“Hang on a minute,” said Suzy shifting the phone to her other ear.  “The kids are playing up again.”  She put her hand over the receiver.  “Petya!” she called over the din.  “Pe-t-ya!  I’m on the phone!”

      She walked into the sitting room and swung the door shut behind her, drowning out at least some of the racket from the kitchen.

      “Sorry about that, Barbara.  I’ve already had a word with her today...”

      “Poor cow!”

      “Yes, I know and I’m very sympathetic.  But I don’t pay her to let my kids scream the house down while she makes long emotional phone calls in Bulgarian and hangs out of the window smoking Gauloises.”

      “Homesick, is she?”

      “Boyfriend trouble... She says her Panti's let her down."

      "Her what?"

      "The boyfriend.  He's called Panti.  Always seems to be slipping up," said Suzy succumbing to a fit of giggles.  She pulled herself together quickly.  "But listen, I didn’t phone about Petya.  I want your advice about this wretched Halloween bash.  I’m going to need an entertainer...”

      “Left it a bit late, haven’t you?”

      “Yes, I know.  That’s the point,” said Suzy, tucking the phone under her chin and picking up a biro.  “I can't find this week’s Bulletin...”

      “Hang on,” said Barbara, “I’ve got it here, let me have a look.”  She flicked idly through the back pages.  “I do wish they wouldn’t publish all these call girl adverts..."

      “What?  What are you sniggering at?” said Suzy impatiently.

      “All these married men advertising for young girls!  Honestly!”

      "Come on, Barbara!  Stop mucking around and tell me who to book for this party.  Have you found the children's entertainers page?"

      "Yep, got it.  What do you want?  Animals made out of balloons, magic tricks, performing rabbits, singing telegram?"

      "At this stage anything will do.  Just tell me which of these entertainer-guys to ring first.”

      “Marvo.”

      “Why?”

      “Even Penelope couldn’t find fault with him.”

      “You’re a star.  Gimme the number and I’ll ring him right now."

      Hanging up Suzy dialled Marvo and gave herself a perky Doris Day smile in the ornate mirror over the mantelpiece.  She already had the blonde hair and the blue eyes; all she needed was a cute pinny and she would practically be Doris Day; the perfect Wife and Mother.

      She twinkled her pretty nails and gave her reflection an energetic wink.  "Doris Day plays Suzy Lysle," she thought.  "Pretty, blonde and efficient with blue eyes and a snub nose!"  And, there smiling out of a silver photograph frame on the mantelpiece was Rock Hudson, playing Lyndon Lysle, the Perfect Husband and Father - tall, handsome and serious.  He almost had a glittery twinkle on his top right tooth, he was so perfect. 

      Through the double doors in the large bright kitchen (featuring American yellow paint and plenty of clean sunlight) were their two perfect children, Judy and Ricky, playing happily with their affectionate Bulgarian au pair.

      "A place for everything and everything in the right place!" she chirruped in a corny American accent.

      "Allo?" said Marvo.  "Madame?"

      Suzy gave herself a shake and concentrated on persuading him to accept a booking at such short notice.  Not that it was exactly rocket science; they could afford to bribe dozens of party magicians if necessary.  Suzy agreed to all his terms, thanked him profusely, hung up and gave herself a thumbs up.  Girl done good. 

      Lapsing back into Doris Day on her way back to the kitchen, she plumped and arranged the designer sofa cushions, pulled the handmade rug into place with her toe, and straightened the glossy coffee table books.  What a pretty sitting room.  What a well-kept house.  She ought to check for laundry.

      “Mommy!” called Judy running in and flinging her arms round her legs.  “Mommy, can we make Jackie now?  Please!”

      Suzy gazed at the ceiling.  Super!  Halloween.  Must organise the party, hang the orange pumpkin lights over the front door, bribe the magician.  She swung Judy up onto her hip and went into the kitchen, rolling her eyes at Petya.

