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the hardest work to show her mother a smiling face.

      She rang her cousin Jan that night for a chat, and wished that she could confide in her, but she couldn’t confide in her mother either. The love, the ache, was much too private. Karrie had seen nothing of Farne that day—nor did he phone that night. Not that she had expected that he would ring her.

      She awoke on Wednesday, striving to stir her lost pride into action. For goodness’ sake—never before had she waited for any man’s phone call! Bubbles to him; if Darren Jackson asked her to go out with him again today, she’d jolly well go.

      ‘Fancy coming for a Chinese after work?’ Darren asked as soon as he saw her.

      ‘Sorry, Darren, I’ve got something on tonight,’ Karrie replied—well, perhaps if he asked her again tomorrow, she excused the pathetic mess Farne Maitland had made of her. The truth was she just didn’t want to go out with anyone but Farne.

      She threw herself into her work, and in part succeeded, sometimes for seconds at a time, in wiping Farne from her thoughts. Then, at around half past ten—time never used to drag like this—a shadow fell across her desk. She looked up—and was hard put to it not to leap out of her seat with joy.

      ‘How’s my best girl?’ Farne enquired with charm that sank her.

      Her heart at once went into overdrive. ‘You’re only saying that ’cos it’s true,’ she replied, every bit as if she hadn’t ate, dreamt and slept Farne Maitland since last Sunday.

      He grinned and went on his way—and Karrie casually left her desk and headed for the ladies’ room. Her hands were shaking so much she wasn’t going to accomplish very much work anyway.

      She washed her hands and dried them, and checked her appearance in the mirror, never more glad that, clad in a crisp linen two-piece, outwardly at least, she looked perfectly composed.

      Karrie had been in the ladies’ room getting herself together for about five minutes when the panicky notion dawned on her that Farne’s visit to Mr Lane might only be a fleeting one!

      Suddenly it seemed of vital importance that she saw him again. She needn’t talk to him—what was there to say? She just wanted to see him one more time.

      She went quickly, only just managing not to run. But she was right to hurry she saw as soon as she entered the over-large area where she worked. Because Farne, having already completed his business, had left Mr Lane’s office and was even then walking in the aisle between the rows of desks.

      Karrie, continued walking towards him, though not so hurriedly now. Knowing they would pass, she had a pleasant ‘Bye’ ready, then found that it was not needed. For he halted in front of her and she had no thought to move out of his way. She stopped too. Her feet were taking her nowhere for the moment.

      As he looked down, so she looked up, but had time only to marvel that that oh, so superb mouth had actually kissed hers, had given her that most wonderful tender kiss on Sunday, before Farne, a smile somewhere deep in his eyes, casually enquired, ‘Coming out for a coffee?’

      Yes, yes, yes. ‘I’m working,’ she answered. Sack me, fire me. I don’t care. I just want to go with him.

      ‘Then it will have to be coffee tonight—after dinner,’ he stated.

      He wanted to take her out! She felt sure her feet had sprouted wings—she felt as if she was floating on air. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ she accepted, but was suddenly aware that she couldn’t hear the clatter of nearby computer keyboards. They, she realised, had an audience.

      Farne seemed suddenly aware too, for he made no attempt to delay her further when she side-stepped him and continued on to her desk. Before she had taken her seat, however, she was already starting to wonder—did she really have a date with Farne that night, or had she misconstrued his remark?

      But apparently several of her work colleagues were of the opinion that she and Farne were having dinner together that night, because no sooner had the door at the far end closed than chairs were being scooted up to her desk.

      ‘You’re dating Farne Maitland!’ Lucy exclaimed in awe.

      

      Karrie had kept to herself the fact that she had seen Farne last Saturday and Sunday. ‘Am I?’ she asked—still not very sure about tonight.

      ‘That was a definite date if ever I heard one!’ Heather opined.

      Fortunately, at that point Mr Lane wandered into their office, and, as quickly as a bomb-burst, four chairs—Jenny was back at work—scooted away.

      Karrie drove home at the end of her work day, striving to caution herself that Farne could have just been teasing.

      She would get ready—just in case he called for her—but she wouldn’t be too upset if the doorbell stayed silent. Well, not desperately upset.

      ‘It’s just you and me tonight,’ her mother said when she got in. ‘Your workaholic father’s too busy to come home!’

      Her mother, Karrie felt, was starting to sound more and more bitter by the day. ‘Actually, Mum, I’m not wanting a meal either tonight. I...’

      ‘You’re starting to get just like him!’ Margery Dalton complained. ‘Meals cooked and not wanted.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I...’

      ‘It never occurred to you to pick up a phone, I suppose? ’

      Karrie felt dreadful. ‘I should have done. I’m sorry,’ she apologised again. With her mother in sour mood, now did not seem the right time to explain that she hadn’t phoned because she wasn’t terribly certain that she would be eating out. It was only now, with her possible date with Farne looming closer, that she realised that she wasn’t the least bit hungry, and that, in or out, she didn’t think she could eat a morsel.

      She went up to her room to shower and get ready for what might be a night in, and found that on top of her anxiety she was feeling all upset at having been taken to task by her mother, who had accused her of starting to get just like her father.

      She didn’t want to be like her thoughtless father. She loved him, of course she did, but sometimes she did not like him very much. Karrie didn’t like the way he treated her mother, nor the fact that, because experience had shown that she only made matters worse, she could not do anything to put things right between her parents.

      Karrie was out of the shower and blow drying her hair when it came to her that she didn’t want to be like her mother either. Her mother was so embittered. Yet Karrie was positive she hadn’t started out that way. Her marriage to Bernard Dalton had done that to her. And, while Karrie felt so sad about that, she felt she could not bear it if one day she woke up and found that she had grown into the same kind of person her mother had become.

      But Karrie shrugged her sadness and fear away. Hang it all, there was no earthly reason why she should be embittered. She gave a hurried glance at her watch and, since she wanted to be ready by seven—just in case—realised she’d better get a move on. Besides, what had she got to be bitter about? With any luck, the man she was in love with would be calling for her soon.

      Karrie was ready with five minutes to spare. She used those five minutes to watch for Farne’s car turning into the drive. She felt so churned up inside she could barely stand still because of the high tension of her emotions.

      He won’t come, he won’t, she told herself, striving for calm—and then she saw his car in the drive, and almost burst into tears from the strain of it. But she didn’t, and flew down the stairs on winged feet.

      Her mother was on the telephone, but broke off. To Karrie’s relief she saw they were friends again when her mother smiled. ‘Farne’s here—I’m just off,’ Karrie told her.

      ‘Have a good time!’ Margery Dalton bade her.

      The doorbell sounded. Karrie managed to wait five seconds before she went to the door. ‘My mother’s

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