"n inevitable consequence of the volume of work demanded of conference delegates is that they will suffer from a lack of sleep as conference week progresses. In order to avoid feeling like dead dogs, we recommend you bring a substantial supply of vitamins C and B Complex as well as the painkiller of your choice."

from "Advice for New Delegates,"

a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

The shingle crunched beneath Lindsay's feet as she charged headlong down the beach. At the water's edge she stopped, her chest heaving for breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She stared out at the grey Irish Sea, glad of its bleakness. Recovering herself, she squatted down to make herself a smaller target for the sharp northerly wind. She pulled a crushed packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, straightened one out, cupped a hand round her lighter, and inhaled deeply. In spite of the cancer that had taken three months from its diagnosis to kill Frances, Lindsay still couldn't bring herself to quit. Most days she felt only the nicotine and the caffeine were holding her together.

Three hellish months, trying to come to terms with the one adversary that wouldn't accept anything other than total surrender. Three months watching death inch closer and closer to the woman she loved. Three months trying to accept the unacceptable. Then that last week, when Frances was beyond words, beyond the defiance that had insisted on Lindsay's rights in the face of her intransigent family. They had done what neither life nor cancer could; they had separated Lindsay and Frances. When the news finally came, it had been from one of the workers at the hospice. At the funeral, Lindsay had stood apart, flanked by a couple of close friends, the ultimate spectre at the feast. That had been five weeks ago, and nothing was getting any easier.

She dragged the last lungful of smoke out of her cigarette and flicked the stub into the waves. Moments later, she jumped with shock as a warm wet tongue licked her ear. Lindsay straightened up, nearly toppling over in the process, and stared down at a golden retriever, tongue hanging out, shaggy coat dripping with salt water, tail wagging amiably.

A breathless voice behind her called, "Becky! Come here." Lindsay turned to see Laura bearing down on her. The dog didn't move. "Oh, Lindsay, it's you. I'm sorry, she thinks everybody was put on the planet to play with her."

"No problem. I was miles away, or I would have heard her." Lindsay reached down and fondled the dog's damp, silky ears. "She's a beauty," she added rather stiffly.

"I couldn't resist her," Laura admitted. "She belonged to a friend of mine who was transferred to Brussels. Of course she couldn't take Becky with her. She was about to advertise for a good home for her when... well, when my circumstances changed and made it possible for me to have her. But then, I suppose you know all about that," she said in tones of resignation.

"I just don't understand how you could do that to him," Lindsay said in a much cooler tone than the dog had been granted. She studied Laura, speculating how much time it took in the morning to shape that flowing crest of chestnut hair, and how much of the problem with the ozone layer could be laid at the door of her hair spray. Even walking the dog on Blackpool beach, Laura had managed to achieve an air of elegance that Lindsay would have been hard pressed to match at a formal dinner.

Laura raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Beneath them, her eyes were wary. "So, he's been discussing our private business with all and sundry," she said coldly.

Lindsay felt the colour rise in her cheeks. "You screw around with someone else behind his back and you expect him to keep his mouth shut for the sake of your reputation?"

Laura took a startled step back. "He told you that?"

"He had to talk to someone, Laura. And in spite of what you think, I'm not all and sundry. Ian's my friend, and as far as I'm concerned, what you did to him is a shit's trick. And on top of it all, to turn up with Becky in tow, when you of all people know how allergic he is to dogs. What a slap in the face! You couldn't have made it clearer that you've no intention of trying to sort things out with him."

Laura ground the heel of a brown boot into the shingle. When she spoke, her voice was harsh. Not for the first time, Lindsay wondered at the capacity betrayers have for anger against the betrayed. "There wasn't any going back from the moment he threw me out. He left me in no doubt about that. He wasn't interested in my explanations, so why the hell should I kid myself?"

Lindsay looked up at the beautiful face, clenched tight in an expression of bitterness. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and the Laura Craig cool mask was back in place.

"Well, I hope he's worth it," Lindsay said harshly. She turned away, giving the dog a final pat and strode up the beach as fast as the shingle would allow. She didn't grant Laura a single backward glance.

By the time she returned to the Winter Gardens, Lindsay's run-in with Union Jack was already history. At least half a dozen things had happened which had grabbed the attention of delegates desperate to be riveted by anything other than conference business. But although the rest of the world seemed oblivious to Lindsay's highly charged encounter with the father of her chapel, it was still vivid in her mind. It didn't need Ian's solicitous enquiries as she sat down to remind her of the wound that Union Jack had so callously opened.

"Are you okay? Bloody Union Jack. I can't believe he could be so bloody insensitive," he said, but not quietly enough to avoid arousing the interest of other members of the delegation. "Even though he didn't know about Frances, he still had no right to drag her in like that."