      “Okay, we need aprons and spoons!  You put the pumpkin on the table, Ricky, and don’t drop it!  Petya can you find the grapefruit knife?”

      “Great froot.  Is like what?”

      “Oh.  Well, I’ll do it.  Perhaps if you just get some bowls out, and newspaper.  I’ll find some knives.” 

      With minimum fuss, she organised them all round the scrubbed pine kitchen table and got started.  No point in wasting time.  She pushed a long wicked Sabatier into the top of the pumpkin and cut the top out, chamfering it neatly all round so it would fit back into the finished lantern instead of falling right through and putting the tea lights out.

      “Look Petya,” she said, giving her a soup spoon, “you have to scoop all the seeds and stringy bits out.”

      “Da, da.”

      “Dobro,” she said, knowing that her Bulgarian efforts made Petya laugh.

      Having got the pumpkin hollowing party started, she trotted down to the basement - a double garage and half a dozen diminutive rooms where she did laundry, stored bicycles, kept supplies for the kitchen and thrust unwanted presents out of sight.

      She stood by the washing machine in the comfortable earthy mess and looked around.  What was she doing?  Laundry.  Yes.  Get a basket.  Walk up the stairs.  Collect the dead socks and knickers.  Bring them downstairs.  Wash them all.  That's right.  No time to waste.  Chip chop.  Up the stairs, seek out those stiff socks, dry coffee cups, forgotten jumpers, and grubby newspapers.  Up to the ground floor, quick glance into the kitchen, all's well.  Up four more flights to the attic floor where the kids had their rec room.  Scoop up crummy t-shirts.  The laundry basket on her hip already half full, down again to the next floor to their bedrooms and check Petya's bathroom, down again and finally a quick zoom round the first floor. 

      She collected three coffee mugs from her sewing room, scooped up a stray pair of Lyndon's socks from their bedroom, grabbed the towels from their bathroom and, pushing the door open with her shoulder, inspected Lyndon's study.  All clear?  No cups, no dead socks?

      Nothing.  The room was as tidy and clean as always except for a stray piece of paper lying on the floor.  She scooped it up and was above to replace it on his desk when her eye caught the word "wanted". 

      It was a page of notes in Lyndon’s handwriting, words crossed out and re-written, little phrases tried and re-tried, and at the bottom, the final draft of what looked like a small ad neatly outlined in a little box.

      “American male (46) seeks female company for lunch in central Brussels.”

      Turning it over, as if there might be a clue on the other side, she frowned.  What was this?  A joke?  A bet?  A dare?  Had Lyn really placed a small ad?  Never in a lifetime.  Lyndon was essentially a private, home-loving, quiet man.  He'd never do anything as risky as advertising for company.

      Her eyes alight with amusement, she looked around for more clues.  Any other bits of paper?  Any other weirdness?  The desk?  Finger-prints.  The computer?  The cupboard?  What about the bin?  It would take her all day to search the whole room.  Only a professional spy could search it in seconds.

      Suzy saw herself walking through the mist, her perilously-high heels making no noise on the rain-soaked tarmac, the belt of her trench coat pulled tight, the collar turned up, her beret tilted down over one eye.  Blanche Dubois, international woman of mystery, WWII spy, Parisian sex-symbol and global adventurer stood in the rain-soaked shadows, awaiting orders. 

      “Agent Dubois!" murmured Suzie.  "I’m putting you on the case!”

      Blanche lifted her head and ran her tongue slowly over her glossy lips.  Time to use her training.

      “Your mission is to follow and report back," said the disembodied voice.  “Watch this man!  Every step he takes, be in his footprints.  Remove all respondents to this advert.  Remove permanently.  Is that understood?”

      “A-Okay,” replied Blanche.  “I’m on my own?”

      “JDI” said the Controller.  "Just do it." 

