The following Monday morning at around half past nine, Ashleigh was just settling down to work in her office when the phone rang on her desk.

      "Miss Ferguson?" said a deep voice.  "Are you the elusive Miss Ashleigh Ferguson?"

      "No," she responded with usual flippancy, "I'm the other one.  Who are you?"

      "Peter Bushnall.  I've been trying to track you down all weekend."

      "Really?  Look," she said, "I'm actually in the middle of a very complex flow-diagram involving multiple look-up tables and over twenty-five nested subroutines.  Besides, I don't think we've anything to discuss, do you?"

      "Not even my desperate apology?  I know I shouldn't have acted the way I did, I'm truly sorry.  I meant it kindly, and I certainly didn't mean you to run off like that without giving me a chance to say anything."

      "Certain forms of bestial behaviour need no explanation, Peter.  They're the law of the untamed jungle, as primitive as the ape, and to my mind quite crude and unwarranted.  You know, with a little less impetuosity and a lot more courtesy you might pass one day as a respectable human being, but I still say, Peter, you're not my type at all.  I told you that."

      "Did you?  When?"

      "That time when you drove away from the dry cleaners.  Why are you phoning?"

      "What other use is there for a new telephone?  I don't plan to crack nuts with it.  It's a fully digital push-button job like a small computer, and it arrived first thing this morning, complete with a full set of directories.  I couldn't find any Ferguson family who admitted to having an attractive young member called Ashleigh, and I was about to wade through Yellow Pages instead when I remembered this card you left."

      "Careless of me.  Still, we're none of us perfect."

      "Least of all me.  Listen, are you free this evening?"

      "What for?  If that water-bed's arrived, forget it.  Out of the question."

      "There isn't going to be a water-bed.  You made me see sense, so I cancelled it and ordered a proper bed instead, with room for just one slim occupant.  Taking you up on what you said, I've completely changed my ideas about using the upstairs as a bedroom."

      "Really?  And you've just installed that lovely en-suite bathroom?"

      "That's okay, because it fits in well with another scheme I want to discuss with you - a fresh line I might pursue, with your encouragement."

      "Excuse me," Ashleigh interrupted, "but I've met your idea of fresh."

      "No, seriously, I place great value on your clear-headed approach, Ashleigh, so if I promise faithfully to behave, would you be prepared to come over some time and discuss something with me?"

      Waiting for Ashleigh to respond, he added: "Preferably this evening."

      "This evening?"  She hesitated, then made an irrational decision.  "All right.  I'm a free agent these days, so I could turn up around six if that's okay?  Or should I stop and eat first?"

      "No.  Six is fine.  And don't eat.  Come hungry - it'll be good for business."

      Odd, she thought as she put down the phone.  Was this just a clumsy ploy to get her back into his clutches for another attack of jungle-fever?  Yes, she nodded to herself, it probably was.  After all, what other notion could so haunt the mind of a conceited male primate, especially one who owned a nasty red sports car?

      Despite her scepticism, Ashleigh wasted not a moment in getting away from her desk at five o'clock - a departure from her normal routine which she knew would cause comment.

      "Ash?" a colleague teased her.  "It's only just turned five.  Is your watch up the spout, or have we done something to offend you?"

      "No," she said calmly, "I have an appointment this evening, that's all.  I'm due to be in Shipley Green by six - a business meeting," she stressed pointedly.  "What's wrong with that?"

      "Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Enjoy an early night for once."

      She drove home in her mini, and then swapped it for the Volvo.

      "No sense in spoiling a good image," she grinned to herself, as she backed her aunt's car carefully out of the garage and headed off towards Shipley Green.  As she drove into the oast-house yard, she saw Peter waiting in readiness by the newly-painted brown door.

      "Welcome again," he called a little shyly.  "Prompt too.  Have you come straight from work?"

      "Of course not.  I went home first to change into my best office suit.  I hope there's still some creosote left?"

