Chapter One

'A very good morning to you,' said Terry Wogan, his voice as smooth as Guinness. 'It's ten to eight, and, if you've just tuned in, then a warm welcome to the show.'

I pulled out Nick's shirt, then pressed it to my face. As I inhaled the masculine aroma mixed with the faint scent of the sea, I remembered him wearing it in Crete. He was standing on our hotel balcony, his face alight with laughter, his glass of retsina uplifted as though he hadn't a care.

I miss you more than I missed you before...

Breathing slowly to steady my nerves, I set to work.

Now where I'll find comfort, God knows...

I removed the shirts, put them over my arm, then carried them down to the spare room. Because yo-oo-ou... left me, just when I needed you most.

'Yes, Nick,' I breathed. 'You did.' As I opened his father's old wooden trunk and placed them inside I wondered what other women in my position might have done. Many would have taken their husband's clothes to Oxfam long ago - but I couldn't. Somehow it just didn't seem right.

'Now...' I heard Wogan say as I went back into the bedroom and unhooked Nick's suits from the rail. 'Here's a question. A bit of a trick question, really. Do you know what day it is?'

'Wednesday,' I replied, as I laid the suits on the bed. 'The ninth of February.' My hands shook slightly as I buttoned up the jackets.

'It's the first day of Lent.'

'So it is.'

'A day, traditionally, for a little sober reflection, and of course a day for giving things up. So what are you all giving up for Lent then, hmm...?'

I carried Nick's suits into the spare room and put them in the trunk, carefully folded between sheets of newspaper.

'Chocolate?' I heard Wogan ask as I stood up, back aching slightly. I glanced into the garden. A light snow was falling. 'That would be a tough one now, wouldn't it? Or maybe booze?' I returned to the bedroom, lifted Nick's jumpers out of the chest of drawers, then put those in the trunk as well. 'Fast food, maybe? Or sweets...?'

Now I took out his shoes, then carefully unthreaded his ties from the rack. I fingered the blue and gold cashmere one he'd worn for our wedding and was nearly felled by a wave of grief.

'Swearing?' Wogan persisted. 'Smoking? Reading OK! and Hello!? Come on now everyone - let's give it some serious thought, shall we? What are we all giving up for Lent?'

I looked at our wedding photo over the bed, then reached up and took it down. 'What am I giving up? That's easy. My past.'

You have to try and get over things don't you? You have to move on, or, rather, 'let go' as they say in the popular jargon. And so, at long last, I am. I've finally put Nick's things away because I no longer want to live with a ghost. But, although I know it's something I have to do, at the same time it still feels wrong. As though I'm somehow denying that Nick ever existed or, that for six years, we had a shared life.

The hardest thing of all has been the answerphone. In three years I've never changed the message - I couldn't bring myself to - but now, at long last, I have. So, as from this morning, callers will no longer hear Nick politely saying, Hello, we're sorry we're not here... - that used to freak people out. Now they'll just hear me, on my own. Hi - you've reached Laura ... I say with casual cheerfulness, as though I'm publicly acknowledging that he's gone.

This is something my sisters have been urging me to do for ages. 'It's unbearable!' my elder one, Felicity, would exclaim every time she came round. 'You can't carry on like this, Laura! The flat's a mausoleum! You've got to accept what happened and move forward !' My younger sister, Hope, who's more restrained, would just say, 'If you're still not ready to change things, then... don't.' But in January I finally decided that I was. My New Year resolution was to redecorate the flat - that's made a big difference to the feel of the place - and to put away all of Nick's stuff. I haven't disposed of his things - that seemed callous - I've simply hidden them, so that the outward evidence of his life here has gone. His computer, his books, his pictures and now his clothes, are all packed away in the spare room, out of sight. In one way it feels like a liberation, in another, like a betrayal. But, rationally, I know that it's not.

I miss Nick. And I still feel angry with him. They say that's a common reaction - especially if you're young. Of course it's got easier, over time. I've got used to it - I've had to - but even now, I can still be tripped up. Whenever a letter arrives for him from someone who still doesn't know, for example, and I have to write back and explain. And the way my neighbours sometimes react can upset me. This morning, for instance.

I was coming out of the flat at about nine thirty, on my way to work. For the first time in ages I was feeling energized and optimistic, ready to move forward. And I'd just locked the front door when I saw Mrs French from over the road leaving her house with her shopping trolley, on her way to Portobello. So I smiled at her, and she smiled back, but, as usual, her smile was tinged with sympathy and I almost heard her compassionate 'tut-tut'. And I realized that being, as I still am round here, an object of pity and curiosity, is going to make moving forward quite hard. Take Mrs Singh, next door. She's the same. Whenever she sees me she comes up to me and lays her hand on my arm, and asks me, very sweetly, if I'm 'all right'. And I always reply, as non-defensively as I can, 'Yes, thanks. Of course. How are you?' I don't like it, but I can't blame them because they remember Nick, and this is a gossipy little street, so I've become 'that poor girl at number eight'.

Dunchurch Road is at the far - unfashionable - end of Portobello just off Ladbroke Grove. Many of my neighbours have lived here for years, and not all of them are as charitable as Mrs French and Mrs Singh. Twice now in our tiny local supermarket I've overheard that hatchet-faced woman from number twelve telling the manager in a loud, authoritative whisper, that I must have 'driven him to it, poor man'. But then, when it happened, I know that there were a number of unpleasant theories doing the rounds. Some people blamed me - I don't know why as Nick and I were very happy, thank you. Others thought he must have lost it with the emotional stress of his work. The most generous view of it was that Nick must have got himself in such a terrible mess that he just couldn't make sense of his life. What that mess might have been, in the absence of any firm evidence (and, believe me, I looked), was open to conjecture of the most lurid kind. But I suppose it was inevitable that there'd be rumours, not least because it got in the papers because of Nick's job. So, one way or another, I've had a lot to cope with; but now, as I say, I'm determined to move on, and to leave this sad phase of my life behind.

So, disconcerted by my encounter with Mrs French, I did some positive thinking to lift my mood. As I walked up Portobello - the sleety snowflakes whirling and eddying against my face - I reflected that work-wise at least, things have improved. As I passed the tattoo parlours and the halal butchers I reminded myself of how hard my financial position had been. There's no insurance payout in cases like mine, and Nick had left his affairs in a mess. On my TV researcher's salary I'd struggled to pay the mortgage alone, and, in my situation, I wasn't able to move. The Halifax gave me three months' grace, my family helped, and my boss, Tom, kindly gave me a rise. Now, as I passed the stalls selling cheap pashminas and tie-dye shirts, I remembered how, even so, I'd accumulated huge debts - but how I'd then found a good way to make ends meet.