      Blanche nodded.  I'll do whatever is necessary, she breathed.  She narrowed her beautiful eyes and stared at the paper as it shivered between her long, sensitive fingers.  Her nostrils twitched at the smell of ink and intended adultery.  She smiled cynically, her scarlet nails glinting in the late afternoon sunshine, alert and ready for any emergency. 

      Failure would not be tolerated.  The mission had been classified priority red, she would be issued with weapons and supporting information pdq.  PDQ, not even ASAP, thought Blanche.  JDI.  The guy must be a VIP.

      “Take a look at this photo,” said the voice, “take a good look!"

      Blanche looked at the photo on the wall and for a split second her eyes widened.  It was him.  The man from the car.  The man with the beautiful face was staring straight out of the picture frame into her eyes. 

      "Pull yourself together," the spy told herself fiercely.  Fraternising was completely against the rules.  If the Controller got wind of it, Blanche would be off the job before she ever got on it. 

      "No man is worth it," she uttered between gritted teeth.  "He is nothing.  Just another assignment."

      "Mission Go!" ordered the Controller.

      "Je m’occupe,” said Blanche softly, her nails digging into her palms.  "Je m'occupe."  And her voice sounded like the tide rushing up the beach: "Yes, yes, yes, just leave everything to me."

      “Thank you, Agent Dubois.  That's precisely what I wanted to hear." 

      Blanche smoothed out the draft advert between her sensitive palms.  Adultery.  The word pleased her.  She liked imagining this man in the throes of passion.

      Her dark hair caressing the fine skin of her cheek, Blanche flipped the paper over in her hand and snapped her eyelids shut, once... twice... both sides of the document were safely committed to her photographic memory. 

      Silently and swiftly, the beautiful dangerous spy went through Lyndon's waste basket, taking the papers out in layers, carefully sorting through them in the order in which they were discarded so that she could replace them without leaving a trace of her presence.  Empty envelopes, junk mail, till receipts from the newsagent, a few sweet-wrappers, some child-scribble...

      She didn’t have much time, any minute now someone would start calling or come thumping up the stairs.  Her heartbeat accelerated and she ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip.  Her eyes sparkled and her sensual mouth curved into a secret smile.  She wondered if the bin were booby-trapped.  Then she shook her head.  Ridiculous.  Not with children in the house. 

      Were there any other clues?  Any indication whether or not The Target had placed this advert in more than one publication?  On the web?  Were there any other drafts?  

      Her fingers working deftly, she re-constructed the contents of the waste paper bin, and re-inserted it skilfully into the flattened carpet-circle beside the desk.

      Were there any other clues?  She scanned the surface of the polished wooden desk.  An antique Wedgwood cache-pot containing pens, a shallow Chinese dish full of stamps, paperclips, a pencil sharpener, a rubber, a pen top, a miniature china cat from a Christmas cracker... and the computer screen which The Target kept pushed way back into the corner of his desk. 

      Blanche pulled a face.  What could she use to obscure her prints?  What was this in the laundry basket?  She slipped a small sock, crusty with child sweat, over one of her elegant hands and slowly, one by one, opened the drawers on either side of the desk.  She gazed at the contents of each one, reluctant to touch anything un-necessarily. 

      Nothing.  Blank paper in one, household accounts and bills in another, envelopes in a third, a diary on the other side.  She took it out and flicked through the pages, but it was completely blank.  "Zut," she muttered.  Invisible ink.  She’d have to come back with her revealing kit.  He would be bound to notice if she took it away.  Her x-ray vision scanned the desk.  It was clear.  Just a shallow drawer in the centre which was locked.  Where was the key?  In the Chinese dish, perhaps?  Non.  Mer-credi.  That also she would have to leave.  She didn’t have time to break into it now. 

      And what is this?  A series of letters from someone called Suzy.  That must be the wife.  Her eyebrows wriggled like caterpillars.  The man had been married for fifteen years, and he still kept letters from his wife?  She smiled, the corners of her mouth curling up into tiny dimples.  Mignon...

      “Mommy!” yelled a girl’s voice. 