      "Not a lot.  Come on in.  You'll have to watch where you tread, but at least the dumb wallpaper came in handy."

      On entering the hallway, Ashleigh saw that Peter had laid strips of the black and red paper in straight lines, reaching across to every doorway and the staircase.  He beckoned her upstairs.

      "Are you sure this is such a good idea?" she hesitated.  "I haven't forgotten my last visit."

      "Upstairs is the only floor that's safe to walk on," he explained.

      "Maybe," she replied, "but is there anywhere to sit?  I don't fancy spending my entire evening leaning against a wall."

      "Voila!" he exclaimed, opening the bedroom door.  Before her lay a magnificent red circular carpet, surrounded by tastefully selected items of pale grey furniture - a wardrobe, a dressing-table and a chest of drawers.  And there in the middle of the room stood a king-size bed.

      "You lied to me," she accused him, and turned to go downstairs.  "You said you'd cancelled it in favour of a single bed.  That does it!  I knew I couldn't trust you."

      Peter responded calmly.  "Hang on a minute.  Must you be so impetuous?  It's true I cancelled the damned water-bed, but not soon enough to stop the clowns delivering it five hours later.  So I thought - why not enjoy just one night of luxury before they come and collect it tomorrow?"

      "That's understandable, I suppose - though I preferred the bare Spartan look."

      "Odd.  I thought women had a passion for cluttering every available surface with trinkets, knick-knacks and other useless bric-a-bric.  This, my friend, is a man's bedroom."

      "Yes, but is it safe to be up here?  I mean, with all this extra weight of water, won't the floor give way?"

      "Not if we tread cautiously."

      He guided her over to the far side of the room where two comfortable chairs stood beside a large television set.

      "You must be feeling truly happy now," she said tartly.  "You really are in your element - all of life's necessities within arm's reach.  No bedside cocktail cabinet?"

      "Voila!" he replied smugly, and opened a door in the wall to reveal a small refrigerator amply stocked with drinks.

      "Must you keep saying Voila like that?" she challenged him.  "It gets to be very irritating.  Besides I thought you were low on funds?"

      "Even more so now."

      "I will admit it is nice," she conceded.  "And you got your way after all with the grey and red.  I'm happy for you.  Most tasteful!"

      "I told you, it's only temporary."

      "You mean it's all going back with the bed?"

      "I mean it's all going into the outhouse.  There's enough room down there for one person, so I decided I'd make that my bedroom instead.  I was about to cart this all down below - then I thought it seemed a pity not to let you see it the way I'd originally planned.  But listen to my great idea - I've decided to open the oast-house as a restaurant.  What do you think, eh?"  

      He was evidently expecting Ashleigh to jump for joy.

      She gaped momentarily.  "Now who's being impetuous?  I mean, don't you need planning permission?"

      "A chap's entitled to entertain guests, surely?  And guests are entitled to eat."

      "You didn't give me that impression last Saturday."

      His mood changed abruptly and he looked most contrite.

      "I gave you a totally wrong impression on Saturday, and I'm very, very sorry.  Today, I promise, things are different."

      "You invited me to help move furniture?"

      "No, and stop being flippant.  I need your frank opinion.  I reckon we could set up two separate dining areas, one here and one below.  We'll use this level for private parties or as an overflow area if demand exceeds capacity downstairs.  What do you think?"

      "We?  You're saying we.  Who's we?"

      "Whoever offers to come and help.  What do you think?"

      "Fine, Peter, but the local authorities may regard this as a change of use..."

      "Ah, that's where you're wrong, see?  I spent some time on Sunday talking to the vicar and a number of other parishioners, and I learned a lot about this place.  The oast itself was added in the late twenties as an afterthought, and apparently the main area downstairs was used as a former hostelry in the last century.  So I'd merely be reverting back to the use it had in the days of Queen Victoria."

      "Well, if it's all above board, Peter, I'm delighted.  And you asked me here to celebrate?  How sweet!"