Last March I saw an article in The Times about a company called InQuizitive which compiles quizzes for pubs. It mentioned that they were looking for freelance question-setters so, being a general knowledge junkie, I got in touch. I knew it was something I could easily do and, apart from the cash - £2.50 per question - it distracted me from my distress. Every evening after work I'd sit there with my reference books, totally absorbed, making up questions. 'Who designed the first petrol-driven car?' (Karl Benz). 'What is stored in a mattamore?' (Grain). 'How many squares are there on a Scrabble board?' (225). 'What is the capital of Ukraine?' (Kiev). I enjoyed it. It was relaxing, and yet at the same time it gave me a buzz. And now, as I turned left down Westbourne Park Road, I thought, as I often do, about how that one newspaper article had changed my life...

One Friday afternoon last June I'd been in Trident TV's tiny 'boardroom' with Tom, who owns the company, and Sara the other full-time researcher - we're a very small company - and we were bouncing around ideas for new programmes to pitch at the broadcasters.

'Things are very tight, money-wise,' Tom had begun, as he twanged a rubber band between thumb and forefinger in the slightly distracted way that he does. He narrowed his blue eyes, as though drawing on one of his occasional cigarettes. 'So I think we may have to do something a little bit more... commercial,' he continued with slight disdain. I'd been with Trident for five years then - right from the start, when it was just Tom and me - and we'd done some quite heavyweight stuff: two series about the first world war for the History Channel, for example; a drama-documentary about Helen of Troy for BBC Two, a four part series on the ethics of bio-technology, and a half-hour programme about the Turin Shroud. We'd also done a few corporate videos, to pay the bills, but we'd become well known for our factual work.

'It's very nice being nominated for the Baftas and all that,' Tom went on. He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. 'But what we really need now, is a money-spinner.' My heart sank. I liked the kind of serious-minded programmes we did. I've never wanted to do cookery programmes, or silly lifestyle shows or pander to lowest common denominator taste. Tom slowly swivelled his chair from side to side. 'So...?'

'A money-spinner?' I repeated.

He winced. 'Yes - not least so that we can have a bit of a refurb round here -' he glanced at the floor - 'this carpet must be due for its bus pass. So... any ideas for something a bit more... popular?' He looked at me.

'Well... how about... "Celebrity Wifestyles"?' I suggested. 'Or "Maisonette Makeovers"? Or "Bungled Bungalows" or, erm... "I'm a Nonentity, Get Me Into Here"?'

Tom fired the rubber band at me. 'There's no need to be facetious, Laura. I'm not suggesting that we start making crap.'

'Sorry, Tom. I'm just a bit tired.'

'Been partying?'

'Hardly. Burning the midnight oil.'

'Doing what? If you don't mind my asking,' he'd added politely.

I shrugged. 'I don't mind at all. Compiling pub quiz questions.'

'Really? Why?'

'Firstly, because I need the money and, secondly because I enjoy it - it's interesting.'

He leaned forward. 'And how does it work?'

'Well, usually the company I do it for asks for a batch of questions on different subjects. Last night was a bit heavy because -' I stifled a yawn - 'they needed twenty on the history of Russia, and another twenty on Scottish Premier League football clubs. I ended up dreaming that Catherine the Great played for Queen's Park Rangers.'

'Hmm.' Tom had steepled his fingers and was gently bouncing them against his lips.

'I make up the questions,' I went on, 'they have them verified, then they put the quizzes together and sell them to the pubs. Tonight I've got to prepare fifteen on the plays of Ibsen, then tomorrow I'm going to do fifteen on the Roman Catholic Church. In a good month I can make an extra five hundred pounds, which God knows, I can do with.'

'Quiz questions...' Tom repeated. He was just staring at me, saying nothing. Usually I feel comfortable with Tom - we have a great working relationship - but I found this unnerving.

'Anyway, can we get on with the meeting?' I said after a moment. 'I wouldn't mind going home a bit early tonight, as I say I'm a bit tired and...'

'We should do a quiz,' Tom said suddenly.

'Yes,' said Sara, her face lighting up. 'That's just what I was thinking. That's a great idea.'

'A quiz,' Tom repeated. 'A really good one. I don't know why I've never thought of it before.'

'Probably because there are any number of good quizzes out there already,' I suggested drily.

Tom pinged another rubber band out of the open window. 'That doesn't mean we can't do one as well.'

'It'd have to be different,' said Sara. She took off her little black specs and began cleaning them on the hem of her skirt, which is what she does when she's fired up about something. 'It would have to be unlike anything that already exists.'

'In short it would have to be original,' said Tom. 'But the question - irony intended - is how?'

So for the next hour or so we'd talked about the different quiz shows and tried to analyse why it is that they work. With Who Wants to be a Millionaire? we decided that it was the Greed Factor combined with the brilliant tension that Chris Tarrant creates. With Mastermind it was the sinister atmosphere - the menacing music, the Black Chair in the harsh spotlight - inspired, according to Tom, by its creator's experience of interrogation as a prisoner of war. The appeal of University Challenge was seeing young people answer such difficult questions, and the attraction of The Weakest Link seemed to be the mesmerising spectacle of the contestants' meek submission to Anne Robinson's bile. But underpinning the ever-growing success of the genre was, we agreed, the simple fact that we all like to show off what we know. Watching a quiz makes us revert to our eight-year-old selves, shooting up our hands in class, bursting to answer.

'Yes,' mused Tom. 'A quiz... what do you think, Laura?'

I shrugged. I like television quizzes as much as the next person but I'd never for a moment thought that we might do one.

'Well ...I think it'd be fine. In fact, I like the idea - as long as it's a proper general knowledge quiz,' I added quickly. 'Real information - not trivia. I couldn't stand having to compile questions about soap opera plots or ...I don't know... how many A-levels Prince William got.'

'Quite,' said Tom nodding; then he looked at me. 'How many A-levels did Prince William get?'

'Three. Geography, Art History and Biology. He got an A, a B and a C.'

'But what could be the format for our quiz?' Tom swivelled from side to side in his chair again, his hands clasped behind his head. 'How could ours be different?'

When we came in on the Monday, we knew. Over the weekend Tom had thought up an idea for one which was original - if not actually quite radical. He said it had just come to him, in the bath. He swore us all to secrecy, we planned a pilot, and for the next month we worked like dogs. Tom produced, I compiled the questions, Sara, our P.A. Gill, and our incredibly annoying receptionist, Nerys, stood in as contestants and, to save money, I fronted it. Within a week of being pitched, Whadda Ya Know?!! had sold to the new cable channel, Challenge. They bought it, however, with one quite unexpected proviso - that I should present it myself.

Now, as I turned left into Tavistock Road, I remembered how Tom had been as amazed at this as I was. I'd had zero experience in front of the camera and we'd assumed that Challenge would want to bring in a star. But Adrian, the Commissioning Editor, said he wanted me to present it because I was female - there are few women quizmasters - and, more importantly, young.