      Real life calling. 

      “Mom!” yelled a boy’s voice.  “Mom!”

      Suzy winced. 

      "Mommy!" screamed Judy from the kitchen.  Suzy dragged the unsavoury sock off her fist, chucked it into the laundry basket and carted the whole thing downstairs.

      In the kitchen, Judy was sobbing on Petya’s lap and Ricky was staring out of the patio doors, his back rigid with anger.  Clutching Judy, Petya was clucking in Bulgarian.  The floor was covered in bits of pumpkin and various knives and spoons were lying about on the table along with the half-hollowed Jack-o-lantern and a bag of tea-lights.

      “What’s the problem?” Suzy said brightly, knowing already that between them the kids would have started arguing because digging flesh out of a pumpkin is boring after the first five minutes and unless it’s seriously tiny it takes hours to hollow one out enough to make it glow when it’s lit up.

      “She’s just a stoopid little kid!” exploded Ricky.   “He’s always mean to me!” sobbed Judy simultaneously.

      “I try to stop them...” apologised Petya.

      “He threw the lid at me!” whined Judy.

      “She’s only broken the pumpkin!” yelled Ricky.  “I hate her, she’s so stoopid and...”

      “All right, Ricky,” said Suzy brightly.  “I think we get the message.  Come here, Judy. That’s right, baby, you come to Mommy while Petya gets some ice cream out.  Ricky, come here, so Mommy can give you a kiss.  You’re my big handsome boy.  There, Muma loves you.  Now both of you, be quiet and I’ll show you something magic.  Okay?”

      Ricky wasn’t impressed, but Judy brightened at once.  “What, Mommy, what you gonna do?”

      “Just you wait and see, my little sugar bun.”

      Suzy winked at Petya, scooped Judy onto a chair at the table and turned her attention to the pumpkin.  It was pretty battered, a large chunk having fallen out of the bottom of it and the rest leaning drunkenly to one side as a result of having been enthusiastically but inexpertly eviscerated.

      “Hocus, pocus,” she said, waving her hands all over the place.  “Focus, mocus, er... rocus, docus, forcus, morcus...”  She rolled her eyes crazily at Ricky.  “Fiddle-dee-dee and ricky-me-ree... sha-bang!”  She whizzed her hands at the wrecked pumpkin and waited wide-eyed for the magic which was never going to happen.  She crossed her eyes in frustration and sure enough, Ricky started to laugh, and Judy joined in. 

      “Whoops,” she grinned.  “I must have gone wrong somewhere.  Perhaps we’ll try the stapler-method, shall we?”

      “Mo-om...” said Ricky, shaking his head.  “You are a...”

      “I know, darling,” she said.  “Now, you guys eat your ice cream up.  Ricky, don’t take forever because you have to go to your lesson soon.  Petya, can you put the kettle on for tea, please?  Now you two, you just sit there and don’t say a word.  I’m going to find a stapler and I do not want you to start arguing again the minute my back is turned.”

      All thoughts of Blanche forgotten, she ran upstairs two at a time to the first floor and dashed into Lyndon’s study.  Hearing raised voices from below, she ignored the paper on the floor, rifled hurriedly through the desk drawers, found the stapler and dashed downstairs again.

      “Suzy?  You having soogar in tea?” called Petya, hearing her pounding down the stairs.

      “Everything.  Give me milk, give me sugar, give me sunshine!  Come on, you guys, let’s get this sorted.”

      She was showing Petya how to scoop round the pumpkin in circular swirls when Barbara rang back.

      “Sorry,” said Suzy, tucking the receiver under her chin.  “Chaos here.  We’re making the Jack-o-lantern.”

      “Messy?”

      “Pips and string all over the place.  Nightmare.”

      “Me too.  Mikey’s got his mates round... I’ve already had to glue it up twice...”

      “Glue?  Oh.  I hadn’t thought of that.  I used staples...”

      “Bloody hell, Suze!  We should have bought them ready hollowed out...”