      "I asked you because I can't run this place on my own.  Obviously I need a cook - and you proved yourself quite an expert on Saturday before everything went black."

      "You mean that tuna and curry nonsense?  Dear boy, that was divine improvisation born of sheer desperation in order to provide one emergency snack."

      "I know.  So think what you could achieve with a whole cupboard full of supplies."

      "But Peter, I have a full-time job.  It keeps me occupied until seven or eight o'clock some nights.  I can't lay down tools at five to come belting over here just to put on a chef's hat and light up your oven."

      "I don't see why not.  You'd have to cook an evening meal if you lived with a family."

      "Yes, but I don't have a family, okay?  Instead I have a job which I enjoy and which I'm not prepared to sacrifice for any flash in the pan."

      "Ha!  Good name for my restaurant.  I like it - the Flash in the Pan!"

      "Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying it's a bad idea, but you'll need to find someone else to do your cooking."

      "But I don't want anyone else.  Ashleigh, listen to me.  You've met me.  I'm an impossible man to work for.  Most women rarely do me the honour of coming back for a second or third visit.  You're different.  I feel I can get on with you, apart from that silly miscalculation I made on Saturday.  Otherwise I thought we made a splendid team, don't you agree?"

      "Then here's a novel idea.  Instead of complaining that I'm the only female who can tolerate your abundant lack of charm, why don't you change your animal ways?  Learn to behave yourself properly, especially with women.  Try not to put people's backs up.  I'll tell you this - I really didn't intend coming here again after what happened on Saturday, and I very nearly didn't come then after the way you spoke to me outside the cleaners.  You've got to learn to treat people with respect, Peter, even if you don't always agree with what they say."

      "You sound just like my ex-wife."

      "That doesn't surprise me.  Why don't you proposition her instead of me?  She knows you a damned sight better than I do.  Peter, I have not the slightest intention of giving up a fulfilling career to come and work for a man who's abrasive, rude, and has no sense of taste when it comes to choosing wallpaper.  I'd be nuts even to think about it."

      "Then don't think about it.  Be spontaneous.  That's what made me buy this place.  A sudden whim, a flash of inspiration!"

      "And why did you suddenly lose your job?  Could it have been your reckless disregard for the more sensible way of doing things?  Peter, if you want my frank opinion, I reckon you're heading straight for bankruptcy.  Look at you.  You claim you can't afford proper food, that you're up to your ears in debt, yet you spend money you don't possess on a luxury red carpet and a ridiculous water-bed.  It all looks wonderfully cosy, but it can't be much comfort to know you really can't afford it."

      "And just how far would the world progress if it weren't for the men - and women if you insist - who come up with original ideas?  Can't you see it?  The Oast House at Shipley Green.  Listed as a top gourmet restaurant in every Kent and Sussex newspaper."

      "Thank you, Basil Fawlty!  It's a fun idea, Peter, I don't deny that, but it just isn't practical.  For a start, have you considered how many customers you might get?  Four?  Six?"

      "At least a dozen," came the optimistic reply, "maybe twenty on a good night."

      "Precisely.  They can hardly all come on foot, so where do they park?  The yard outside's full with just your car and mine, and the road's far too narrow."

      "Let them park in the old school playground."

      "Peter, you don't own the school playground.  Before you know what's hit you, you'll be overrun with health inspectors, planning officials, taxmen, accountants, all demanding fees.  Don't be a fool, Peter.  This makes a nice home for one or two people, even a modest family, but not for an army.  You haven't a large enough kitchen to cook for twenty.  You haven't enough toilets, and the lack of parking space puts it right out of the question."

      Peter slumped on the edge of his water-bed, bobbing gently up and down like a moored yacht.  He began chuckling quietly to himself, but Ashleigh sensed it as a laugh of despair.