'Most quiz show hosts are middle-aged,' he'd said as Tom and I sat in his leather-scented office, the ink on our signatures still wet on the contracts in front of us. 'It would be a refreshing change to have a quality quiz presented by a thirtysomething rather than a fifty-something. I also like the fact that you're -' and here he'd hesitated - 'interesting looking.' I winced. 'Now, don't get me wrong, Laura,' he added, much too quickly. 'But you're, well, rather... unusual. What some people might call "une jolie laide".'

'That means "jolly ugly" doesn't it?' I quipped, to cover my annoyance.

'Oh, no, no - it doesn't mean that at all. You're an attractive woman,' he added, again too quickly I thought.

'She is,' said Tom. 'Laura's lovely.'

'Of course she is,' Adrian went on. 'You're very... attractive, Laura ...erm ...'

'In a way?' I said pleasantly.

'Well, it's just that your looks are -' he squinted at me, cocking his head to one side - 'unconventional.' By now I felt like the Elephant Man. 'You're a bit like Andie McDowell...'

'Gone wrong?' I suggested.

'Well - ye-es. You could say that. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings,' he blundered on.

'You didn't,' I said politely. 'Really.' In any case I'm used to it. My sisters may be pretty but I'm what you'd politely call 'characterful': I've got Dad's angular jaw line, and his over-long nose. The galling thing is that I was a lovely baby - I was the pretty cygnet who became a duck.

'But the thing I really like about you,' Adrian went on, 'is the fact that you have authority.'

'Do I?' I said wonderingly. This had never occurred to me, though I liked the idea. Perhaps I should have been a policewoman - or a dominatrix.

'You have natural authority - which is the quality that quiz show presenters most need. They can get it in various ways,' he continued. 'On The Weakest Link, Anne Robinson exudes a kind of authority by being vile; Jeremy Paxman has authority on University Challenge because he's a serious journalist, ditto John Humphreys on Mastermind. But you have authority too, Laura. I think the viewers would feel that they're in safe hands with you and that you could probably answer many of the questions yourself.'

'She could,' Tom interjected. 'She's incredibly well-informed.'

'Misspent youth,' I explained. 'Too many books.'

'Plus you've got a fantastic memory,' Tom added warmly. I shrugged. But, to be honest, it's true. Facts and figures - however useless - stick to my mind like chewing gum sticks to the pavement. I only have to read something once for it to sink in. I've always regarded this as an oddity - a bit like having perfect pitch, or a sixth toe - but it can come in handy sometimes. No need for shopping lists, for example. Excellent recall of names and dates. No problem remembering what had rolled by on the Generation Game conveyor belt - Cuddly toy-Teasmaid-Toaster-Carmen Rollers - and, when I was nine, I won a family trip to Paris by being able to recite all fifty states of the Union in reverse alphabetical order.

'Yes, well,' Adrian went on, 'I think the viewers would feel that you're not just reading the questions out; and with this format - particularly with its highly unusual unique selling point - that's what the show really needs.'

Tom was delighted that I was to present the show. As I say, we have a good rapport - though it's strictly professional, mind you. I like Tom; he's clever and laid-back and very kind and yes, if I stop to think about it, he's definitely good-looking, and he's got this attractive, north American voice. But I could never see him as anything more than a colleague because a) he's my boss and it could be awkward and b) I know he once did something that just wasn't... great.

But, to go back to the quiz, Tom had been worried that no established 'star' would want to present it. But then there were serious risks. It could have been utterly humiliating for them if they were no good - they could have got a really bad press. But the thing that makes Whadda Ya Know?!! so dangerous for the presenter is precisely what makes it riveting to watch. And so, last September it went to air. Being on cable, it didn't have a huge audience to start with - just two hundred thousand, but we were hoping to build. Then a tiny piece appeared in Time Out describing it as 'hip' and 'subversive'. Before we knew it, Channel Four had poached it, outbidding Challenge for the second series by £30,000 per show.

So tonight is a very big night because Whadda Ya Know?!!'s going to be aired nationwide for the very first time. And you might think that presenting a prime-time TV show would make me happy, and of course in one way, it does - but, in another way, it fills me with dread...

There are drawbacks you see. Huge drawbacks, I reflected nervously as I turned right into All Saints Road. In one way I'm hoping that the show won't be a success, because, if it is, then what happened to Nick might be raked up.

I stopped at the newsagents and bought the Independent. I felt a surge of adrenaline as I turned to the TV listings. There it was, in the 8pm slot, and next to it, it said See Choice. My eyes scanned to the top of the page. Hey - Whadda Ya Know?!! Another new quiz show! But, whadda ya know, this really is one with a difference. Newcomer Laura Quick (right) looks brainy - and she'll need to be. Riveting.

My stomach was churning, but as I crossed the road into All Saints Mews I felt my tension recede. To me it's the prettiest street in London; even on a cold, sleety day like today. It's wide for a mews, and the houses are painted in seaside tones of pink and lemon and blue. Well-behaved climbers trail neatly up their exteriors twining through elegant balconies of wrought iron. I caught the scent of the white Clematis Armandii as I passed number twelve, and admired the pots of freckled mauve hellebores.

Trident TV is half way down on the left, and occupies two white, shuttered houses that were knocked together in the seventies to make the only office premises in the Mews. Without being obviously commercial looking, the building has a pleasantly businesslike air. I shook my umbrella, then pushed on the door. There was Nerys, sitting behind the desk of our tiny reception area.

'So then I said to her...' I heard her say in a loud whisper as I folded my umbrella, 'and then she turned round to me and said .... well, no ... that's right. She has got a nerve, and so I thought, well, I'm not standing for this, so I turned round to her and said - oh just a minute Shirl...'

'Good morning,' I said pleasantly. I may not like Nerys much, but I am always polite to her.

'G'morning Laura. I'll ring you later, Shirl.' She replaced the receiver. 'These are for you...' she nodded conspiratorially at a bouquet of yellow tulips, white roses and golden mimosa. She patted her hair, which was the colour of marmalade and lacquered to the texture of candyfloss. 'They were delivered about an hour ago.'

'How nice,' I said wonderingly, my irritation with Nerys vanishing. The vanilla-y scent of the mimosa was delicious. I unpinned the card. 'I wonder who they're from?' 'They're from your sister, Hope, and her husband.'

I felt a stab of annoyance. 'How do you know?'

'Because she phoned up to check they'd arrived.'

'I see. Never mind,' I added briskly. 'I've always thought lovely surprises quite over-rated.'

She examined her nails. 'Well, I'm sorry, Laura, but you did ask.'

'It was a rhetorical question,' I explained sweetly as I took off my coat.

Immune to the rebuke - she has a pachydermatous hide - Nerys was now staring at my top half. 'You're not going to wear that jacket on set are you?'

'Yes.' I looked at her. 'Why?'

She cocked her head to one side. 'Well, if you ask me, I don't think that colour really suits you.'

