The promised call to Ashleigh's office came at precisely three o'clock the following afternoon.

      "I seem to spend most of my time apologising," Peter began, "and soon you won't want to hear any more.  What can I say?  If you meant nothing to me, Ashleigh, maybe I wouldn't keep trying to confide in you.  But I do respect you.  Please believe that."

      "That's okay, Peter."

      "No, it's not.  And this conversation isn't going at all how I planned.  I wrote out precisely what I wanted to say, but it sounded so insincere when I read it back, I decided I'd just lift the phone and play it by ear.  My trouble is I'm impetuous, too impulsive - yet, I can't help it, it's the way I am.  No, dammit, that's the lamest excuse ever."

      He waited for Ashleigh's comment.

      "Look," he went on breathlessly, "putting my heart on the line here, could I drive over to Maidstone and meet you from work this evening?  Then we could maybe go and find a quiet spot for a meal, what do you say?  I can afford it, honestly, and I do so want to impress you.  Dammit, no, I shouldn't have said that.  Look, let's just pretend if I did succeed in impressing you, it would happen quite unintentionally, okay?  Except it's still very important to me.  Or rather, you are."

      Another pause.  Still Ashleigh said nothing.

      "I'm not normally like this, you know.  I'm a salesman, skilled in selling dry sand to Arabs - but there's one commodity I'm not so hot at putting across, and that's my true self.  I mask it with brash behaviour, which louses up the very sincerity I'm trying to prove.  See?  I'm hopeless.  A lost cause!  Are you still there?"

      Ashleigh spoke very softly.  "Yes, Peter, I'm still here."

      "Thank God.  That's something, at least.  You sound like a Samaritan.  I haven't bored you to death then, not yet.  Is that okay though?  On second thought, if I come over on the train, there won't be any parking problem, as long as I can get to a station afterwards.  Ashleigh, it is important I see you again - there's so much I want to tell you."

      "That's okay, Peter - but I can't say what time I'll be free.  It could be as late as seven."

      "No problem.  I'll wait patiently outside till you appear.  And thank you.  Sorry about last night - but - yes, well, anyway, thank you."

      For three hours Ashleigh found it hard to concentrate on her work.  At six-fifteen she looked out of her office window and saw Peter already sitting on a bench outside.  She grinned privately.  Do him good to wait!  She checked again at half past, and felt rather sorry for him.  At ten to seven she felt decidedly guilty, and having lost all ability to concentrate, she put away her papers and hurried down to the street.

      Peter was nowhere to be seen.  He'd waited over half an hour, and now he was gone.  Damn!  She'd blown it.  She might have known patience wasn't the noblest attribute of an impulsive man.  Now it was her turn to wait, full of uncertainty, wondering whether to go home or hang around in case he returned.  It was only just seven o'clock.  They had agreed it might be as late as seven.

      Then came a powerful surge of relief as Peter appeared, striding manfully towards her through the doors of her own office building.

      "Sorry," he grinned.  "We obviously just missed each other.  I held out as long as I could, but needed to pop inside to visit the gentlemen's room.  Doesn't that prove I'm human?"

      Ashleigh thought better of making unkind comments about his recent liquid intake.  "Where shall we go?" she asked brightly.

      His reply was decisive.  "If you don't mind driving, I'll give clear directions."

      "Suits me," she smiled and led the way to her parked Volvo.

      "Head south," he instructed as they drove off.  "Follow signs for Staplehurst."

      Half an hour later they drew into the forecourt of a quiet Kentish pub, and Peter ushered her inside.  "We have a reserved table for two," he told the receptionist.  "The name is Bushnall."

      The setting was both formal and relaxed, and Ashleigh was thankful to be wearing her smart office clothes.  Peter too was dressed in a grey suit, very different from the scruffy sweatshirt and jeans he'd worn at the oast-house.  They were shown to a small alcove, and a perky young waitress appeared almost at once, eyeing them sheepishly as she handed over two menus.

      "Would you care to bring us the wine list?" Peter asked quietly, and the girl went away giggling.  He offered no further comment, and Ashleigh took up the conversation with a few well-trodden platitudes.

      "Nice place," she nodded her approval.  "Quiet too."

      "It's early yet," Peter said, concentrating hard on the menu.

      "I presume you've been here before?" Ashleigh went on, determined to regain his attention.

      "Eh?  Oh, yes.  Once or twice.  Highly recommended," he added with a puckish smile.

      His attitude and behaviour were wholly different from the Peter she'd met on previous occasions.  Today he was quite gentlemanly, and much more subdued - looking tired too, as if he didn't get much sleep the night before.

      "How was the water-bed?" she asked.

      He looked up as if miles away.  "Hmm?  Oh, fine.  Fine.  Different."