      "Well, I guess that's that," he sighed.  "You're right.  I've bitten off far more than I can chew.  It's all very well for you with your smart Volvo and your cosy little job, but I've just plonked myself into deep shit and I can't wriggle out.  Without an income I'm finished.  I just thought this might have been a solution, but you're right, as usual.  I had hoped I might  get your enthusiasm and support, but not your damned commonsense.  Oh what the hell!  How about we open a bottle of champagne and flush my extravagant life-style into the murky depths of the village pond?"

      There was no champagne in the fridge, but Peter poured himself a beer while Ashleigh settled for a refreshing glass of lemonade, laced with just a splash of gin.

      "This is a lovely room," she said, "cool and evocative - just as I imagined, which is why I got hooked on the idea of buying it.  But then I used that cold commonsense of mine and realised I'd be way out of my depth."

      "We should have bought it as a joint venture," said Peter.

      "For what purpose?"

      "For any purpose.  We both love this place, don't we?"

      "We do, though it's not so much the building but the whole village that stirs my imagination.  Shipley Green is crammed full of ghosts for me, not all of them friendly."

      Ashleigh began relating to Peter her life story, telling him how at the age of four her parents had both been killed in a head-on crash, and how the distant Aunt Elsie had apparently been coerced into bringing up their orphaned child.

      "I was sent to the school across the road," she revealed, "but it was horribly strange and sad, living in a village I'd never known, missing my home life with Mum and Dad and never fully understanding why.  The stark contrast hit me like something out of Dickens - Elsie Challon was a hard woman who performed her role as step-mother only because she had little choice.  There was no love between us, no caring nor sharing of secrets.  I was fed, clothed, and kept in reasonably good health, but I was never allowed to enjoy myself.  Aunt Elsie came from an era which believed that any form of enjoyment was a sin, and that only by living a life of abject misery could one hope to appease one's maker and end up in the right place."

      Ashleigh went on to describe her life at a secondary school in Hythe.  It was pleasant living near the sea, though she was never allowed to bathe.  Her aunt didn't enjoy sea-bathing, so naturally it was deemed unsuitable for Ashleigh.  After moderate success in her exams she was persuaded to start earning an income.

      "Most of my colleagues have their B.A. or Ph.D. degrees," she sighed, "but I'm destined to be plain Ashleigh Ferguson."

      "You kept your own name then?"

      "Not without a fight.  I steadfastly refused to accept any other name, so eventually Aunt Elsie had to concede, especially when someone pointed out the indelicacy of having me known as Miss Challon's little girl.  Then my career was continually getting disrupted throughout the last five years when she suffered a number of illnesses, culminating in a heart attack and finally a stroke - which brings us more or less up to date."

      "The Volvo would suggest that your aunt had a fair amount of wealth tucked away."

      "Fair," agreed Ashleigh, "though perhaps not enough to buy this child her own oast-house.  The solicitor hasn't gone into details yet about any will, but I was bequeathed something far more precious than money, and that's my freedom.  I'm free at last to go and live a life of my own, doing just what the hell I bloody well like.  I can even swear if I want to.  And believe me, that feels great."

      "And you're doing a job you enjoy?"

      "With reservations.  I'd welcome more freedom to do things in my own way, but we have to recognise the law of the jungle."

      "Ah," he said softly, "that steamy old jungle!  You accused me last Saturday of pursuing some law of the jungle, though I was merely offering to help you down from the chair as any gentleman should.  It all went wrong when I happened to glance into your face.  You were gazing down at me like a kind teacher, mending this little lad's fuse box like it was a derailed train-set.  I confess I had an overwhelming desire to share the way I felt - a foolish and impetuous reaction, I admit, but hardly the law of the jungle."

      "Then we'll say no more about it.  Subject closed.  Let's turn our attention to the question of food.  What do you have planned?"

      "As a menu?  Nothing, but I have a well-stocked larder.  Shall we go and investigate the possibilities?"

      "You must be feeling disappointed," she said as he set various tins and packets out on the worktop.  "After all, you talked on the phone about your exciting new ideas, and I seem to have shot them down in flames."