'I didn't ask you, Nerys.'

'Take it from me, that lime green -' she sucked the air through her teeth 'Ooh, no - it's all wrong. You should wear pink,' she added as the phone trilled out. 'Or peach. In fact, you know what you should do - you should get your colours done. You look like a Summer to me. Go-od morn-ing - Trident Tee-veee...'

When I say I don't like Nerys much, what I really mean is that I actively dislike her. So much so that I sometimes entertain fantasies about chopping her into human nuggets and feeding her to next door's cat. I have often wondered why she has this effect on me. Is it because of the amount of time she spends making personal phone calls? That's not my business - Trident belongs to Tom. Is it because she's deliberately unpleasant? She may be jaw-droppingly tactless, but she's not. Is it the way she keeps saying, 'You'd never think I was fifty-three, would you?' Why shouldn't she delude herself? No, the reason why Nerys drives me to near insanity is because she's one of these annoying people who always know best. Whatever the subject, Nerys has the answer. 'Take it from me,' she likes to say, or 'If you want my advice...' or 'I'll tell you what I think...' And because this is quite a small, open-plan building it's all too easy for her to do just that.

We'll be discussing something to do with the show, and we'll suddenly hear her pipe up from the front desk with her opinion on the matter, her conviction matched only by her ignorance. The other day, for example, I was talking to Dylan, who's our new script editor - he's a bit of a boffin really, perfect for the quiz. We were discussing Wallis Simpson for one of the questions; we compile them ourselves - Dylan does the science, geography and sport ones, while I do politics, history and the arts - and we were talking about the Duke of Windsor's stint as Governor of the Bahamas.

'It was Bermuda, wasn't it?' we suddenly heard from reception. 'The Duke of Windsor was Governor of Bermuda wasn't he?'

'No, Nerys,' Dylan shouted back politely. 'It was the Bahamas.'

'Really?' There was a moment's stupefied - and, frankly, impertinent - silence and then we heard, 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, Nerys. We're quite sure,' Dylan replied with saintly patience.

'Because I thought it was Bermuda.'

'Honestly, Nerys,' I said. 'It really was the Bahamas because a) it just was and b) Dylan and I have checked it in two reference books and on the net to make one hundred and ten per cent certain. Because that's what we always do.'

'I see,' she replied, before adding, as if making a gracious concession, 'Oh well then - if you're sure.'

In many ways it's unreasonable of me to dislike Nerys as much as I do because the fact is I know she means well. That's the worst thing about it - she's genuinely trying to help. There's nothing in the world she likes more. I've seen her practically mug tourists in order to give them directions to Portobello, and several times I've heard her give unsolicited advice to strangers in shops. You don't want to pay fifteen pounds for that... they've got them for a tenner in Woolworths... yes, that's right - a tenner... it's not far... second left, third right, straight on for 800 yards, first right, fourth left, past Buybest, opposite the ABC Pharmacy... that's okay, it's a pleasure - no really... it was no trouble - honestly, please DON'T mention it.

And that's the other thing. Nerys thinks that everyone's indebted to her, and basks in their imagined gratitude. She deflects our exasperated put-downs like a Sherman tank deflecting ping-pong balls; they bounce off her completely unfelt. And though she drives us all mad, Tom keeps her on for the very good reason that a) having a receptionist gives out the impression that we're a bigger, better company than we actually are and b) she adores working for him. In the two years she's been here she's always turned up on time, never taken a day off and, in her own way, she does the job well. She opens up the office in the mornings. If the photocopier breaks down, she gets it repaired. She does all the clerical work and arranges our transport to and from the studio. She changes the light bulbs, and waters the plants. Tom appreciates her loyalty; he also feels responsible for her as he says she's so annoying she'd never get a job anywhere else. Needless to say, Nerys fancies herself as a bit of a quiz buff and is thrilled about Whadda Ya Know?!! 'It's a pity I can't go on it myself,' she often says. 'I think I'd do rather well.'

I went through to the office, which increasingly resembles a small library - every inch of wall space taken up with the huge number of reference books we need to compile the quiz. The dilapidated shelves groan with Halliwell's Film and Video Guide, the Penguin Dictionary of Art; all twenty-nine volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the Complete Book of the British Charts. We have the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, the Guinness Book of Records, the Science Desk Reference and Debrett's. Plus the Concise Dictionary of National Biography, the Encyclopaedia of Battles, the Compendium of British Wild Flowers and Who's Who.

Dylan was at his desk, on the phone, absently winding his bootlace tie around his index finger, while Tom hovered over the central printer, which was spewing out reams of script.

'Hi,' I said to Tom above the clattering of the laser jet. Normally Tom wears jeans, but today being a studio day - we record six weeks ahead - he was wearing his one suit - a Prince of Wales check.

He looked up. 'Hi, Laura.' His blue eyes creased into a smile, the fine lines spoking out from the corners. 'Now. I need to ask you a very serious question.'

'Go on then.'

'Who sent you the flowers?'

I smiled. 'My sister Hope and her husband - to wish me luck. Why?'

'I thought they must be from an admirer, that's all.'

'Nope.' I went to my desk. 'I don't have any.'

'Sure you do.'

'I don't, I tell you. I haven't been on a date for so long.'

'Then it's high time you did. You're young, Laura.'

'Ish.'

'You're beautiful.'

'So you've got to get out there and... seize the day.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Maybe you're right.' A new relationship - however scary the idea - would help me move forward, and, without wishing to sound heartless here, it's hardly as though Nick's in any position to object.

'Anyway, today's a big day for you.'

My stomach turned over. 'It is a big day - dead right.' Today, I thought, my life could change forever.

Tom pulled out the last sheets of script and began shuffling them into order.

'So are you feeling okay?'

I shook my head. 'I'm feeling horribly nervous to tell you the truth.'

'The critics will love you, Laura. Have confidence.' He picked up a red stapler and began clipping the pages together.

'That's not what I mean.' The stapler stopped in mid air. 'Oh.' His voice had dropped. 'Because of... Nick.'

I nodded. Tom knows what happened. Everyone here does - but then it was too big to hide.

'I feel like I'm a target, Tom, waiting to be shot at.'

Tom looked at me, then carried on stapling. 'Well, that's the risk you took. We talked about it when you agreed to front the show, remember?'

'Yes,' I murmured. 'I do. But at that time it was only going to go out on cable - we had no idea it would ever hit the network, let alone at peak time.'

'I hope you don't regret it.'

'No,' I sighed. 'Of course not - I was thrilled - I still am. But now that I'm laying myself open to media scrutiny, I can't help feeling... terrified, actually.'

'Well, don't be.' He straightened up. 'In any case, Laura, what happened to Nick wasn't your fault. Was it?'

I stared at him. Your fault...'No. No, it wasn't my fault.'