      "So I would imagine," and they lapsed into another awkward silence, broken only when the waitress reappeared.  She fidgeted nervously with her pencil, then gave Peter a prolonged quizzical stare.

      "Well?  Have you make your mind up?"

      He looked at her sharply.  "What about?"

      "She means the food, I imagine," said Ashleigh, watching intently as her companion and the waitress eyed one another warily, proof that they were no strangers.  Evidently the youngster was used to addressing Peter with customary flippancy, but had doubtless been persuaded on this occasion to show proper formal respect.

      "Cute child," Ashleigh commented as the girl went away with their orders.

      "A presentable young lady," he replied with a smug grin.

      "Something tells me you're quite a regular here."

      "Used to be," he said, "before the oast-house loomed large."

      "I guess our oast-house has a lot to answer for," she retorted.  "I also get the impression that you lived down this way before you moved."

      He nodded.  "For fifteen years.  Though I don't regret moving.  Not now."

      "Naturally.  And your ex-wife, does she still live nearby?"

      "Not far.  Perhaps a tad too close for comfort."

      "Yet you headed this way this evening?  Interesting."

      "Look," he protested, "Sheila or not, this is still a good place to eat.  And I've no plans to visit anyone else in the neighbourhood, if that's what's troubling you."

      "Naturally," she repeated.  "Not with someone like me at your heels."

      Peter looked up at her curiously.  "You're both so incredibly different, you and Sheila.  About the only thing you have in common is your names, one being a partial anagram of the other, if you follow - yours has two extra letters stuck on the end."

      "Yes, the only two letters I'm ever likely to have after my name.  Do these partial anagrams occur to you at night?  No wonder you had difficulty sleeping."

      "A great deal occurred to me last night, actually.  I decided I must change my ways before my whole life falls disastrously apart.  I'm not an alcoholic, Ashleigh, not by any means.  I simply need an occasional shot of something strong to take away some of the pain."

      "Like curried tuna and crackers?" she giggled.  "You enjoyed that, didn't you.  Is that what you've ordered again tonight?"

      "Hell no!  I'm extremely fond of mint sauce, so I chose the lamb..."

      He paused, apparently distracted by goings-on behind Ashleigh's back.  Intrigued by his subtle nods and a permanently wry smile, she turned in time to see the waitress disappear.

      "Were you ordering a surprise cocktail," she queried, "or does this place use secret sign language for choosing wine?"

      "Neither.  Listen," he said, his face suddenly serious, "there's something I need to reveal right now.  I happen to have a fifteen-year-old daughter called Julie - she works here part-time - not that she's short of money, but she likes her independence.  I wanted her to meet you, so - anyway, it seems she approves - which is a great relief."

      "Approves of what?  My dress sense?  This is just a suit I wear to the office in case clients show up.  It came from Marks and Spencers.  Just under ninety pounds.  Quite a bargain, really."

      "Stop it.  She approves of you.  She likes to vet all my friends.  Daughters are like that - protective, caring, deplorably nosey."

      "Tell me, am I auditioning for a part in a film I know nothing about, or has this something to do with oast-houses?"

      Peter shook his head.  "I simply like coming here for a meal and a chat with Julie, and this time I told her I was bringing a guest."

      "Well, I hope my rear view did me justice.  You didn't sound like a father when you ordered your lamb or the wine-list - I take it you converse in some kind of code?  You'd better teach me a few quick symbols so I can say Hi!  And, for goodness' sake, why leave this monumental confession till now?  You could have led up to it in the car as we drove down - yet you hardly said a word."

      "I was pondering on the best way to broach the subject," he said.  "I opted for this.  I guess I blew it."

      "I take it we are talking about our waitress?  Fifteen, eh?"

      "Fifteen," he echoed proudly.  "You're supposed to react by telling me I look far too young."

      "You don't look young at all.  Anyway, some boys can perform that function from the age of eleven - so I'm told - though happily the majority exercise due restraint until they're sixteen, and a few hold back till their early twenties."

      "I was nineteen.  And for your information, the mileage on the clock of this particular sports car stands at thirty-five.  Satisfied?"

      "More to the point, were you satisfied?  Sorry - flippant again.  And it's Julie's mother whom you recently divorced?"

      Peter nodded.  "It never really works, you know, when that happens and the parents dictate the course of action."

      "I'd have thought you determined a substantial part of it all by yourself."

      "A lot of give and take."

      "Yes.  You gave, and she took.  The late Aunt Elsie would not have approved, Peter.  You timed it well."

      But Peter was in no mood for Ashleigh light-hearted banter.

      "It was a horrid atmosphere for bringing up a child.  Kids need plenty of love around them, especially girls - not constant recriminations or endless bouts of bitter silence.  But Julie and I are very close.  We always have been.  We share the same sense of humour."

