t was raining, of course. A bleak, dismal rain that sheeted out of a sky gone prematurely grey. After she'd stopped shaking, Lindsay had climbed into her car and stared unseeingly at the distorted world through her windscreen. How could she have blown it so badly? Why couldn't she have dredged up enough journalistic skill to lie for once? Or, at worst, having been honest, why couldn't she have found the words to explain to Sophie what she herself knew - that whatever she felt for Rory, it was irrelevant because it didn't change one iota of her feelings for Sophie?

Instead, she'd provoked the sort of explosion that would leave a permanent crater in her life. Even if she could persuade Sophie to take her back, it would always be there, a hole in the road for unwary feet to stumble into. Not that she had any confidence that she could worm her way back under Sophie's guard. Sophie might be the most generous and warm-hearted person Lindsay had ever known, but when she felt betrayed she was adamantine. She didn't so much bear a grudge as stuff it and wall-mount it in a prominent position. The despair that Lindsay felt then was no self-indulgence; it was realism.

She leaned her head on the steering wheel and moaned softly. The thing she couldn't get her head round was that, in spite of the fact that the pain inside her was as fierce as a physical injury, she didn't actually wish undone what had happened between her and Rory. Was that simply what Sophie had characterized as her perennial selfishness? That she wanted to have her cake and eat it? Lindsay thought not; she really wasn't greedy in that way. She still couldn't escape the notion that the feelings she had for Rory were too important to let them go by her. The paradox was that, equally, they weren't worth losing Sophie over.

She turned the key in the ignition. Sitting in the rain wasn't getting her anywhere. But then, where could she go? She didn't have any close friends in Glasgow any longer. She certainly wasn't going home to her parents, to face the reproach in her father's eyes. And she couldn't really afford to check into a hotel. There was only one real option, but pursuing it would be the most reckless of all her recent risk-taking. If Sophie found out she'd gone straight to Rory, she really would have burned her bridges.

Bernie sat by her son's bed, reading him a chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Nothing measured up to the comfort of having Jack home again. Tam had called to say he was going out for a drink with a client, he'd be home soon after seven. Then they'd all be under one roof again, the way it should be. She didn't blame Bruno for what had happened, not really. He only wanted the best for Jack too. But she couldn't help being grateful for having Jack by her side. Even if that wasn't the safest option. But she'd think about that later. For now, it was enough just to luxuriate in his presence.

The ringing of the phone broke into her calm like a brick through a greenhouse. She jumped up hastily and ran through to the kitchen. "Hello?" she said cautiously.

"You've been leading me a merry dance, Bernadette."

Patrick's voice chilled like walking into a butcher's freezer. "It wasn't my fault," she blurted out.

"So you say. Look, I'm running out of patience. You had no right to behave the way you did to me. I was always generous to you and yours, Bernadette. And now I want what's mine."

"I know you do," she whispered. "I know."

"Tomorrow, then? I'll meet you when you take the boy to school."

"No," she said sharply. "No."

"You're telling me you won't hand over what belongs to me?"

"I can't." The phone slipped from her fingers and fell back into the cradle. She knew that hanging up on Patrick Coughlan might be a disastrous move. But she couldn't take his voice for a second longer.

She couldn't live like this. She had to do something. Slowly, she picked up the phone and dialled Lindsay's mobile number. But before it could connect, she replaced the receiver. She couldn't afford to ask for help this time. She had to figure out an escape route alone.

Rory opened her door, looking ten years younger than she had that morning. "Hey, Splash, come in," she said instinctively. Then she took in Lindsay's appearance. "What's the matter?" She pulled her into a hug without waiting for a reply.

At first, Lindsay said nothing. It was enough just to be held. Almost anyone would have done. But this was Rory, she reminded herself as soft lips nuzzled her neck. She took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "I'm homeless."

Rory leaned back so she could check whether Lindsay was joking. But there was no mistaking the sincerity in the red-rimmed eyes. "You'd better come and sit down and have a drink and tell me all about it." She took Lindsay's hand and led her through to the kitchen.

Lindsay slumped in a chair and said nothing while Rory poured them both a whisky. "Sophie threw me out." She swallowed half her drink in a single, eye-watering gulp.

"Do I need to ask why?"

"She asked me a straight question. I tried to dodge it, but she kept on at me." Lindsay looked up, her face asking forgiveness. "I'm sorry, but I can't do bare-faced lying to people I love."

Rory tried not to let her consternation show. "So you told her we've been sleeping together?"

Lindsay sighed. "I tried to explain how it wasn't about her, but she wasn't exactly in the mood for listening. Look, I'm sorry to land on you like this, but I don't have anywhere else to go. Can I stay here for a couple of nights till I get myself sorted out?"

"Of course you can. Stay as long as you want. No strings. But don't answer the phone, that's all."