      Suzy cracked up.  “Can you really get them ready made?”

      “This is Brussels, kid.  They’ve got everything here for the mother who can’t be bothered...”

      “What with the teeth cut out and everything?”

      “Yep.”

      “And delivered?”

      “You got it.”

      “Hell’s bells, I wish I’d known!  Pet-ya!  Hang on a minute, Barbara.  Petya, can you take that knife away from Judy, please?  Look, I’m going to have to go, Barbara.  Yes, the Halloween bash is on.  That means you do Thanksgiving, okay?  You'd better!  Well, that's what we get for marrying Yanks!  Yes, I booked him.  No... cash.  Saturday afternoon, that’s right.  I’ll ring you back.  Oh Barbara, honestly!  Your brain’s like a sewer!  Gotta go.  Yes, I’ve booked Funny Face; they catered Anoushka’s party.  I’ll ring you back.”

      It took another hour to finish making the Jack-o-lantern because Suzy had to keep pretending that the children were helping, which they weren’t.  They just took turns in making the mining more difficult.  Still, between them Petya and Suzy managed to get Jack’s bottom stapled up, his face hollowed out, and his features carved out of the skin.  They then triumphantly installed a trio of tea-lights inside his enormous thick skull.

      “There, brilliant!” said Suzy standing back proudly.

      “Pretty ace,” said Ricky with reluctant admiration.  “Great froot,” said Petya.

      “Teacher said we mussen throw the fruit away,” said Judy.  “Because of the blanket people.”

      “She means starving Africans,” Suzy told Petya, sotto voce.

      “We have to make soup with it,” continued Judy.

      “What, for the Africans?” said Ricky scornfully.  “Like, hello.  Africans don’t eat soup, Jude.”

      “They do too!”

      “They don't!”

      “Jolly good,” interrupted Suzy, “because now we’re going make pumpkin pie!”

      “Not with that,” said Petya, eyeing Jack’s discoloured and mangled innards with distaste. 

      “No, no, with this,” Suzy grinned, whipping a shrink-wrapped tray of pumpkin cubes out of the fridge.  “Now, first we defrost the pastry...”

      “But Mommy...”

      “No, we aren’t going to make it by hand, Judy.”

      “Why, Mommy?”  You know...”

      “Because I’m not your clever teacher, Judy, that’s why.  I’m just an ordinary Mummy, and I don’t have time for making pastry because I have other things to do like tickling cheeky monkeys who ask too many questions.  Now, Petya, could you have a go at the ironing, please?  There’s a huge pile of it in the basement.  Don't forget the basket.  It's on that chair.  Yes, I did the rounds earlier.”

      The rest of the afternoon disappeared in the usual haze of fielding phone calls, organising child activities, cleaning messes, cooking, clearing, tidying, fetching, carrying, supervising child-tea, sending cash to Marvo by courier, driving Ricky to his drum lesson, collecting him, packing Petya out for the evening, and attempting to keep the kitchen at least clear enough to cook a civilised supper for Lyndon.

      He walked through the door at precisely ten past six - as he had said he would that morning. 

      "Honey, I'm home," he called.

      In fifteen years, he'd never once been late home from work.  Whether he said he'd be back at 5 or 6 or 21 minutes past five, six, seven or eight, he was always on time.  "I’ll be right down!" he called again, swinging his coat over the banisters and dropping his car keys into the dish on the oak table in the hall.

      Suzy listened to him thumping upstairs to throw off his formal suit and pull on a comfortable pair of jeans, and wondered whether he really had placed a small ad in some dodgy magazine.

      Blanche'll sort him out, she told herself, she'll track him down.  She hunched one shoulder and pouted at her reflection in the microwave door.

      “I am ze Femme fatale,” she whispered in a husky French accent.  "And I 'ave my eye on you!"

      “Hiya Hon,” said Lyndon, coming into the kitchen behind her.  Blushing, Suzy snapped upright and hit her head on the open cupboard door.  Bright red, she span round on tip-toes so she could peck him on the cheek.