Lindsay rubbed a hand over her face. Any good the fresh air had done her vanished like mist in sunshine. "He was just trying to discredit me, that's all. Making sure that anyone who didn't know I'm a dyke knows now. That and telling everyone that I'm somebody else's puppet. Why should I expect him to have known about Frances?"

By now, the entire table had given up any pretence of listening to the debate. Lindsay and Ian were the centre of everyone's attention, even Paul leaning forward to hear better.

"Because he bloody should have. Because you're a member of his chapel, and for three months your partner was fighting a losing battle against cancer. He should have made it his business to see you had any support you needed."

Lindsay sighed and patted the fist Ian was banging on the table. "I got the support I needed from you and the rest of my friends. You know I didn't want a big song and dance about it. Frankly, if Union Jack had been forced to swallow his prejudices and offer me sympathy, the sight of so much hypocrisy would have made me vomit."

"Maybe so, but you shouldn't let it rest here. Union Jack treated you abominably, bringing up Frances like that, and I want to take it to the chapel committee. You deserve an apology," Ian said defiantly. He had not noticed that Laura had come up behind him while he spoke.

"And that'll really make Lindsay feel better," she said sarcastically. "For Christ's sake, Ian, let the woman bury her dead in peace."

Ian whirled round in his seat, the chair legs screeching on the floor. He faced Laura, his face flushed scarlet. By now, the surrounding delegation tables were agog. Lindsay felt a slow anger burn in her. How dare Laura use her pain as a stick to beat Ian with?

"What the hell has this got to do with you?" he demanded belligerently.

"Exactly as much as it has to do with you. Christ, Ian, you're just as bad as Union Jack. You're as willing to use Lindsay's grief for your own political ends as he is," Laura snapped.

"Stay out of this, Laura," Lindsay butted in. "This is nothing to do with you."

"You don't even know what we're talking about," Ian said in exasperation, getting to his feet.

Laura made a deliberate point of stepping back and tilting her head upwards to look at his skinny frame towering above her. "You think not? Let me tell you, Ian, if there's anyone in this hall who's caused a lot of heartache by jumping to conclusions, it sure as hell isn't me." Her voice was low and dangerous.

The pair of them held each other's gaze. Ian's ears were scarlet, Laura's mouth set in a sneer. The stalemate might have continued indefinitely had it not been for the call for a vote. The muttering and rustling as delegates quickly checked which way they were voting and raised their hands shattered the moment. Ian turned away and picked up his voting card. Laura smiled ironically at the rest of their delegation and walked off towards the platform.

"What a prize bitch!" Siobhan muttered in Lindsay's ear. "He's well shot of her."

"Almost makes you feel sorry for the new man in her life."

Lindsay didn't want to think about how much whisky she'd drunk. She knew she'd only had three and a half hours sleep after the Scots/Irish ceilidh, but lack of sleep was only a tiny component of the pounding, gut-churning hangover that had invaded her body. She felt like the ball in a rugby match somewhere toward the end of the first half: it was bad already, but she knew it was going to get worse. At least it was the final morning of the conference. She could probably lay her head on her arms and sneak a couple of hours' kip at the delegation table. Someone would happily hang on to her card and vote in her stead. The hangover would pass. Her guilt at not being in a fit state to carry out her duties as a delegate would probably hang around for longer.

As she slowly crossed the hotel dining room, she managed to grasp that she was far from the only one who looked like they used to be members of the human race. As she passed the buffet table laden with fruit juices and cereals, she gave a shudder and slunk into her seat at the table she shared with Ian, Siobhan, and a subeditor from the Evening Standard who hadn't yet managed to make it to breakfast. "Coffee?" she croaked. Siobhan passed her the pot. Lindsay's shaking hand knocked over the salt-cellar as she reached for the milk. Ian moved his pot of hot water out of Lindsay's line of fire.

"You're not fit to be let out," he commented, looking up from his copy of The Watchman. "And that poison won't help." Self-righteously, he dunked his herbal teabag in his cup, then dropped it in the ashtray.

Ignoring him, Lindsay drained her first cup of coffee and shuddered as the shock hit her system.

"Come on then, Siobhan, don't keep me in suspense. Did you crack it?"

Siobhan giggled. "Sure did. Four men in four nights." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Monday, Toby Tranter from Brighton; Tuesday, Peter Little, the Manchester branch chairman; Wednesday, Danny Stott, that radio reporter from Newcastle with the cutest bum at conference. And then last night. I'll be glad to get home. I need the rest."

"So who was the lucky guy last night?" Lindsay asked.

"Search me. I went for a meal with the Racial Equality Caucus, and I got pissed as a newt. We ended up back in my room, and when I awoke, he'd gone," she reported.