"What? You don't want me to put your other women off?" It was a pathetic attempt at humour, but at least she was trying.

"No, moron. I don't want you to wreck your chances of getting it back together with Sophie. If she calls here, I'll just tell her I've not seen you outside work. Of course, if she turns up at the door with a breadknife, you'll have to come to my rescue."

"That would be so beneath her dignity," Lindsay said sadly.

"Well, that's a relief. Look, I'm sorry I got you into this mess. This wasn't part of the master plan."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not. I don't regret one minute of what happened between us. I only wish it hadn't blown up like this."

"Me too. I wouldn't hurt you for the world," Rory said, suddenly very serious.

Lindsay rubbed her hands over her face. "What a fucking mess. I handled it so badly."

"I don't think there's a good way to handle the moment when you tell your lover you've been shagging somebody else," Rory said drily. "Not if monogamy's the deal."

"Maybe not. Maybe your friend Sandra should have issued the gypsy warning before we went to Russia."

Rory frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Sandra gave me the hard word this morning. You know? 'Don't go breaking her heart.' That one. She should have spoken sooner. Maybe I'd have paid attention if I'd thought you and me getting it together was on the cards."

Rory felt puzzled. It wasn't like Sandra to interfere in her love life. Unless she had figured out that Rory was getting in too deep. Rory couldn't imagine how Sandra had realized something she herself had only acknowledged the night before. "Well, it's too late for that now," she said. "And speaking of late, I'm supposed to meet Sandra for a curry in twenty minutes. Come on, we'll drown our sorrows in vindaloo."

Lindsay shook her head. "I'm not in the mood. Either for curry or for company."

Rory considered for a second. "OK. I'll give her a bell, tell her I need a rain check. I can see her any time."

"No, don't be daft. I'll be fine. You go out and enjoy yourself. I'm better on my own, honest."

"Are you sure?" Rory really didn't know what to do for the best, but she was inclined to take Lindsay at her word. She hadn't noticed her being backward in making her needs known in their short past, and she didn't see why that should have changed just because her emotions were in turmoil.

"Aye, I'm sure."

"I'll show you where things are, then." Rory gave Lindsay a whirlwind tour of the flat. "My office, use the desk if you want to plug your laptop in, there's a modem connection on the wall. Bathroom, help yourself to smellies. Spare room..." She looked a question at Lindsay, who shook her head ruefully. "Thought not. OK, here's the mistress bedroom. House rule is I sleep on the left." She turned and pulled Lindsay into her arms. "I know it's a fucking mess," she said softly. "But it'll get sorted."

"You sure about that, are you?"

Rory grinned wickedly. "Trust me, I'm not a doctor. Listen, I'm off. I might be late, don't wait up, OK? I'm perfectly capable of waking you up when I need you..." She kissed her hard on the mouth, her tongue flickering along the inside of her bottom lip. "Take care, OK?"

Then she was gone. Left to herself, Lindsay mooched back to the kitchen and refilled her whisky glass. It felt strange being on Rory's territory without her, as if she were an intruder. At least Rory hadn't treated her bust-up with Sophie as an opportunity to move in on her. She'd obviously meant what she'd said about this being a friendship with sex as an added extra. What a pity I can't manage to be that sanguine myself. Faced with the events of the evening, Lindsay couldn't resist the dark truth that, somehow, she was managing to love two people simultaneously. And it was ripping her up.

She flicked through a couple of magazines but she couldn't settle. She needed to offload the disaster on to someone else. If there was nobody available in the flesh, she'd have to make do with email to bridge the distance and the time lag between herself in Glasgow and her friend Roz in California.

Lindsay unpacked her laptop and went through to set it up on Rory's desk, as instructed. She had to push a pile of papers to one side to make room, and a glossy brochure slithered to the floor, revealing what looked like a poem written in Rory's familiar hand. Curious, Lindsay glanced at it, not meaning to spy. But the title caught her eye and she couldn't resist.

Russian for Beginners

There is a word missing.

Between the wishy-washy and the helter-skelter,

there exists nothing.

Avoid the dizzy plunge of the word that, once spoken,

cannot be ignored, the four-letter word that shocks

much more than "fuck", and what remains?

"Fond" is for maiden aunts and pussy cats,

a faint insult lurking in its shallows.

"Care" is better, but still too burdened with the freight

of obligation.

But sometimes,

"love" is just too big,

too soon,

too terrifying to presume.

So we resort to foreign tongues,

hiding fear behind an unfamiliarity

whose very strangeness makes declaration safer.

Ya tebyeh lublu.

Lindsay read it through twice, not quite wanting to believe the freight of meaning held captive in those twenty lines. She was surprised on so many levels; that Rory would resort to poetry; that Rory knew even one word of Russian, never mind three; but mostly that it looked as if Rory was being as cagey about her emotions as Lindsay was herself.