'If the show's a success,' he went on, 'then yes, the story might get picked up. So make sure your nearest and dearest are primed to keep schtum.' I made a mental note to remind my sisters to stay quiet. 'But in any case, you've done nothing wrong. You've got nothing to be ashamed of, Laura, have you?'

To be ashamed of...'No. No, I haven't. That's right.'

'Anyway, there's a friendly little piece in The Times today,' he said. 'Here...' He handed it to me. It was very complimentary about the show's 'unique format' - with its 'unexpected twist' - and about my presenting skills. I showed him the one in the Independent.

'"Riveting... "' Tom read. 'Good.' He nodded. 'Well, I think it is riveting - if I'm allowed to say that about my own baby.' I looked at him. 'Anyway, I'd better get over to the studio.' He reached for his coat. 'Ner-ys,' he yelled, 'Is my car there yet?'

I saw her peering through the slats in the blinds. 'He's just pulling up.'

'I'll see you there in about an hour, okay, Laura?' Tom said. I nodded. 'Don't be late.'

'I won't. I'll just get Dylan to run through the script.'

I put the flowers in water, then sent Hope a virtual thank you card, and by the time I'd pressed 'Send' Dylan was winding up his phone call, and waving at me. He used to be a question setter on Mastermind, and is now script editor on Whadda Ya Know?!! He decides which questions should go in each show, and in what order, then he goes through them with me before we record.

'Right then, Laura.' He picked up his clipboard. 'Your starter for ten. What is the name for an alloy of copper and tin?'

'Brass!' we heard Nerys shout from the front desk.

'Bronze,' I replied.

'Correct. What is the Roman numeral for a thousand?'

'C!' she yelled.

'It's M.'

'What is the capital of Armenia?'

'Ulan Bator!'

'Yerevan.'

'It's Yerevan,' said Dylan, rolling his eyes. I sat down at my desk.

'What is a hoggerel?' I heard him say as I fiddled with a large paperclip.

I looked up at him. 'A what?'

'A hoggerel.'

'Pass!' Nerys called out. 'Anyway, that's much too difficult if you want my opinion. Good morn-ing, Trident Tee-veee ...?'

'A hoggerel?' I repeated. 'No idea.'

'It's a yearling sheep - you can accept "young" sheep. Who discovered the source of the Nile?'

'Livingstone,' I replied absently. 'No, not Livingstone - erm ...I mean - Speke.'

'In which Scottish mountain group is Aviemore?'

'The Cairngorms.'

'What's the traditional Muslim colour for mourning?'

'White.'

'In human biology what term describes the hollow ball of cells that is an early stage in the development of the embryo?' I felt my insides shift.

'I'll have to hurry you...' I heard Dylan say. 'Don't you know it? Sure you do - a well-informed woman like you.'

'Yes. I do. It's a blastocyst.'

'Correct.' I visualised a tiny blob, smaller than a full stop, but already heaving with life, burrowing into the dark soft ness of the uterine wall.

'Are you okay Laura?'

'What? Yes... of course. Carry on.'

He flipped over the page. 'What is the Hindi name for India?'

Sindh, I wondered? No, that's a province... The Hindi name for... begins with a 'b' surely ...a 'b'...a 'b'... a 'b'...'Bharat, isn't it?'

'Correct.'

'So have we covered all areas?' I asked after we'd been through all sixty questions.

Dylan nodded. 'The whole shebang.' He took a deep breath. 'History, Politics, Science, Literature, Religion, Philosophy, Geography, the Monarchy, Classical music, Pop music, Entertainment, Architecture, Ballet, the Arts and Sport.'

'Comprehensive then.'

'And are you happy with the script?'

I quickly scanned it. 'It looks fine.'

'Your car's here, Laura!' I heard Nerys shout. I picked up my bag.

'Are you coming with me, Dylan?' He grabbed his leather jacket and helmet.

'No - I'll see you there; I'm on my bike.'

'You be careful on that motorbike now!' I heard Nerys call out as he left the building. 'You want to be careful!'

'Yes Nerys. I always am.'

As I passed her desk Nerys handed me a large envelope. 'It's the list of contestants. Sara asked me to give it to you before she went to the studio this morning.'

'Thanks. I'll look at it on the way.'

'Good luck then, Laura.' She looked at me appraisingly. 'Yes - you're a Summer. I can tell from your skin tone. Good morn-ing, Trident Tee-veee...'

The studio we use is in Acton, so from Notting Hill it doesn't take long. But today the traffic was slow because of the weather - the snow had turned to driving rain. Then we were held up for ten minutes at White City because someone had broken down, and then we hit roadworks, and the driver was ranting about Ken Livingstone, and what he'd like to do to him, and it was only then that I remembered the list. I don't meet the contestants beforehand - Sara auditions them - but on the day I'm given a brief biography of each one.And I was just about to open the envelope and read the four names and the brief descriptions of who they were, what they did, and what their hobbies were etcetera, etcetera, when my mobile rang. I rummaged in my bag.

'Laura!' It was my elder sister, Felicity. She loves to chat - unfortunately about only one thing. I braced myself. 'Guess what Olivia discovered this morning?' she began breathlessly.

'Let me see,' I replied, as I glanced out of the window. 'A cure for cancer? Life on Mars? The square root of the hypotenuse?'

There was a snort of derisive, but delighted, laughter. 'Don't be silly Laura. Not yet.'

'What has she discovered, then? Tell me.'

'Oh it's so adorable - her feet!'

'Really?' I said as we pulled up at a zebra crossing. 'Where were they?'

'On the end of her legs of course!'

'Isn't that where they're usually located?'

'Yes, but babies don't know that, do they? They suddenly discover it when they're about six months and they're fascinated. I just wanted to share it with you.' I suppressed a yawn. 'You see this morning, there she was, lying on the changing station gurgling and smiling up at me in that adorable way of hers - just looking at me and smiling - weren'tyoumylovelylicklesweetiedarling?' she added in a helium squeak. 'Then, she suddenly looked at her feet in this really quite profound way, Laura, and then she grabbed them and started playing with them. It was quite amazing actually... just playing with her toes and... are you still there, Laura?'

'Yes... yes, I am.'

'Don't you think that's incredible?' I thought of the microscopic blob, its cells dividing, and doubling.

'It's a miracle.' I glanced out of the window.

'Well, I wouldn't go quite that far. But it is an important little milestone,' I heard Felicity add proudly. 'And what's so fantastic about it is that Olivia's only five months and three days - so she did it a month early. Your niece is very advanced - aren'tyoumylovelylicklebabychops?' Her voice had suddenly risen two octaves again. 'You'revewyVEWYadvanced!'

'So the breastfeeding's obviously paying off then,' I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

'Oh, absolutely. It definitely makes them brighter.'

'I'm not sure, Fliss.

