‘Joshua P said if I give him a pound, we can kiss at playtime,’ the red-headed six-year-old announced at the breakfast table.

‘Did he indeed?’ Alana Murray sighed, wishing that after several years of abstinence, it could be that easy for her too.

‘So?’ Eliska continued, bashing her spoon annoyingly against the cereal bowl.

Alana Murray straightened down the skirt of her smart black suit.

‘Come on, Eliska, please be a good girl. Mummy has got a really important meeting today.’

‘You always have important meetings.’ The little girl stuck out her bottom lip.

‘And where’s bloody Inga? She should have been here an hour ago,’ Alana barked.

‘So, can I have a bloody pound?’ Eliska suddenly screeched at the top of her little voice, pushing her chair back violently.

‘No!’ Alana shouted back, pushing her hands through her sleek blonde bob as the doorbell rang and her daughter tore past her and ran up the stairs.

Then: ‘Thank God, Inga,’ she said weakly. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

Inga Gowenska, current au pair to the Murray famille-à-deux, was a stunning, waif-like Polish girl of eighteen.

‘I am so, so sorry, Alana. My bus, it didn’t come so soon. Did Eliska have her breakfast already?’ She looked at the mess in front of her.

‘Yes, yes. Look – I have to go. I’ll be home seven-ish.’

‘No, you will be home at seven exactly,’ Inga stated sternly. ‘It is my night off.’

Alana went upstairs to find her red-haired, red-eyed daughter lying on her bed sucking her thumb.

‘Darling, I’m sorry I shouted.’ She kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘You know Mummy can’t be late for work. I’ll bring back a new computer game for you.

‘Promise it will be Make-up Studio.’ Eliska jumped up in excitement.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Now come on down and let Inga sort your ponytail before she takes you to school.’ Eliska ran towards the stairs. ‘And young lady,’ Alana added, ‘don’t ever let me hear you swear again.’

Alana pulled into the Chiswick courtyard and turned off the ignition. As she stepped out of her sporty Mercedes, the wind suddenly gusted, sending colourful autumn leaves swishing around her legs.

Stephen McNair, the proprietor of SM Public Relations, greeted her in the plant-laden reception with a kiss on both cheeks.

‘Look at you, Ms Murray, arriving all windswept and sexy. It’s been far too long.’

‘That’s not really appropriate talk for one of your key clients now, is it?’ Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she followed him to his office.

Facing him across his green-leather-topped desk, she sat back comfortably while crossing her legs to reveal a little too much thigh.

Her motive – distraction. It was getting so much harder now to keep him off the scent. If he started questioning her about her daughter again, what on earth would she say?