      “Hi," she said loudly. 

      He kissed her forehead automatically and continued without missing a beat towards the fridge.  He swung the door open and inspected the contents.  “We got any choci-crocs, Hon?”

      “Under the cheese.  In the plastic wrapper.”

      "Great."  Grabbing the whole bag along with an outsized carton of milk, Lyndon nudged the door of the fridge shut with his foot, dumped his fridge-haul onto the breakfast bar and picked up a magnetic letter from the floor.  With a little flick of his wrist, he tossed it expertly at the fridge door where it not only landed flat but stayed in place.

      “How do you do that?” asked Suzy. “I’ve tried and tried, but they just bounce off.”

      “Target practice,” he said, pointing an imaginary gun at her and pulling the trigger.  "Bullseye."

      Bullseye?  Could he really shoot a gun?  “So," she said, "how was your day?  Did you er... meet anyone interesting?  By any chance?”

      He smiled and raised one eyebrow.  "Now why would you ask me that?" he replied. 

      In the sudden silence Suzy blushed.  What a daft question.  Her eyes narrowed.  Was one side of his mouth twitching?  Were his eyes glinting with amusement? 

      "Well I don't know what you get up to..." she said.

      "Mmm, could be anything," he agreed smoothly.  "I could have taken a Jayne Russell look-alike to lunch and spent the afternoon buying her Cartier diamonds I guess."

      "And did you?"

      "Ah well, that's for me to know and you to find out."

      "I might surprise you one of these days," she said.  "You don't know, I might be anyone while you're at work.  I might be a spy, like you."

      "Yeah.  I wish.  What's cooking?" said Lyndon.

      Suzy stared at him.  What did he mean?

      "Or are we not eating this evening?"

      "Salmon, green salad, sauté potatoes," she said and watched him pouring milk into a glass.  Tall, well-built, handsome - and inscrutable.  Laughter lines around his eyes.  He'd left the paper in his study deliberately, hadn't he?

      "Kids had supper Hon?"

      "Yup."

      "Watching tv, are they?”

      "Yup."  She smiled and he took his milk into the sitting room where he settled himself on the sofa and Judy climbed up his long legs and onto his lap.

      Suzy put some pre-washed potatoes in water to boil, got the salmon out of the fridge and started shaking mixed salad into a wooden bowl.  She spread butter over the fish and shoved it into the oven.  Then she reached for her handbag, grovelled for a lipstick, screwed it up, brushed a small piece of grit off it, and applied a generous coat.

      Rubbing her lips together and pouting, she got the salad dressing and a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and checked her reflection in the glossy steel side of the American toaster.  She looked weird.  Not like a French spy at all.  She grabbed a square of kitchen towel and wiped her mouth clean.  Time to start getting the kids upstairs.

      “Bedtime!” she called.  “Come on, you guys!  Now!  I'm turning the bath on!”

      “I’ll bring them up, Hon!”

      The house was one of an untidy crescent of early C19th Brussels mansions which had been constructed pel-mel and were all slightly different.  Suzy’s sister said that the whole street gave her architectural indigestion, but then Caroline was a philistine so she would say that.  She was also the only person Suzy knew who would have entertained the idea of attempting to eat an entire terrace of houses.

      Suzy thought the street was pretty, although given the choice she’d have preferred a modern home with lower ceilings, fewer stairs, and a front garden.  Up in the kids' bathroom on the second floor, she turned the water on and added a slurp of bubble bath. 

      They could easily have found a newer place only twenty minutes away on the other side of the Woluwe lakes, but Lyndon had wanted to live close to the centre.  He liked their monstrous pile and was proud of having found a town house with what he called a back yard.  He was keen that the children should spend lots of time playing in it.  Especially Richard.  Ricky, Lyndon called him.  Ricky my boy.  Ricky my son.