'I know,' she said in a scandalized voice. 'Just think how intelligent we would have been! Oh God, she's just puked all over me... hang on - it'sokaymylicklesweetiedarlingit-doesn'tmatter - where's that muslin? I can never find one when I need one... damn, damn, damn - oh, here it is... Laura? Laura - are you still there?'

'Yes, but I'm just on my way to the studio right now and -'

'Did I tell you I'm just starting her on solids?' she interrupted again.

'Yes, Fliss. I believe you did.'

Felicity, being the world's biggest Baby Bore, tells me everything about Olivia - her development, her mental alertness, her weight gain, her hair growth, her superior prettiness compared to other babies of her acquaintance - and about the general joys of being a mum. She doesn't do this to be smug - she's a nice, warm-hearted person - but because she can't help it because she's so over the moon. And as the three of us are close, and as Hope and I don't have kids - she's never wanted them - Fliss likes to share it all with us both. She sees it as a gift to her childless sisters, to include us in every single detail of Olivia's life. And although she means well, it does annoy me sometimes. Yes, to be honest, it can... get to me. But whenever it does, I just remind myself of what she went through to have a baby. 'I'd walk over broken glass,' she once said to me, in tears. 'I'd walk over broken glass if that's what it took.' And in a way, that's what she did, because having Olivia took her ten years and six failed cycles of fertility treatment. The fact that she was a Montessori teacher had only made her frustration worse.

She tried everything to boost her chances - yoga, reflexology, acupuncture and hypnosis; she completely overhauled her diet. She had the house feng shuied - as though shifting the furniture around could possibly have helped! She gave up alcohol, coffee and tea. She even had her amalgam fillings replaced with composite ones. She went on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Then, at thirty-eight, out of the blue, she conceived. Now, having finally managed motherhood, Felicity worships, fanatically, at the shrine of Babydom - she adores every burp, gurgle and squeal.

'So how's it going with the sweet potato?' I enquired politely.

'Oh it took a couple of goes - you should have seen her screw up her little face the first time - but she loves it now, don'tyoumygorgeouslittlepoppetypops?' she added. 'I mix it with a bit of courgette.'

There then followed an exposition about the dangers of giving babies too much carrot because they can't digest vitamin A and turn bright orange, followed by yet another lecture about the environmental horrors of disposable nappies - a subject with which Felicity's obsessed.

'They're filling up our landfill sites,' she said vehemently. 'It's so disgusting - eight million of them a day - and they never biodegrade, because of the gel. Just imagine, Laura, in 500 years' time Olivia's descendants will still be trying to deal with her Pampers! Isn't that a dreadful thought?'

'It is rather. So you're using the cloth ones then are you?'

'God you must be joking - too much hassle, not to mention the pong. No, I've started using these Eco-Bots gel-free disposables - I get them from Fresh and Wild. They're very environmentally friendly if a teensy bit expensive.'

'How much?'

'Forty-five pence each.'

'Forty-five pence? Blimey.' I did a quick mental calculation. Babies need six changes a day on average don't they, which is £2.70, multiplied by seven equals £18.90 a week, times fifty-two weeks equals... £980 give or take, multiplied by two and a half years' average time in nappies equals almost £2,500. 'Poor Hugh,' I said.

'Well, he didn't have to give up his job, did he?' she countered crossly.

'Mm, I suppose that's true.'

I like Hugh - Felicity's husband. He's a nice, rather attractive, easy-going man - but I feel a bit sorry for him. He used to work, very successfully, for Orange, which enabled them to buy their house in Moorhouse Road. But on the day Felicity ecstatically showed him the second blue line on her pregnancy test, he announced that he'd just resigned. For years he'd wanted to pursue an entirely different career. So far his pipe dream is not going well.

'How is the father of invention?' I asked as the car turned in at the gates of the studio car park. 'Anything patentable on the horizon?'

There was an exasperated sigh. 'Of course not - what do you think? Why he can't just get himself a proper job again I don't know, or at least invent something useful, like the wheel!'

'Anyway, I must go Fliss, I've just arrived - we're recording today.'

'Well, best of luck. And I'll be watching tonight - as long as Olivia's gone to sleep, that is.' And then she started telling me about how she's trying sleep training on Olivia to stop her waking at 4am and what she has to do to get her to drop off again and I was thinking, Why don't you just shut up? Why don't you just shut up about the baby? Yes, she's a very sweet baby and I love her very much, but I don't actually want to know any more about her today thank you, Fliss, because let's face it, she's your baby isn't she, she's your baby she's not my baby - when Felicity suddenly said, in that impulsive way of hers that never fails to catch my heart, 'You know, Laura, I'm so proud of you.'

'What?'

My frustration melted like the dew and I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes.

'Well, I just think you've been so wonderful. I mean, here I am going on about Olivia, boring you to bits most probably...'

'Oh... no,' I said weakly.

'But just look at what you've achieved! The way you've coped with everything - the sheer bloody awfulness of it all and of what he did. The not-so-dearly departed,' she added sardonically, because that's how she always refers, rather blackly, to Nick. 'But you've pulled yourself up again in the face of all the hideous difficulties he left behind, and - my God - look at you now! Your life's going to be fabulous and brilliant and, from today, you're going to be a famous television presenter.' At that, I felt my heart sink. 'And,' she added with an air of triumphant finality, 'you're going to meet someone else!'

'And live happily ever after,' I murmured cynically as I opened the car door. 'In a whitewashed cottage with pink roses round the door and a Cath Kidston apron and two... Labradors, no doubt.'

'Well, actually, I'm quite sure you are. If you'd only let yourself,' Felicity added with her usual benign vehemence. 'Anyway, drop by after work tomorrow and we can chat - I haven't seen you for ages - and you can have a cuddle with Olivia. She'd love that - wouldn'toomylittledarling?' she added in a soprano ripple. 'Oo'dlovetohaveanicecuddle-withyourAuntieLauramylittlebabykins?' I could hear Olivia yodelling in the background. It tore at my heart.

'Okay then. I will.'

I took a couple of deep breaths to compose myself then looked at my watch. It was twenty-five past one and the studio session started at two. I ran inside, got the lift to the fifth floor and went straight into the small make-up room. Marian, the make-up artist, looked at me appraisingly.

'Nice jacket,' she said. 'Great cut.' Ya boo sucks, Nerys, I thought. 'But I'm not too sure about that green.' Oh. 'It's a bit acidic for your skin tone. Here...' she grabbed an oyster-pink one from the wardrobe rail. 'I think this might look better.' To my surprise, it did. Oh well, Nerys is clearly right about some things, I decided generously as I buttoned it. Small things at least. Now, as Marian put up my hair, and sponged foundation on to my cheeks, adrenaline began to burn through my veins. Over the tannoy I could hear the murmurs and giggles of the studio audience as they were ushered into their seats. Then I heard Tom welcoming them to the programme and explaining that, although we record as live, there would be a few retakes to do at the end. Then he asked them not to raise their hands, or fidget or cough, although it's not really possible to cheat on this show.

