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`Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Florence shrugged with irritating lack of concern. `Ring him, tell him you'll see him at eight.'

`Missed a bit,' said Bev, too busy flipping through one of the Sunday supplements to even point an acrylic false nail in the appropriate direction. Instead, she wriggled her eyebrows and nodded at a remote section of wall high above the door frame. `See? It's gone blotchy.'

`It's all going blotchy,' Miranda grumbled. She leaned back on her ladder, rubbing her aching spine. `I'm going to have to do two coats.'

`There's a piece in here about the best places to go to meet men.' Bev sat up on the dust-sheet-covered bed, sending half

a dozen Sunday Times sections slithering to the floor. `It says health farms are good.' She looked up, interested. `I've never been to a health farm.'

`The only men you'd meet there would be overweight, stressed-out businessmen who've been warned by their doctors that if they don't lose six stone they'll be dead by Christmas.' Miranda blinked as a spray of crocus-yellow emulsion ricocheted off the roller into her eyes. `And they'd all be going cold turkey because they'd had their mobile phones and laptops confiscated.'

`True,' sighed Bev. `I can't bear men who twitch.' She read on down the list. `How about evening classes in car maintenance?'

`Full of women desperate to meet men,' Miranda said briskly. `And no real men would ever go because it would be too unmacho for words.'

`Kite flying!' Bev exclaimed, jabbing the page. `That's how you met Thingy! Well, it certainly worked for you.'

Miranda tried to imagine Bev, in her high heels, teetering up Parliament Hill, struggling to keep her hair in place with one hand and clinging for dear life to the handle of a somersaulting kite with the other.

Still, Thingy was a good name for Daniel Delancey.

`I didn't so much meet him,' Miranda protested, `as hurl abuse at him.'

`I could hurl abuse.' Bev looked indignant. `I'm great at that. I haven't always worked at Fenn's place, you know. I was once a doctor's receptionist.'

Splat, a dollop of paint slid off the end of Miranda's roller and landed on top of her head. This was worse than being dive-bombed by pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Only yellower.

`My legs ache, my arms ache, my back aches.'

`Oh, stop being so neurotic. Take a couple of painkillers and stop moaning. You can't see the doctor until a week on Tuesday and that's final.'

Amazed, Miranda swung round.

`What?'

`That's me being a doctor's receptionist.' Bev was smug. `Told you I was good.'

`But I do ache.'

`I don't see why. You've only done half a ceiling and one wall.'

And spent most of the night having rampant, muscle-wrenching nonstop sex, thought Miranda semi-guiltily. Still, better not mention that.

`I thought you came here to help me.' She tried a spot of wheedling.

`I am helping you, I'm keeping you company.'

Great.

`You could keep me company up this ladder.'

`I get dizzy on ladders. And I'm allergic to paint.' Cosily, Bev snuggled up with the News of the World. `If I got any on me I'd go as blotchy as your wall.'

`I wouldn't mind.'

`I would. Anyway, I'm doing my bit later, aren't I? Making you look presentable for the TV cameras.'

As soon as Bev had heard that Danny Delancey was coming round, she had excitedly volunteered to do Miranda's make-up.

`Nothing outrageous,' Miranda warned her now, a terrifying vision of Zandra Rhodes looming into her mind. `A

bit of eyeshadow, a bit of lipstick, that's all. Not too much foundation.'

Especially the last; Bev had a tendency to get carried away when it came to foundation.

`Don't panic, you'll look great.' Leaning over, Bev smugly patted her handbag, bulging with every cosmetic known to Harrods Beauty Hall.

`Okay, but easy on the foundation.'

`Believe me,' Bev's tone was soothing, `right now you need all the help you can get.'

`You're not my friend.'

`I am your friend, I'm just being honest.'

`If you were really my friend,'