So where exactly did that leave them?

The rain was lashing the Clyde coast, making navigation difficult, especially when the destination was no official harbour. But the small motor boat chugged on through the waves that threatened to swamp it, eventually nosing into a small sheltered cove south of Wemyss Bay. The helmsman flashed his leading lights on and off a couple of times and a reply came immediately from the shore in the form of a powerful torch beam that cut a narrow slice in the black shoreline. The boat made for the light on the shore, the engine throttled back as far as it could go and still allow for forward passage. The hull ground on shingle and the helmsman immediately put the twin propellers into neutral.

Above the scratchy beat of waves dragging at pebbles, he shouted to the man in the bows, "That's as near as I can get her. If you jump for it, I'll pass you the stuff."

Patrick Coughlan was out of his element on the water, but he swallowed his unease and clambered over the safety rail then let himself fall into the sea. The sudden arrival of solid ground under his feet made him stagger. He'd expected the drop to be further. He looked back up and saw the helmsman looming above him, a heavy holdall dangling over the gunwale of the boat.

"Hang on a minute," he called. Turning towards the shore, Patrick bellowed, "Kevin, get your arse over here."

The torch beam split the night again, illuminating Patrick, up to his thighs in freezing water. Then he was cast into shadow once more as Kevin moved between the light and the boat. "I'm here, Patrick," he said.

"Grab this bag, will you? And don't get it wet," Patrick instructed, lurching away from the boat towards dry land. He aimed for the torch, losing his feet a couple of times in an ungainly scramble up the pebbled beach. "Jesus," he said as he drew level with Michael. "I hope you've got a towel in the car." He shook Michael's hand.

"Good to see you," Michael said.

"Everything we need is in the bag." They watched Kevin struggle out of the water towards them, the holdall clutched to his chest. "Are we all set?"

Michael nodded. "It won't take me long to put it together. Tomorrow morning, you said?"

"No time like the present. It's time Bernadette realized she can't hold on to what doesn't belong to her."

The trio headed towards the top of the beach, where the hire car was waiting. "What was it she took from ye, Patrick?" Kevin panted.

"You'll know soon enough, son." The geniality in Patrick's voice surprised Michael. Either Patrick was very confident of success, or else he was so focused on the next step that he wasn't looking at the big picture. Either could lead to carelessness of a kind of which Michael had never suspected Patrick capable.

He hadn't been worried about the operation before. But now he was.

Rory drained her bottle of beer and signalled to the waiter for another. She raised an eyebrow and Sandra shook her head. "I'm OK for now."

"By the way," Rory said, her drink replenished. "What was all that about this morning? Giving Lindsay the hard word about not breaking my heart?"

Sandra looked baffled. "What?"

"She said you were doing the protective best friend bit. You know: warning her off hurting me."

Sandra laughed so loud the couple at the next table in the Indian restaurant pursed their lips and looked away. "Talk about getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. I was warning her, right enough. But I was warning her about you. Trying to stop her from getting serious, getting her heart broken by the queen of the one-night stand."

"Well, thank you, Sandra," Rory said sarcastically. "Just what I needed."

Sandra gave her a long, considering stare. "My God, you've fallen in love."

Rory's glare should have been heat enough to light the cigarette Sandra pulled from her packet. "Your words, not mine."

"Maybe. But that doesn't make them any the less true, does it? Oh, Rory, poor you." Sandra leaned across and patted Rory's hand. "All those women who would have given their right arm for a relationship with you and you couldn't give a damn about any of them. And then, when you do fall, it's right into the middle of the briar patch."

Rory gave Sandra a tired smile. "Something like that. It's all too complicated, Sandra. I don't want to be the reason for her splitting up with Sophie. Because she's not ready to leave her yet, and she'd always blame me, deep down."

"That's quite an insight for somebody that makes a cult out of not doing relationships."

"The spectator always sees more of the game," Rory said.

"So you haven't told her how you feel?"

"Of course I haven't." Rory's distress was obvious to Sandra, even through the tone of irritation. She sighed. "It's chewing me up, all this pretence. I've never felt like this about anybody before, Sandra. I never let myself. But Lindsay slipped under my guard." She closed her eyes. "It's so fucking hard."

"I know," Sandra said. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Rory gave her a steady look. "Keep on lying. What else can I do?"

"You could always try telling her."

"She doesn't need that right now. And frankly, neither do I. Just let me get through this in my own sweet way. Get it out of my system and get back to normal."

"Oh, Rory," Sandra said. "I'm so sorry."

"Not half as sorry as I am." Rory made a self-mocking snort of laughter. "I should be happy, shouldn't I? The woman I love is in my bed, waiting for me to come home and make mad, passionate love to her. And instead I can't think of anything worse."