'And please don't shout out the answers!' I heard him say. There were titters.

'You may laugh, but it has been known.'

Then Ray, our sound technician - popped in. 'You've got three minutes, Laura.' He clipped the tiny microphone on to my lapel, then tucked the talkback pack into the back of my jacket and handed me the earpiece. 'Give me some level would you?'

'Hello, one, two, three ...I had toast for breakfast ...and I was late getting to the studio... and I still haven't looked at the list of contestants.' I rummaged in my bag for it again, while he repositioned the mike. 'Where the hell is it?'

'Thanks Laura, you're sounding fine.'

'And would you now please give a warm welcome to our four contestants!' I heard Tom say over the loudspeaker. The audience applauded enthusiastically as the four players went up. I heard their footsteps tap across the wooden stage.
'What are they like?' I asked Marian as I stared at my reflection. She had done their make-up before she did mine. 'Will you tell me about them as I can't find my list?'

'Well there are two nerdy ones,' she replied as she dabbed concealer under my eyes. 'Complete train-spotters. Plug ugly.'

'Par for the course.'

'Then there's quite a pretty girl in her mid-twenties, and, I must say, one absolutely gorgeous man. I was quite taken with him actually,' she added with a giggle. 'He made me come over all funny. Wonderful eyes,' she confided as she pulled mascara through my lashes. 'And it was obvious that he was rather excited about meeting you.'

I looked up at her. 'Was he?'

She tucked a hank of ash-blonde hair behind one ear. 'Oh yes.'

'Why?'

'I really don't know.' She selected a lipstick from the ten or so standing on the counter in their metal cases, like bullets. 'He told me how much he was looking forward to it - so I just assumed he was already a fan.'

As Marian blended two lipsticks together on the back of her hand, I carried on rummaging in my bag for the list of contestants, but still couldn't find it. Damn.

'Look up please, Laura,' Marian said.

As she applied the lipstick with a small brush, then dabbed on some gloss, I heard Tom giving the contestants his usual advice.

'Make sure you listen to each question properly,' he said. 'And don't just blurt out the first thing which pops into your head because, on this show, if you get it wrong, you lose points so it's important to think before you speak.' Then, as Marian swiftly stroked on some blusher, then brushed powder on to my brow, I heard Tom say, 'Well, I think we're ready to start.'

'Are you finished in make-up, Laura?' I heard Sara say into my earpiece.

'Yes,' I replied as Marian sprayed my hair.

'Okay, Tom, she's on her way,' I heard Sara add. 'Cue intro.'

'So, here to quiz you today is Whadda Ya Know?!!'s presenter - Lau-ra Quick!' Marian whipped off the black gown then I half walked, half ran the few yards down the corridor into the studio and stepped up on to the stage. As I did so I was momentarily blinded by the lights hanging from the rigging. I was aware of their heat, and of the oily smell, and of Tom extending his right arm to me by way of welcome; then he turned to the audience and raised both hands above his head to prompt applause, so I looked at them and smiled. As he walked off stage, I glanced up into the gallery at the back of the auditorium. There, behind the glass, was Sara, who produces the show, and the production assistant, Gill. Next to Gill I could see Dylan with his headphones on, then the vision mixers and technical team. As the clapping began to fade, I surveyed the set - four tall, illuminated blue columns of varying heights on either side; the massive pink question mark in the middle of the floor; at the back, the show's title in huge, loopy green letters; the enormous yellow clock. The whole thing was deliberately kitsch. And standing before me, behind their electronic lecterns, were the four contestants. Without taking in their faces, I smiled.

'Welcome to today's recording,' I began, squinting slightly into the spotlights. I lifted my hand to my eyes. 'I'd like to wish you all good luck, and I look forward to chatting to you afterwards but, in the meantime, as Tom says, just relax and, above all, please try and enjoy yourselves!' As I glanced at the names on their lecterns I became aware that while three of them were looking apprehensive, one of them was quietly smiling; then I saw that he was smiling at me. Now, as the spotlights were adjusted, I could see him properly. I felt as though I'd been plunged into a frozen lake.

'Right, ready to start then, Laura?' I heard Sara whisper as I tried to cover my involuntary gasp with a throat-clearing cough - for a moment I'd thought I might faint. And it was on the tip of my tongue to say, 'Well you can't start yet, actually, Sara, because I'm struggling with the fact that my first serious boyfriend - who I haven't seen for twelve years and who broke my heart and who, if I'm being honest with myself, I never really got over - is standing just ten feet away.'

'Counting down now, Laura,' I heard her say. 'So it's in five... four... three... two... one and ...go music!' I heard the jaunty theme tune strike up, then the audience burst into applause.

Aware of a pounding in my chest, I turned to the camera. 'Welcome to Whadda Ya Know?!!,' I began with as much confidence as I could muster. Now, as the autocue scrolled down, I felt not so much cold as red hot. 'I'm Laura Quick and I'll be asking the questions tonight, but first, let me explain how the show works. In my hand, here, are the questions.' I held up the cards. 'All of them are open to any of the contestants to answer - it's a case of whoever gets to the buzzer first. But once the players have buzzed they must answer - but they have no more than five seconds in which to do so. Now, if you look at the screens on the front of their lecterns, you'll see that they each start with one pound. This will double with every correct answer they give, when we'll hear this...' There was a loud Ker-ching! like the pinging of a colossal cash register. 'If, however, they give a wrong answer, or fail to answer in the five seconds, then their money will be halved, and we'll hear this...' There was a downward glissandoing Whooooop! 'The winner will be the player who's accumulated the most money. He or she will then get the chance to double it, if they decide to Turn the Tables - and ask me a question. But this carries a risk. If I get it wrong, their total money is doubled.' Ker-ching! 'But if I answer it correctly then it will be halved.' Whooooop! 'So, without further ado, let's meet today's four contestants!'

I turned back to the players as, University Challenge-style, they introduced themselves. I glanced at Luke, mentally kicking myself again for having lost the list - at least I'd have had less of a shock.

'Relax Laura,' I heard Sara whisper into my earpiece. 'You look very tense.' I softened my monkey grimace into a professional smile. 'That's better. And don't go too fast.'

'I'm Christine Schofield,' I heard number one say. She was, as Marian had described her, blonde and attractive. 'I'm from York and I'm a teacher.'

'I'm Doug Dale,' said the next. He was one of the trainspotters - late forties, bearded, bald and monkish, with large square glasses. 'I'm from Islington and I write business reports.' Standing next to Doug made Luke look even more attractive, with his fine cheekbones, and dark wavy hair, curling over his collar. All that suggested the passage of time was a nest of fine lines beneath his eyes. 'I'm Luke North,' he said, with a self-conscious smile. 'I'm an art dealer and I live in West London.'

