugged way, and had the kindest eyes.

      ‘So there you are,’ said Gary, making Jane jump. ‘What do you think then?’ he said, indicating the room.

      ‘It’s beautiful.’