Ian tutted. "I don't know, you spent the seventies slagging us men off for treating you like sex objects, and the minute you get liberated, all you do is do exactly what you gave us a bad time for," he said in mock reproach.

"Shut up, Ian," they chorused.

Lindsay added, "You're failing to understand that, by definition, the oppressed cannot themselves be oppressors. Go back and read your Germaine Greer again."

Ian pulled a face. Then he said, "You sure you did it? I mean, if you can't even remember the guy's name, I'm not sure we can award you the Legover of the Conference award."

Siobhan giggled. The sound was like a hot wire splitting Lindsay's head in two. She'd been right about that giggle. "Oh, we did it all right. Take my word for it, Ian, I know we did it. Let me tell you, it's only his name I can't remember. I can recall everything else about him." She ticked items off on her fingers. "He was Irish, he had freckles, he had brown hair and ginger pubes..."

"Enough, enough," Lindsay groaned. "I already feel nauseous." She eyed a piece of toast, wondering if she could stand the noise crunching it would make inside her skull. Before she could decide, Ian helped himself to the last piece. Lindsay looked around for a waitress and spotted Laura standing a couple of tables away, talking to one of the delegates.

Their conversation ended, and she walked toward the exit. As she approached their table, she turned back to call something to the man she'd been talking to. She carried on walking and cannoned into their table, sending Ian's plate of toast, his cup of rosehip tea, and his pot of hot water flying.

The confused hubbub that followed made Lindsay feel like her ears were bleeding. Ian was on his feet, shouting more from shock than anger. "You stupid, clumsy, bitch," he yelled. "You could have really hurt someone. Why don't you look where you're going, for Christ's sake?"

"Oh for God's sake," Laura said in exasperated tones. "It's only a bit of water. It hasn't even splashed your trousers. Do you have to make such a fuss?" She crouched down and picked up the empty pot. "If it's such a big deal, I'll fetch you some more." She marched past a waitress who had scurried up and straight through the door into the kitchen.

The waitress brought Ian clean crockery, but before she could bring fresh supplies, Laura had returned with a rack of wholemeal toast and a fresh pot of hot water. She dumped them unceremoniously on the table, saying, "I didn't do it deliberately, you know. There was absolutely no need to make such an exhibition of yourself. Why don't you grow up, Ian? Most women prefer men to small boys, you know."

Laura marched off, head held high. Grimly, Ian stared at the table as he poured himself a cup of water and dropped his herbal teabag in.

"At least you know she didn't do it deliberately," Siobhan said.

"How d'you figure that out?" Lindsay said, right on cue.

"If she'd done it on purpose, his balls would be in the burns unit by now!" Siobhan said raucously as Ian winced.

Lindsay cautiously worked her way through a slice of toast, discovering that if she sucked it before chewing, the noise was just about bearable. Ian sipped his tea in silence, absorbed once more in his newspaper. Siobhan shovelled a cooked English breakfast down her neck, eyes swivelling constantly round the room in search of potential prey.

At five to nine, Ian glanced at his watch, folded his paper and got to his feet. "I'll see you two at the Winter Gardens in a bit," he said. "I've got to pop to the shops. I promised my sister's kids I'd bring them back a present from the seaside. Somebody told me there's a really good toy shop up the back of the town, so I'm going to take a drive up there."

"I wish he'd said a bit sooner," Siobhan grumped as Ian strode off. "I was relying on him to give us a lift. Now we're going to be late."

Lindsay and Siobhan slipped into their chairs at twenty past nine. The hall was less than half-full, which was more than could be said for the platform. A man with a hoarse voice was proposing a motion which appeared to have something to do with child care. Lindsay shoved her voting card at Siobhan, made a pillow of her forearms on the table and carefully lowered her head. She was drifting in the comfortable half-world between sleep and wakefulness when Siobhan dug her in the ribs and announced in a voice loud enough to turn heads three tables away, "That's him, Lindsay! That's the man I was with last night!"

Siobhan's urgent revelation caused enough stir to ripple forward to the platform. The young man at the podium was thrown off his stride mid-sentence as he struggled to see what was going on. He clearly couldn't believe it was the power of his oratory that had caused the commotion. It took only moments for him to realise who was at the centre of it. Even at that distance,

Lindsay could see him flush. A slow ripple of mirth began in the corner of the hall.

Overcome with confusion, he gabbled, "Support the amendment," turned tail and fled. By then, the ripple had become a wave of laughter. The noise around their table was so loud that Lindsay could scarcely make out the words of Paul Home, who arrived at the delegation table pale and sweating.

"Say again?" she said.

Paul's lips trembled as he struggled for his rapidly disintegrating self-control. "It's Ian. He's dead."