      "Enemy planes are best taken out of the sky," he said, "before they do serious damage.  I'm grateful."

      "No, you're not.  You're disillusioned.  It's as if someone had just explained to you there is no Santa Claus."

      "There isn't?"  Peter managed to keep a serious face.  "Boy, you really are shooting down planes tonight.  Look, if there's nothing here that takes your fancy, why don't we eat out?"

      "Which would you prefer?"

      Peter backed away.  "Oh, no!  You don't catch me that way.  Any preference of mine must be curbed in deference to your finer feelings.  Honesty isn't something I'm likely to be accused of twice in one week.  If we spend the evening here, we'd better make damned sure you don't go climbing onto another chair.  And that is all I'm going to say."

      Ashleigh felt bound to change the subject.  "Did you manage to connect the freezer to the right power supply?"

      But even as she spoke, she glanced over and saw the dangling black cable, still stretching from behind it to a light-fitting in the ceiling.

      "Oh, Peter, really!  What's the good of my trying to help when you ignore my advice?"

      "The fridge is okay on its own," he said.  "There aren't many other lights on yet.  How is it you know so much about electricity anyway?"

      "That really bugs you, doesn't it, because I'm a woman?  I know enough, dummy, to understand the logic of the system.  Current causes heat.  Too much current in too thin a wire causes the wire to melt, and a melting wire in the wrong place leads to a burning house.  Fuses are there to prevent that - they're designed to melt in a safe place."

      "Well, it should be okay now, because I put in a much fatter fuse this morning."

      "What?  You moron!  You'd seriously consider going out tonight when this place is likely to catch fire?  Here, chair or no chair, you unplug that fridge - now."

      "But I can't - it's full of food.  I stocked it up specially in honour of your visit."

      "Nevertheless, someone had better find a more suitable power supply before there's a loud bang.  I can't believe anyone could be so stupid - especially a man who makes snide comments about women being too dumb to lay floor tiles.  I can think of twenty unflattering nouns to describe guys like you, with twice as many adjectives, none of them in Aunt Elsie's vocabulary.  You climb up there and unplug that damned fridge before I send for an ambulance and have you certified.  And don't worry.  The sight of you on a chair doesn't arouse me in the slightest."

      Peter positioned a chair beneath the light-fitting and stood on it.

      "Was your aunt like this too?" he grinned down at her.

      "Far worse.  Sorry if her abrasive manner has rubbed off on me, but someone has to talk some sense into you, and I don't see anyone else doing it."

      "Nagging like a wife, even before we've had our first date."

      "Isn't this a date?  Surely it's a date when a girl gets invited for dinner?"

      "This was merely a business meeting that went hopelessly sour.  And for your information, Miss Ferguson, the sight of you standing on a chair did not arouse me, as you put it.  You just looked kind and caring, that's all, which is why I felt drawn to you.  But not any more."

      Peter reached up and disconnected the offending wire.

      "There!  Satisfied?"

      "Not yet," said Ashleigh.  "Do you know how to attach a 13-amp plug?"

      "Of course."

      "Then will you do it, please?"

      "No."

      "Why not?"

      "Because I haven't got one.  Is that a good enough reason?"

      "Then take a spare off something else you're not using."

      "Like what, for instance?"

      "Like the TV set upstairs?"

      "I'll be needing that later.  This is my one night of luxury, remember, on a full-sized water-bed, all to myself?  You want to deny me a television set too?  You are cruel!"

      "Not half as cruel as Aunt Elsie.  My God, if you'd had to live with her, you wouldn't have lasted five minutes."

      Ashleigh picked up a portable food-mixer that was lying on the work-top, and waved it in the air.  "Will you be needing this tonight?"

      Peter shook his head.