      She heard Lyn bouncing up the stairs after the kids, and went off to shake duvets and find pyjamas.  Lyndon always did bath-time.  It was his thing.  She put a cd of nursery rhymes on for Judy.

      Lyndon loved home technology.  He watched a lot of movies on their massive television set imported from the good old U.S. of A.  He hired the dvds at work and they came from America too.  They’d had to buy a multi-region dvd player specially to watch them.  From the PX.  Of course.  The shop on the American military base.

      She turned the bedside lights on, retrieved teddies, plumped pillows, drew the curtains, got clothes out for the following morning and gathered up more piles of dirty laundry on the landing.

      The first time she saw it, Suzy said the house was too big.  She was a working mother, she reminded Lyndon.  She’d never have time to maintain this huge pile of marble and brass.  But he had just smiled.

      “Don’t worry, Honey, you won’t have to.  We’ll find someone to help out around the house, and someone else for the back yard.”

      Which is what they did.  Or rather what Lyndon did.  He efficiently hired a gardener from somewhere and put an advert in the Bulletin for a home help.  Suzy then chose Petya out of the dozens of people who replied to his box number.

      She was pretty sure she was breaking the law because Petya didn't seem to have a proper residency visa let alone permission to work in Belgium.  But Suzy had prudently never mentioned her suspicions to Lyndon because he was a real stickler about rules and regulations.  Said he couldn’t afford to be otherwise, not in his job.  Not as an employee of ACCA - The American Cultural Communications Association; a US government-sponsored out-reach program.  Whatever that was...

      “Honey, my boss absolutely would not appreciate me employing people on the black market; especially not a possibly-illegal immigrant from an ex-communist, eastern European ex-Russian-satellite state.  This is serious, so pay attention to your actions.”

      But Suzy didn't believe that anyone would care one way or another who helped out with the kids, so she employed Petya on the spot and moved her in that very afternoon. 

      Of course, having been in film production back in Sofia the girl was absurdly over-qualified to be an au-pair, but Suzy liked her - and of course her boyfriend’s name was Panti.  Suzy couldn’t resist the temptation of being able to ask questions like “And did Panti hose his car down?" and "What does your Panti look like?”

      Not that she ever got much chance to ask those sorts of questions.  Petya’s love-life was as messy as Boxing Day: during the brief month he'd been in Brussels ahead of Petya's arrival, the wretched boy had moved into a flat-share knowing that his new flat-mate wouldn't move out and that the landlord wouldn't let anyone else move in, and not content with having effectively made her jobless, stateless and homeless the inconstant and selfish Panti had also declared himself unready for long term commitment.  Anyone else would have Tippexed him without a backward glance.  Petya stubbornly refused to relinquish her first love.    

      Still, despite her agonised cheekbones, yellow fingers, and whippet-thin frame, Suzy enjoyed Petya's company.  Apart from anything else, she never indulged in pointless chatter - unlike Suzy's mother and sister Caroline who not only yapped all day long, but when they finally separated and went back to their own homes (only two avenues apart in beautiful Bexley Heath), started again on the phone. 

      Neither of them would have employed Petya, that’s for sure.  Because she was foreign.  They didn’t trust foreigners.  Except Lyndon of course.  Americans apparently didn’t count as foreigners because they spoke English.  But both of them thoroughly disliked Petya.  Probably because she refused to gossip to them about her employer.

      Suzy didn't give a toss.  Petya was brilliant with the kids.  She also did the ironing which was a God-send because Suzy hated ironing, especially children’s clothes.  Not Lyndon’s shirts though.  He sent those out to a laundry.  A special one.  On the American base.

      As she went out onto the landing, Judy came running out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.  "Ni-night, Mommy!"

      Suzy kissed her.  "Sleep tight, darling!  Put your jimmies on!"

      "Come on, Jude.  Let's do it!" called Lyndon from the bathroom and Judy ran away again.

      The American base, thought Suzy, biting her lip.  She'd never questioned that little fact, but Blanche would have pounced on it immediately.

