The house which Rachel shared with Charles Beecham, and from which she commuted daily to her London office, lay just outside Newbury. It was a comfortable, pretty place built of soft ochre stone, and set in a couple of acres of stone-walled garden. It had an air of solidity, of permanence, and Anthony thought he could sense the security which Rachel must feel, living here. He parked his car and got out, retrieving the flowers he had brought from the back seat. Rachel, who had caught sight of the car turning in at the gateway, came out to meet him, Oliver at her heels. They exchanged a kiss. Anthony bent down to say hello to Oliver, who returned the greeting with a thoughtful, considering glance, disarmingly like Leo’s, then turned and trotted back into the house. ‘I obviously didn’t make much of an impression last time,’ said Anthony, straightening up. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s going through a laconic phase.’ But as they went into the house, Oliver reappeared and handed Anthony a book.