      "Then take the plug off this and use it for the fridge.  On second thoughts, I'll do it myself, then I'll know it's been done properly.  I suggest you stand clear for ten minutes.  Lie on your pond upstairs and watch your precious television programmes.   Mickey Mouse might be on, so hurry."

      "I'd rather stay down here and watch you," he said smugly.  "My God, I haven't been nagged like this in years.  It's like revisiting the open jaws of hell."

      Ashleigh removed the bayonet fitting and waved the bare cable under Peter's nose.  "Look!  You've snipped off the earth wire, you jack-ass."

      "You can't use an earth wire in a light-socket, dummy."

      "Oh, fine!  Just ignore anything you don't understand.  Men!"

      Peter stood and watched in amusement as Ashleigh removed the plug from the mixer and deftly reattached it to the fridge cable.

      "I still don't see what all the fuss is about," he complained.  "After all, a fridge costs no more to run than a few extra light-bulbs."

      "That's because, dummy, for much of the time it's idle.  When it does come on, it consumes anything up to half a kilowatt.  And it needs to be earthed.  Believe me, there is a correct way of doing things - and it's most important when you're dealing with electricity."

      "I recall a young lady talking about her job, saying she wished she was allowed to do things her own way.  What happened to her, I wonder?"

      "She foolishly took time off to come and see to the needs of a poor mutt who'd be a lot safer if he employed a full-time handyman.  There!"

      Back came Peter's smug smile.  "Excellent.  Now, shall we empty the fridge before we move it?"

      Ashleigh looked confused.  "Move it?  Where to?"

      "To the nearest power point, or wasn't that your intention?  You won't find an outlet on that side of the kitchen, which is why I needed to improvise."

      "Then why not unload everything to the one in the bedroom?  After all, we don't want that other little fridge upstairs to get lonely.  You could have taken all this frozen food upstairs and brought down anything that wouldn't spoil overnight.  I don't suppose you thought of that?"

      "And I don't suppose you noticed the fridge upstairs doesn't have a freezer compartment except for making ice.  That's why it's in the bedroom, dummy, because it's practically useless anywhere else."

      "A quality that seems all too contagious."

      "Do all computer programmers talk like you?"  Peter's eyes narrowed.  "You'd better watch that tongue of yours, young miss, or it could poke someone's eye out.  Stuff the laws of any jungle; next time I manhandle you it'll be in self-defence."

      "Fine.  If you're in a manhandling mood I suggest you grab hold of this fridge."

      Together they eased the huge refrigerator away from the wall towards the centre of the kitchen.

      "The bloke who designed this layout must surely have allowed for a fridge," Ashleigh pointed out.  "Where did he intend putting it?"

      "He could have been a numbskull like me," responded Peter, "daft enough to think he could run it off a light-socket.  Or perhaps he planned to use that nice heavy-duty extension cable in the drawer beside the cooker."

      "Well, if it's there, why the hell didn't YOU use it?"

      "I've been busy doing other things.  Everything takes time, you know."

      "Two minutes, maximum.  And before we shove this monster back where it came from, I'd like to show you something important."

      Ashleigh took Peter by the hand and led him round to the back of the fridge where she made him kneel down, drawing his attention to a small inscribed metal plate.  "See?  Read what it says - 600 watts.  That's equivalent to ten extra light bulbs all coming on at once.  Result?  Bang!  Got it?"

      "Okay, teacher.  Where did you learn all this handyman stuff?"

      Ashleigh stood up and leaned over the top of the fridge facing him, her chin resting on folded arms.

      "I lived with a maiden aunt who strongly disapproved of anything in trousers, let alone paying good money for a male to come and do odd jobs around the house.  I became her handyman, gardener, window-cleaner, electrician, plumber, brick-layer, carpenter and general-purpose slave for most of my life.  For Christmas gifts, I usually received a new set of plumbing tools or household encyclopaedias which my aunt seemed to regard as the only worthwhile investment in my future.  Dammit, I even had to learn how to change a thermostat and put new hoses in her car because the old girl was too mean to have it sent to a garage.  Come on, help me shove this beast back."