      Ashleigh sustained a blank enquiring stare until Peter chuckled.

      "Vastly different from yours, though," he said.  "You go in for those pert crisp comments laced with biting wit, often ill-timed but guaranteed to provoke a reaction.  I'm more of a giggler myself."

      "Really?  I hadn't noticed."

      "Not a good trait, for a car salesman."

      "Especially when you're trying to sell little red sports cars to the rich and famous.  That's serious ego-business."

      Julie stemmed the flow of ready quips by wheeling in a trolley which she parked beside their table.  With a small cloth in her hand, she deftly lifted each plate, serving Ashleigh first, then giving her father a coy grin as she set his meal lovingly in front of him.

      "Did someone forget the wine list?" he whispered.

      Julie blushed: "Oops!"

      "That's okay," Ashleigh interceded, lightly touching the girl's hand.  "We've already had our full quota this week.  Oh, sorry - I hope that wasn't another coded message?"

      Peter's eyes were still on his daughter.  "Take no notice," he grinned to Julie.  "She's like that all the time.  Miss Ferguson keeps having a go at me for not living up to her expectations.  Ashleigh, please say hallo to Julie."

      The two exchanged feminine smiles of mutual respect.

      Peter added quietly.  "But right now, sweetheart, you are our waitress, so you'd better scoot before you get the sack."

      "I'll be back," she cooed in a hollow voice, waving her arms like a stage ghost, then giggling as she took away the trolley.

      "She's pretty, Peter.  Takes after her mother, I suppose."

      "I love her, Ashleigh.  I love her so much."

      "The mother?  Sorry - there I go again with my heartless cracks at the wrong moment.  Slap me down next time.  You love Julie?  I'm glad.  She's looks as though she welcomes all the love you can give her."

      "That's nice.  Thank you."

      "I mean it.  But fancy the not-so-young Peter Bushnall turning out to be a Daddy all of a sudden!  That's good.  I like that image much better."

      "Better than what?"

      "Oh, you know - the red sports car - the brash young squire of the oast-house, dangerously close to being upper-class twit of the year."

      "You're quite perceptive, but wrong on the last count.  Your everyday upper-class twit skates through life on a thin sheet of ice, financially supported by an elder upper-class twit of yesteryear.  I have no such pedigree."

      "Fine.  If you despise the image, why try to copy it?"

      "Plain insecurity.  But ease up on the psychoanalysis, please, and do start eating - otherwise my young daughter won't get home till midnight."

      "You know, Peter, I envy Julie.  She's young and pretty.  She's got a Daddy she clearly adores.  In spite of the bad marriage, I reckon she's a happy soul.  You have every reason to be proud."

      "Not of everything, believe me.  And Sheila's so possessive.  She doesn't like the child seeing me.  Claims I'm a bad influence.  I know I broke the rules once, but that was sixteen years ago.  The trouble is we never were a suitable match, and once grit gets down into the gearbox nothing ever runs smoothly again."

      "Then I'd say you made the right choice in applying the brakes.  Or was it an ejector-seat?  Anyway, forget Sheila.  I want to hear more about Julie."

      "I was scared to tell you before.  I thought you'd back off at once."

      "Back off from what?  Are you inferring there's some kind of romantic attachment between us, Peter, because if so, I assure you it's all in your imagination.  I certainly like you, and I like your oast-house, but let's leave it at that, eh?  What on earth did you tell Julie about me?"

      Peter shook his head and took a mouthful of food.

      "You must have said something," she insisted.  "If not, why all that pantomime winking and semaphore flag-waving behind my back?"

      "Ashleigh, I don't know what's got into you - it can't be the wine.  Doesn't it occur to you I might often bring guests here, customers mainly, whom I try to impress so I can sell their bosses a fleet of company cars?  I'm a struggling salesman, Ashleigh, not a philanderer.  If you must know, Julie was merely trying to find out if we were ready to eat, or whether I was in the middle of clinching an important deal and didn't want to be interrupted.  She knows the score, and it isn't what you think."

      Ashleigh felt humbled and embarrassed.  "Obviously I've got it wrong."

      "That's okay.  But please don't confuse me with Bluebeard.  Besides, he was much older."

      Ashleigh continued her dinner, quietly piecing together the puzzle that didn't seem to make sense.  In front of her was a man who, in two weeks, had shown a variety of different moods, not all of them likeable.  She'd clashed with his arrogance and rudeness.  She'd seen him behave selfishly, impetuously, deviously.  She'd witnessed his inadequacy in moments of despair.  She'd listened to him over the phone, drunk one night, full of remorse the following day, begging for forgiveness, and promising to change his ways.  He had stood waiting a good half-hour before taking her out to dinner.  Why?  What was he after?  What was any man after, especially one who owned a red sports car?

