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well to imagine any such thing.’
    â€˜Thank you, Richard,’ said Willow as soberly, and went on, as though disliking so much seriousness: ‘And I don’t see why I should scour a taste for fish fingers out of myself just because you despise them. They’re almost the only thing I’ve retained from the Newcastle of my youth. Even after a childhood like mine, one should be allowed a tiny bit of nostalgia.’
    â€˜Were you so unhappy then?’ asked Richard. It was the most intimate question he had ever asked her and for a moment she was tempted to laugh it off; but then she remembered his declaration of faith in her and thought that she had to answer properly.
    â€˜Not exactly unhappy, Richard, because I didn’t know anything else. But I did feel as though I inhabited a world quite separate from anyone else. Don’t look like that, my dear,’ she said, stretching out a hand across the table. He held it for a moment, looking so sad that she felt that she had to try to explain.
    â€˜I don’t blame my parents: they did their absolute best, but they knew nothing whatever about the emotional needs of children. They were both very busy at the university and confined their dealings with me to making sure that I was fit and healthy and would be able to cope with the world on my own. Since they were forty-two and fifty-five when I was conceived they were convinced that they’d die before I’d got a job with a secure salary and pension.’
    â€˜Hence the Civil Service,’ said Richard. ‘I wonder what they would think of Cressida Woodruffe.’ At that Willow laughed and took a sip of Chablis.
    â€˜I rather think they would be appalled,’ she said. ‘For two professorial scientists to have produced a daughter with an academic record like mine was one thing – I think they were really quite proud of that – but to have a daughter who made a fortune out of romantic novels? No, Richard. They would have hated it – and despised half the things I’ve bought with the money. They seriously disapproved of luxury and in my place would have sent all the money to Third World aid projects, I suspect.’
    Richard swallowed the last of his oysters and then looked speculatively across the table at her.
    â€˜Is that why you go on spending half the week at DOAP?’ he asked. ‘You obviously hated it and your Clapham life before you invented Cressida, so why do you go on? You’re not a masochist by nature, as far as I know.’
    Willow thought about it and wondered how much to tell him. In the end, she compromised.
    â€˜I suppose partly,’ she said carefully. ‘They worked so hard – as I did – to fit me for that life that something in me is tied to it. But more to the point is that if I’m to go on writing escapist fiction for other people, I need to go on living in a life from which I want to escape. Fantasy would wear very thin if it were worn every day.’
    â€˜Would it?’ asked Richard, clearly not believing her. Willow shrugged, not wanting to delve into her own psyche, let alone expose it to Richard. It had occurred to her more than once that she might prefer to have two lives so that if anyone in either existence tried to get too close to her she could escape to the other. But it was not an idea on which she wished to dwell. To deflect Richard’s attention, she said:
    â€˜But I may not have the option much longer. There is a risk that my DOAP life may come to a sticky – but I hope quite private – end.’
    â€˜Mixed metaphors, Willow! I’m shocked,’ said Richard, drinking some more wine. When he had put the glass down again, he seemed to understand what she meant, for he said: ‘What have you done? Oh no! It’s to do with this murder, isn’t it?’
    â€˜The police wanted alibis for last Monday evening and with the establishments officer sitting in on the