      The refrigerator was soon back in its former position and running sweetly on the extension cable.

      "If this were my place," Ashleigh advised, "I'd install four extra power points over here.  A modern kitchen needs at least eight."

      "I don't suppose you know of anyone who could come and do it for me?"

      "I know someone who could lend you the necessary tools and a stack of DIY manuals.  But there's one small job you can do first.  Get down on your knees again."

      Peter knelt down and looked up enquiringly.  "What's this for?"

      "It's a good position from which to beg forgiveness for being a tetchy, childish and abusive male chauvinist of the worst possible kind."

      "My God," he grinned, "you look wonderful from down here.  Towering feminine domination, and in that sexy office suit too - even more fetching than Saturday's Andy-Pandy overalls."

      "Andy-Pandy?  You said I looked like Bill and Ben!"

      "There you go - arguing.  Tell me, why are you such a difficult woman?  I've tried being kind, I've tried being gentlemanly.  I've acted dumb and helpless, and even succumbed to a spell of total honesty - yet nothing seems to work.  What must a guy do to get through to you?"

      "Let me buy his oast-house?"

      "You just don't give up, do you?  Could you really afford it?"

      "More to the point, can you?"

      "May I get up now?"

      "When you've apologised."

      Peter raised his hands in mock surrender.  "Okay," he grinned, "I'm truly repentant.  But if I step out of line again, please just tell me - don't go storming off in a huff like you did on Saturday.  That really hurt me."

      "You mean, your pride got dented?"

      "I mean you upset me.  I actually like you, Ashleigh - God knows why, but I do."

      "That's okay," she said.  "There's a few things I quite like about you too."

      "Just a few, huh?"

      "Let me think.  You certainly aren't boring - in fact, you interest me almost as much as this building.  But I'm not sure I like the way you kneel and look up at me as if I were standing on a chair and you were a tomcat expecting cream.  You'd better stand up and share your thoughts about selling me just half an oast-house?"

      "Half?  You mean, make this a semi-detached with a cardboard wall across the middle?  That means I'd have to move the bed, unless you want it jutting out on both sides.  Do you prefer the left or the right?"

      "I'm serious," Ashleigh persisted.  "This house has great charm and character but it's too big even for a clutter-collecting female.  I'm quite sure it's much too big for you."

      "All right.  Which half do you want?"

      Ashleigh cast her eyes around the room.  "For a start, I could make better use of this kitchen than you, in fact with your eating habits you'd probably survive with just a Primus stove.  Get yourself a microwave or a small toaster-oven to go with your mini-fridge upstairs."

      "Can't afford it."

      "I'll buy you one for Christmas.  Peter, I'm serious, it's a wild idea but it might work.  You'd need separate access to the upper floor, of course.  I couldn't bear you running up and down my stairs all night long."

      "Your stairs?  Listen, if I'm to live up there in isolation, you won't have need of stairs.  They're mine and I'm keeping them."

      "Only if you box them in.  Put a little narrow passage leading to your own front door.  We'll have to slice up the forecourt too."

      "In short," he mocked, "it's a massive undertaking, involving gaggles of architects and workmen swarming all over the place for months on end."

      "Not if we can devise something simpler.  Let's take a tour and see what ideas we come up with."

      "Okay!"  Peter picked up a culinary mallet and banged the table hard.  "And what, pray, am I bid for this lovely kitchen?" he called with a nasal twang.  "Going for a song, and including one professionally installed fridge-freezer.  Yours or mine?"

      "Mine, I think.  But we'll negotiate controlled visiting rights for special occasions."

      Peter looked unusually interested.  "How special?"

      "Parties.  Maybe over Christmas?"

      "Okay, but if it's your kitchen, I suppose you intend commandeering the living-room since they're in open-plan together.  We'll box off the front door area and have two separate entrances, mine leading directly to the stairs.  Agreed so far?"

