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eyed her. ‘I thought all your happiness—past, present and future—was tied up in Martin.’

      ‘How can I have a relationship with someone who won’t commit?’ Janie demanded dramatically, flinging herself into the chintz-covered armchair by the window.

      ‘You’ve been seeing him for a month,’ Ros pointed out. ‘Isn’t that a little soon for a proposal of marriage?’

      ‘Not when it’s the right thing. But he’s just scared of involvement. So I’ve decided to stop being guided by my heart. It’s too risky. I’m going to approach my next relationship scientifically.’ She held up the newspaper. ‘With this.’

      Ros frowned. ‘With the Clarion? I don’t follow…’

      ‘It’s their “Personal Touch” column,’ Janie said eagerly. ‘A whole page of people looking for love—like me.’

      Ros’s heart sank like a stone. ‘Including a number of sad individuals on the hunt for some very different things,’ she said quietly. ‘Janie, you cannot be serious.’

      ‘Why not?’ Janie demanded defiantly. ‘Ros, I can’t wait for ever. I don’t want to go on living with our parents either. I want my own place—like you,’ she added, sweeping her surroundings with an envious glance. ‘Do you know how lucky you were, inheriting a house like this from Grandma Blake?’

      ‘Yes,’ Ros said quietly. ‘But, given the choice, I’d rather have Gran alive, well, and pottering in the garden. We were—close.’ She gave Janie a searching look. ‘You’re surely not planning to marry simply for a different roof over your head?’

      ‘No, of course not.’ Janie sounded shocked. ‘I really need to be married, Ros. It’s the crucial time for me. I wake up in the night, sometimes, and hear my biological clock ticking away.’

      In spite of her concern, Ros’s face split into a grin as she contemplated her twenty-two-year-old stepsister. The tousled Meg Ryan-style blonde hair, the enormous blue eyes, and the slender figure shown off by a micro-skirt and cropped sweater hardly belonged to someone on the brink of decay.

      Sometimes she felt thirty years older than Janie, rather than three.

      ‘Better your biological clock than a time bomb,’ she said caustically.

      ‘Well, listen to this.’ Janie peered at the paper. “‘High-flying, fun-loving executive, GSOH, seeks soulmate”. He doesn’t sound like a bomb.’ She frowned. ‘What’s a “GSOH”?’

      ‘A good sense of humour,’ Ros said. ‘And it usually means they haven’t one. And “fun-loving” sounds as if he likes throwing bread rolls and slipping whoopee cushions on your chair.’

      ‘Uh.’ Janie pulled a face. ‘How about this, then? “Lonely in London. Is there a girl out there who’s seriously interested in love and marriage? Could it be you?”’ Her face was suddenly dreamy. ‘He sounds—sweet, don’t you think?’

      ‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Ros shook her head despairingly. “‘Lonely in London”? He’s been watching too many re-runs of Sleepless in Seattle.’

      ‘Well, you liked it.’

      ‘As a film, but not to be confused with real life.’ Ros paused. ‘Janie—call Martin. Tell him you don’t want to get married this week, this month or even next year. Let him make the running, and build on what you feel for each other. I’m sure things will work out.’

      ‘I’d rather die,’ Janie said dramatically. ‘I refuse to be humiliated.’

      ‘No, you’d rather run the gauntlet of a series of nohopers,’ Ros said bitterly. ‘You could be getting into a real minefield.’

      ‘Don’t fuss so. I know how the system works,’ Janie said impatiently. ‘You don’t give your address or telephone number in the preliminary contact, and you arrange to meet in a public place where there are going to be plenty of other people around. Easy-peasy.’ She nodded. ‘But you could be right about the “fun-loving executive”, so I’ll go for “Lonely in London”.’

      ‘Janie, this is such a bad idea…’

      ‘But lots of people meet through personal columns. That’s what they’re for. And I think it’s an exciting idea—two complete strangers embarking on a voyage of mutual discovery. You’re a romantic novelist. Doesn’t it turn you on?’

      ‘Not particularly,’ Ros said grimly. ‘On old maps they used to write “Here be Dragons” on uncharted waters.’

      ‘Well, you’re not putting me off.’ Janie bounced to her feet again. ‘I’m going to reply to this ad right now. And I bet he gets inundated with letters. Every single woman in London will be writing to him.’

      At the door, she paused. ‘You know, the trouble with you, Ros, is that you’ve been seeing that bloody bore Colin for so long that you’ve become set in concrete—just like him. You should stop writing about romance and go out and find some. Get a life before it’s too late.’

      And she was gone, banging the door behind her.

      Ros, caught in the slipstream of her departure, realised that she was sitting with her mouth open, and closed it quickly.

      She rarely, if ever, had the last word with Janie, she thought ruefully, but that had been a blow below the belt.

      She knew, of course, that Colin treated Janie with heavy tolerance, which her stepsister repaid with astonished contempt, but Janie had never attacked him openly before.

      But then Colin doesn’t approve of Janie staying here while Dad and Molly are away, she acknowledged, sighing.

      He’d made it clear that their personal life had to be put on hold while she was in occupation.

      ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing that she was sleeping in the room opposite,’ he’d said, frowning.

      Ros had stared at him. ‘Surely we don’t make that much noise?’

      Colin had flushed slightly. ‘It’s not that. She’s young, and far too impressionable already. We should set her a good example.’

      ‘I’m sure she knows the facts of life,’ Ros had said drily. ‘She could probably give us some pointers.’

      But Colin had not budged. ‘We’ve plenty of time to think about ourselves,’ he’d told her, dropping a kiss on her hair.

      And that was how it had remained.

      Suddenly restless, Ros got up from her desk and wandered across to the window, looking down at the tiny courtyard garden beneath, which was just beginning to peep into spring flower.

      Her grandmother, Venetia Blake, had planted it all, making sure there were crocuses and narcissi to brighten the early months each year. She’d added the magnolia tree, too, and trained a passion flower along one wall. And in the summer there would be roses, and tubs of scented lavender.

      Apart from pruning and weeding, there was little for Ros to do, but she enjoyed working there, and, although she was a practical girl, with no belief in ghosts, there were times when she felt that Venetia’s presence was near, and was comforted by it.

      She wasn’t sure why she should need comfort. Her mother had been dead for five years when her father, David Craig, had met Molly, his second wife, herself a widow with a young daughter. Molly was attractive, cheerful and uncomplicated, and the transition had been remarkably painless. And Ros had never begrudged her father his new-found happiness. But inevitably she’d felt herself overshadowed by her new stepsister. Janie was both pretty and demanding, and, like most people who expect to be spoiled, she usually got her own way too.

      For a moment Ros looked at her own reflection in the windowpanes, reviewing critically the smooth, light brown hair, and the hazel eyes set in a quiet pale-skinned face. The unremarkable sweater and skirt.

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