'Hi, I'm Jim Friend,' said the next contestant, a tall, scraggy-looking man in his mid-fifties. 'I'm a mature student, studying psychology, and I live in Bedford.' There was another, polite round of applause. I held up the cards. A hush descended.

'Right. Here we go. First question. What was the Roman name for the city of Bath?'

Doug Dale's lectern flashed gold as he pressed the buzzer first. 'Sulis.'

'Technically, Aquae Sulis - but I'll allow it.' Kerching! 'Which berries are used to flavour gin? Christine.'

'It's juniper.'

'That's correct.' Ker-ching! 'What is the capital of Liberia? Luke?'

'It's Monrovia.'

'That's right.' Ker-ching! How bizarre, I thought, that the first words Luke should have said to me in twelve years were not 'Hello, Laura,' or 'How lovely to see you again,' or even, 'I'm sorry I hurt you so badly,' but 'It's Monrovia.'

'Which Bronze age civilization was based on the island of Crete?'

'The Minoans,' said Jim correctly. Kerching! Now they all had two pounds.

I looked at the next question card. 'Which canal, spelled backwards, is the name of a Greek god?' Luke buzzed first.

'Suez.'

'Correct.' Kerching! 'Making Zeus, of course. Who, in 1700, wrote The Way of the World?'

Doug Dale buzzed first. 'Congreve.'

'Yes. William Congreve.' Kerching! 'Which French royal house gave its name to a biscuit? Christine?'

'Nice,' she said confidently. Whooooop!

'No - it's Bourbon.' Her two pounds went back down to one. 'Edgehill was the opening battle in which war? Luke?'

'The Civil War.'

'More detail please.'

He looked momentarily nonplussed and I was aware of the second hand moving noisily forward on the clock.

'Oh. The English Civil War.'

'Yes.' Kerching! 'Who was the Roman god of fire? Doug?'
'Prometheus?'

'No.' Whooooop! 'He stole it from the gods - it was Vulcan. What is the common name for a solution of sodium chloride in water? Christine?'

'It's brine.'

'That's correct.' Kerching! 'Which South American country was named after an Italian city? Doug?'

'Argentina.' Whooooop!

'No - it was Venezuela, which was named after Venice. What is the meaning of "Caprine"? Luke?' He was laughing for some reason.

'Goat-like,' he said firmly.

'That's the correct answer.' Kerching! 'As in capricious,' I added. 'From the Latin, "caper".'

And so it went on. 'Who was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic? ... No, not Amy Johnson.' Whooop! 'It was Amelia Earhart... What is a duiker? That's correct, Jim - a small antelope.' Kerching! 'What do the five Olympic rings represent ...? No takers for this one? The world's continents. Who discovered the source of the Nile? No - not Livingstone.' Whoooop! 'It was Speke. What is the Roman numeral for a thousand? M is correct, Doug.' Kerching! 'What is a hoggerel? No.' Whooop! 'It's a yearling sheep. What is the world's best-selling book? Luke? That's right. The Bible.' Kerching! 'Which planet has a pink sky? Mars is correct, Jim.' Kerching! 'Of what colour is "Leukophobia" a fear? Doug? No.' Whooooop! 'Not yellow - it's white...' And all the time I was asking the questions, aware of the scores doubling and halving, the players' fortunes yo-yoing up and down, into my mind would flash images of Luke and me lying on the college lawn beneath the huge copper beech; cycling over Clare Bridge; sitting at the same table in the library, feet gently touching; entwined, like rope, on Luke's narrow bed.

'Five minutes left,' I heard Sara whisper in my ear. 'It's going great.' As I turned over the next card, I quickly glanced at the scores again. Doug Dale was leading with £4096, which meant he'd got twelve questions right, while Luke was one question behind with £2048 and Christine and Jim were trailing in the low hundreds as they'd answered recklessly. Behind me I was aware of the audience, silent and focused.

'Which animal features on the State flag of California?'

There was a second's silence, then Doug buzzed. 'The eagle?' Whooooop! He winced with frustration.

'No, I'm sorry - it's the bear.' Now he and Luke were level-pegging.

'Three minutes to go,' I heard Sara say. I looked at the next question.

'How many cards are there in a deck of Tarot cards?'

'Seventy-eight,' said Luke.

'Correct!' Kerching! His score doubled to £4096.

'Two minutes, Laura,' I heard Sara say.

I looked at the next card. 'Which artist designed the uniform of the Pope's bodyguards, the Swiss Guard?' Luke buzzed again, but then the answer seemed to elude him. He closed his eyes for a moment as he struggled to remember, and I was aware of the second hand, clunking forward. He only had three seconds left ...Two seconds... One ...He was about to lose four thousand pounds.

'Michaelangelo,' he blurted out. 'It was Michaelangelo.'

'Correct.'

KERASHHHHH!!! The huge gong which signalled the end of the round had sounded. Luke was ahead by one point. He'd answered thirteen questions correctly, which meant that he was on £8192.

I turned to Camera One. 'Let's take a look at the scores. In fourth place is Jim with £512, in third place is Christine with £1024. Doug is in second place with £2048. But this week's clear winner - with £8192 - is Luke North!' The audience applauded loudly and he smiled. 'But it's not over yet,' I added, 'because it's now time to Turn the Tables. The question is, Luke... Do you want to?' I turned to the audience. 'How many of you think that Luke should Turn the Tables? If he does, he risks losing £4,000. On the other hand, he could win another £8,000. So would you all please now cast your votes? They pressed the voting panels attached to the back of each seat, and the result was flashed up on a big plasma screen.

'Sixty-eight of you think he should,' I said, 'with a hundred and ten believing that he should hang on to what he's got.' I turned to Luke. 'The audience clearly think that you should quit now, Luke, but what do you want to do?'

'I want to Turn the Tables.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' he said with a smile. 'I'm quite sure.'

'Okay then.' I turned to the camera. 'If I can't answer Luke's question - in the usual five seconds - then his prize money will double. If I can, then it will be halved. But I can assure you all at home, and here in the studio, that I have absolutely no way of knowing what he's going to ask me beforehand. Right then, Luke. Go ahead.'

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. I prayed he hadn't come up with some question about pop music - not my best area - or football. I braced myself.
'Right...' he began. There was a drum roll. 'What I'd like to ask you is...' He paused, then cleared his throat. 'Erm...' He ran a nervous finger under his collar. 'Okay... Here goes. My question...' he looked at me. 'My question... is ... erm...' What was his problem? 'Would you have dinner with me sometime?'

There was a stunned silence from the audience, then nervous giggling.

'What the hell's he playing at?' I heard Sara exclaim.

By now most of the audience were laughing, and so was Luke.

'Will you have dinner with me Laura?' he repeated. 'That's my question.' But I didn't get the chance to answer it, because at that moment Tom shouted 'Cut!'

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