      Ashleigh nodded.  "It seems workable."

      Peter went to the staircase and stood half way up, facing her with his arms protectively gripping the bannister rails on either side.

      "This lot stays mine, so we needn't explore up here."

      "Yes, we should," Ashleigh insisted.  "We need to establish whether it's practical for both of us.  For instance, you've got your own en-suite bathroom up there now, but where's mine?"

      "In the outhouse.  Or you could wash in the kitchen sink."

      "I'm not crossing Lake Windermere in my nightie every time I want to do more than brush my teeth.  I need my own bathroom as much as you."

      "Then if you're so smart," he gloated, "build it yourself."

      "I'm smart enough to know when to use professional help.  Look, it's all very well us wandering around, carving up arbitrary living space, but what happens about structural repairs?  For instance, who pays for your new oak timbers in the roof?"

      "We could split costs fifty-fifty."

      "Why?  They're upstairs, aren't they, in your half of the building?"

      "If they rot through," Peter retorted gleefully, "they'll pretty soon end up in your half of the building."

      "Then you'd better show me the rest of what's upstairs," she insisted.  "I'm not happy sleeping under a sword of Damocles."

      Peter led the way, taking Ashleigh this time through a door she hadn't noticed before, and into a long low-roofed area without windows, situated directly above the kitchen.

      "What's this to be used for?"

      "Nothing.  It's just full of boxes, nothing else."

      "I can see that, Peter.  Boxes of what?"

      He gave a resigned sigh.  "Model railways, if you must know.  Look, I've got another idea.  How about getting you to cook my food downstairs and sending it up here on a pulley?"

      "I'll explain why that wouldn't work, Peter.  If I did everything downstairs on my own while you were sitting up here playing with your toy trains, I'd charge you ten pounds an hour for room service.  Besides, I told you, I often don't get home till after eight.  I'm not altering my work schedule just because of you, even if you are in danger of starving.  How did you manage to eat before you moved here?"

      "I had an obliging landlady."

      "How obliging?"

      "Ah!  The truth is, she practically threw me out, which is why I went house-hunting.  But I always have a good meal at midday and usually pick up something from McDonald's or Colonel Sanders on the way home."

      "And what about weekends?  What have you eaten today, for instance?"

      "Not a lot," he confessed, "but that's because I'm on a diet.  That's why at times I get a bit irritable."

      "Yet you particularly told me not to eat before I came this evening?  I must say, Peter, you make an ideal host, planning every course down to the last detail."

      "If you must know, the plan was for you to be so supportive about my idea, you'd take part in a rehearsal for the new oast-house restaurant.  You were supposed to cook something really fabulous, then I was going to act as waiter and bring it to your table."

      "No doubt nibbling your share on the way?"

      "Perhaps we might have ended up sitting together and listening to some soft music."

      "I see.  Well, as long as that's all that happened, I wouldn't have minded."

      "Fine.  I respect that - in fact it's refreshing these days to meet a girl with a healthy conservative outlook about relationships."

      "Blame Aunt Elsie.  I tried to show a normal interest in boys, but she always got in the way.  I was never allowed to sit in the front room with a male companion without leaving the door open, and no visitor ever, ever set foot upstairs.  Aunt Elsie was always creeping about with a look of disdainful disapproval as though she'd just spotted a piece of dog-dirt on the carpet.  One of my friends once whispered something in my ear - a crude remark, I'll admit, enquiring whether my aunt starched her own knickers.  He meant it as a light-hearted jest, but she overheard the final word and drove him out of the house with a broomstick, physically pushing him all the way down the front path and into his car.  I never felt so embarrassed in all my life.  After that I had to spend six months in quarantine to make sure I hadn't been contaminated.  And even now, though I know she's gone, I can still feel that hovering presence."

      "Spooky, huh?  Okay, let's go downstairs and see if we can throw a meal together before we risk offending the spectre of Shipley Green."

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