I can't believe she feels guilty about it. 'Louisa, you've been amazing,' I say, and it's true. 'Please! What are you talking about?'

'Not everyone feels that way,' she says. 'I've been accused of - well, it doesn't matter.'

'Do you mean Mum?' I say reluctantly, though this could easily apply to me, too.

'I'm afraid I do,' Louisa's voice hardens. I wish I'd never asked. 'I suppose there's no need to keep up a pretence at civility, now your grandmother's dead. She's made that quite clear, anyway.'

'Oh, I'm sure she doesn't mean it,' I say desperately. 'She's very grateful, I'm sure.'

'Natasha -' she starts. 'Your mother—'

'Yes?' I say.

'Well . . . she's a complicated person. OK?'

'I know that,' I say carefully. 'She always has been.'

'Yes, but—' She stops. 'Never mind. There's no point.' Tell Octavia that, I want to say. I know what you're getting at. It's too late.

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'Well,I'm very grateful to you, anyway,' I say instead. 'I don't know what we'd do without you.' 'It's my pleasure,' Louisa says simply. 'I'd have done anything for Franty. She knew that. I loved her very much.'

After I've said goodbye to Louisa I feel reassured somehow. At the very least, Arvind is all right. My mother is unpredictable, and I never know how she's going to react to certain situations. It's true, often those situations were connected with Summercove or the people there. When we were going, when we were leaving, who was going to be there, how long she'd stay. It's only now I remember that I said I'd go round for supper with her next week. I don't quite know what I'll say to her when I see her. About anything, really.

I make some tea, and I get into bed. It's cold. I hug the same cushion against me for warmth and comfort, and I take out a pen and write a list.

1. Get a solicitor? - Ask Cathy. File for divorce??

Flat. Mortgage? Move out?

Trade fair. x3 applications to diff. ones by end of week.

Call/visit x10 shops by end of week.

Jay: update website?

Fatigue gives me a curious focus and it's easy to write these things down. Closing my eyes briefly, I think about what else I need to sort out. I write:

6. Mum.

7. Find diary.

But I don't really know what to do about those two. I put the list by my table, so it's the first thing I see in the morning, and turn off the light. I sleep. I sleep for ten long hours, a heavy, velvety sleep, where nothing and no one troubles me, no dreams come to me, and when I wake up the next day and blearily blink at the dark room, I realise how tired I'd been. I feel new, different. I pull back the curtains, it's another grey day in London. But it's not so bad, maybe.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It has been such a long winter, it's sometimes felt as though it'd never end, but finally spring seems to be

arriving. That cutting chill in the air that turns your hands red and numb and stings your face has gone,

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and though it's still cold there is something in the air, a sense of something new.

It's a cliché, therefore, to talk about new beginnings, especially as they don't feel very new, but by the time a couple of weeks have passed and March is well under way, things are already different. Outwardly, nothing much has changed: I am still alone in the flat, not really sure what comes next. But there's a difference this time. I keep making lists, and it helps. I've realised I have to keep myself busy, not just for my sanity, but for my business. As well as checking the post obsessively - no more ignoring letters from the bank - I have a filing system at the studio, where I carefully document every last piece of expenditure, and I like it; I feel virtuous, glad to be in control of this, at the very least.

I haven't been in the studio much. I've been out meeting people, having coffee with PRs for free advice, dropping in on old friends, fellow jewellers, designers and people from round here who can help me, listening out for new shops and new shows that might help me. More green shoots. A company in China has been putting in a few orders with my friends, five-hundred-a-time T-shirts and hairbands, they might do the same for me one day, just with one necklace or bracelet and then I'm off again, and it'll be all hands on deck. Liberty have been scouting around for some new, edgy designers, so I hear. A couple of shops are looking for different stock, and I've been visiting them, leaving my card, dropping back the next day with a stock list and some photos. Even though I'd rather be curled up in bed, or slouched on the sofa in baggy trousers and four jumpers, I always choose my outfits with care, put on heels and blow-dry my hair, press my cardigan and skirt so I look neat and fresh. I'm asking these people to buy into me, as well as the jewellery I make. It's sometimes hard to have a smile and seem enthusiastic, but I just keep telling myself if I act as though it's a new start, perhaps it'll feel like that, after a while.

A week after that fateful morning at Arthur's, I pop into the studio after walking back from Clerkenwell, where I've had a meeting with a woman who sells vintage and new jewel-lery. I've been walking everywhere lately, my shoes in a cloth bag in my satchel. I kick off my wet, muddy trainers and lean against the counter, going through my emails. In amongst the spam and the special deals from wholesalers there's an email from Nigel Whethers, the solicitor Cathy put me in touch with.

Further to our telephone conversation, I would be happy to meet with you to discuss your filing for divorce. I enclose a breakdown of costs. I look forward to hearing from you.

Seeing it written down like that, I realise I'm not quite ready to reply to him, not just yet. I let out a sigh, which sounds like a longplllllllllllffffffffffffffff. A voice outside says, ' Pllllllllllllllffffffffffff.'

'Ben?' I call. I run my hand over my forehead; it's clammy. 'Is that you?'

'No, it's Ivor the Engine,' the voice says. 'Who's that? Thomas the Tank Engine? Is that you? I love the sound of your piston engine. Can I buy you a drink, handsome?'

'Har de har,' I say, as Ben comes in. He shoots me a cautious, quick look, and then as it's clear I'm not in tears or rocking on the floor, he smiles. 'You all right, sunshine? What's up?'

'Nothing much,' I say, putting my sheepskin boots on. 'Just got an email from a divorce lawyer, that's all. Kind of weird to see it there in black and white on the screen.'

Ben puts two rolls of film down on the counter and leans next to me. 'Sorry to hear it, Eric,' he says. 'That's awful.'

'I'm Ernie,' I say. 'You were Eric.' I point at the photo of us as Morecambe and Wise on the board. 'Remember? You borrowed Tania's glasses and you couldn't see a thing?'

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'Yes, yes.' Ben rubs the bridge of his nose. Tania, like most people in East London, has black-framed glasses, perfect for 'doing' Eric Morecambe and other assorted old-school comics. Who knew? He pats me on the back. 'How are you?'

'I'm OK,' I say. 'I'm keeping busy. Think that's the most important thing.'

'Sure is,' he says. He drums his fingers on the surface. 'Look, do you fancy going for a drink tonight?' There's a pause, and he amends what he's saying. 'Not just with me. Er - it's me, Jamie, Les and Lily - we're going to the Pride of Spitalfields, do you fancy it?'

'Oh.' I don't know what to say. 'What about Tania?'

'She's busy. And - well, you know.'