      "Does he have a pass?  He must have one, or how does he get access to the base?  Surely he doesn't get signed in by friends every time he wants to get a shirt laundered?"

      He got his hair cut there too.  Shaved rather.  Not all off, he didn't go around completely bald, just sporting an over-enthusiastic military crop. 

      Leaving Lyn to finish the bed-night ritual, Suzy went down to the kitchen where she poured dressing over the salad, tossed it and went to lay the table.  Five little fishes and two little loaves?  No.  Two slices of fresh salmon and one pack of vitamin and fiber-enriched sliced white from the PX at the Facility.

      By the time Lyndon came downstairs supper was on the table.

      “The kids seem real excited about this party,” he said.  "Great salmon by the way.  Can I deal with any of it for you?  Maybe organise entertainment?  Would that help?”

      She shook her head.  “Don’t worry, it’s all under control.  It's not even a pain because Petya doesn't go to English classes during the school hols, so she's helping out and I'm hoping that her friend Paula will come and help with hats and coats."

      "Organised like a pro, Hon.  Give the girl some money and she'll be happy to help out."

      They discussed various details about the catering and decorations as they finished supper and then Lyndon stacked the dishwasher.  Watching him, Suzy mentally shook her head.  How could anyone so domesticated have placed a small ad in the paper?  On the other hand, she deserved an explanation.

      “Oof, I’m beat,” he said dropping a kiss on her hair as he headed for the sofa.  “Wanna watch a movie with me?”

      "I found an advert, a lonely hearts type thing, in your study today."

      "How about Murder on the Orient Express?  Are you in the mood for a mystery?"

      "Did you hear what I said?"

      "Sure.  You found a piece of paper in my study.  Shall we have another glass of wine with the film?" he said, giving her a deliberately bland look.

      "What was it?" she asked.

      "There's nothing in my room," he said.

      Noting that ears were slowly blushing pink she raised her eyebrows at him.  She and Lyn never argued, they were both far too civilised and self-controlled to indulge in pointless aggression, but he looked guilty as sin.  She turned on her heel and ran upstairs to his study.  Flicking the light on, she stared around.  Nothing on the floor.  She went over to the bin and shuffled through the first few layers of paper.  Nothing.  She dragged open the drawers of his desk.  Nothing.  He must have hidden it.

      She went downstairs to the sitting room again where Lyndon was still flicking through the film menu.

      "It's gone, it's not there any more," she said standing in the doorway.

      "Are you sure it was there in the first place?"

      She laughed.  "Of course I'm sure.  I'm not totally insane.  Someone's moved it; you've moved it.  Hidden it."

      "I really don't know what you're talking about," he said lightly.  "But if you think there's something going on, I suggest you check it out."

      "What do you mean check it out?"

      "Well, I don't know Hon.  But for a start off, if you want to ask me about some mythical piece of paper... then why don't you find it so that I can see what you're talking about?"

      "You want proof that I know you're up to something?"

      "I'll tell you just one thing, Hon."

      "What?"

      "If I wanted to keep something secret from you, you'd never know about it."

      "What's that supposed to be?  Some sort of cryptic clue?"

      "Hon, come and sit down.  Watch the film with me, huh?"

      She was intrigued and amused.  He was talking in code, which was something he hadn't done for a long time. 

      "Here, come and sit down."  He held his hand out.  "Let's watch the film."

      He was definitely up to something but from long experience Suzy knew that if she tried to make him explain, he'd just go polite and formal and distant, so she let him pull her down on the sofa beside him.  She had intended to spend the evening catching up with work from the office, but in the light of Lyn's new mood, that didn't seem such a good idea any more.  He passed her a glass of wine and picked up the remote control.  She settled herself down and, leaning comfortably against him, watched Poirot roll into action.  Lyndon slung his arm round her shoulders.

      Giving herself a secret little smile, Suzy stroked her glossy moustache.