      "You're very quiet," he said kindly.

      "Just thinking," she murmured.

      "Me too.  You give a guy plenty to think about.  We're different in many ways, yet we could learn a lot from each other.  I admire your gift for logic and commonsense, and I'm sorry if you think I misled you, but I wanted to see you again this evening, to throw around a few more ideas.  I'm not short on ideas, you know.  I'm an innovative thinker, though you doubtless prefer to label me as impulsive."

      "That depends what you're hatching next."

      "All right - I was still wondering last night about us owning the oast-house jointly, but on a sort of time-sharing basis."

      "You mean like Box and Cox?  Mine at night, yours by day, both of us trying not to notice each other like passing sentries, morning and dusk?  Peter, once again, if you'd stop to think for a moment you'd realise it wouldn't work."

      "Why not?"

      "I like to lie in bed on Sunday mornings.  I wouldn't want you hammering on my door demanding I get up so you can use my sheets after a night on the tiles."

      "I'm amenable to a little sharing."

      "Thought somehow you might be."

      "I mean, I'm prepared to use the outhouse as a kind of waiting area.  I'm prepared to set aside certain rooms downstairs as common ground where we'd both meet and argue over something utterly trivial.  And in saying that, I'm not being nasty, Ashleigh, I enjoy arguing with you - it's like playing tennis with a lively opponent, all fast and furious, bringing us both out in a good healthy sweat."

      "I suppose you'd enjoy it even more if I wore a short tennis dress?  After your earlier remarks about ice-skating, I'd say you have a fondness for girls' legs."

      "I can't deny a fondness for girls," he agreed, "provided they don't bite my head off every time I pay them a compliment.  Okay, let's clear the decks.  One logical solution for the oast-house would be if you and I fell deeply in love, but there's no point in pursuing a hypothetical fantasy that's so utterly absurd.  I mean, let's kill that idea stone dead once and for all, shall we, then we won't keep falling victim to these everlasting misunderstandings.  And if you ever stand on a chair and look at me like that, I'll send for a troupe of performing mice."

      "Looking at you like what?" said Ashleigh, all innocence.

      "Sorry, I could swear I saw disappointment.  Must be a trick of the light."

      "Is this your technique for selling fast cars to the rich and famous?"

      "Not for much longer.  Soon I'll be reduced to selling pencils outside Boots.  Come on, Ashleigh, you're the logical one.  I need help.  What solution can you come up with?"

      Ashleigh allowed a long smooth smile to precede her reply.  "I have discovered," she said slowly, "in the course of my work, that a great many problems solve themselves without human intervention if you allow enough time.  Meanwhile I'd still like to hear more about your daughter.  I wonder where she's got to?  Your plate's empty and so's mine."

      "Then if you'll allow me just this once to use jungle telegraph," he said, "we'll see what can be done.  It is easy when you know how."

      He raised a finger in the air and Julie appeared at once.  "I expect you'll want more, knowing you," she grinned, and turned to Ashleigh.  "Honestly, Dad does love his food."

      "Really?  I thought he was heading for anorexia."

      "Julie, love, take no notice.  This is one very strange lady with an even stranger sense of humour - and you need a dictionary to understand what she's on about, half the time."

      Julie eyed her father sternly.  "I know what anorexia means.  Are you looking after yourself properly?"

      "I'm getting by, sweetheart.  This lady's an excellent cook, but she's too wrapped up in her own job to come and feed me, so she doesn't see how well I manage on my own.  I've got plenty of supplies in the fridge."

      "Okay.  Only I don't want you getting ill."

      "I'll keep an eye on him when I can," Ashleigh volunteered.  "We're both working together at weekends, helping to restore the oast-house."

      "Oast-house?" Julie looked puzzled, and Peter quickly intervened.

      "It's a project Ashleigh's working on, with my help," he explained.  "Whether it'll come to anything, time will tell.  How about tempting your old Dad with the dessert trolley?"

      As Julie hurried away, Peter leaned across to Ashleigh.

      "Thanks a bundle!  Did you have to mention the oast-house?  I had hoped to keep it a secret.  I'll explain later."

      "You don't confide even in your own daughter?  Then I'm sorry.  But you should have warned me."

      "That's okay.  No real harm done.  I hope."

      Soon Ashleigh was being lured by the assortment of cheesecakes, gateaux, pies and fresh fruit that Julie brought along.  Both gave in to temptation, and each chose a particularly luscious helping of chocolate cheesecake.

      "So, I've discovered another of your weaknesses," Ashleigh laughed.

      "This, and girls' legs," Peter whispered when Julie had gone.

      "Then it's best you concentrate on that cheesecake," she advised, and allowed Peter to notice the hint of a twinkle in her eye.

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