‘It’s amazing,’ Vicky whispers to Janelle on the phone, tucked away in the Amberley Jacks living room.

‘What do you mean? What’s Amber like?’ Janelle says, rifling through the papers on her desk until she finds the photos that Vicky left for her before she went away.

‘She’s lovely, but more to the point the house is incredible! I swear to you, Janelle, I would kill to live like this. I want her life. I want this house. It’s huge and there’s a swimming pool and the beach is a couple of towns over, and even though it’s June it’s almost eighty degrees! I want to stay here forever.’

‘Well thank God, is all I can say.’ Janelle breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Because really I don’t know what we would have done if this hadn’t worked out. And what about the whole Desperate Housewife angle? Is she a Desperate Housewife?’

Vicky drops her voice even lower. ‘Well she’s completely perfect. She has those perfect, even, huge, gleaming American teeth. Her body looks as if she works out in the gym at least once a day, and I’d say she’d give Teri Hatcher a pretty good run for her money.’

‘I love it!’ squeals Janelle. ‘And what about her family?’

‘I haven’t met them yet. I only just got here, just wanted to let you know I’d arrived safely, and you asked me to give you first impressions. I’ll email you as soon as I’ve got more to tell you.’

Vicky replaces the phone and walks back to the kitchen, a kitchen, incidentally, that is pretty much the same size as Vicky’s flat, to find Amber busy putting out a plate of delicious-looking muffins.

‘I’ve made some coffee,’ Amber says, pouring out a cup. ‘And please have something to eat.’

Vicky polishes off a muffin before Amber even has a chance to sit down.

‘Are you not having anything?’ she says to Amber, sliding the plate towards her.

‘Oh no!’ Amber says in horror. ‘I don’t eat refined sugar and I’m currently restricting my carbs. My trainer worked out this new diet for me, and muffins unfortunately aren’t on my food plan.’

‘Oh.’ Vicky suddenly feels enormous.

‘But don’t feel bad,’ Amber smiles. ‘Have another one. Please.’

‘Oh no. No. I’m fine. Well I suppose at least that explains your amazing figure.’

‘I have to work pretty hard at it.’ Amber grins. ‘Hence the gym in the basement. Do you want me to give you a tour of the house? The kids are up in the playroom with Lavinia so we can go in and see them too.’

‘I’d love it,’ says Vicky, who’s been dying to see the rest of the house since she arrived, so off they go.

*

There’s a family room off the kitchen, a Great Room – the American equivalent of a living room only ten times the size – with the highest ceilings Vicky has ever seen in a private house, a formal living room – the room in which Vicky made her phone call, a dining room that could happily sit twenty people, a walk-in pantry that’s the size of Vicky’s bedroom, a guest bedroom and bathroom and his ’n’ her offices, cherry-panelled with French doors onto the wrap-around porch.

And that’s just the ground floor.

Upstairs are mile-long corridors, with bedrooms off, a master at one end with a bathroom that’s the size of the bedroom, two enormous dressing rooms, and its own sitting room.

It’s only after Vicky has seen all six bedrooms, all of them with ensuite bathrooms and walk-in closets, that she realizes there’s still no sign of the children.

‘We’ll go to the playroom last,’ Amber says. ‘Let’s do the basement first.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Vicky says, trying not to gape at the basement complete with gym, wine cellar and a media room made to look like an authentic 1920s cinema, with plush red-velvet seats and a popcorn machine in the corner.

Vicky knows that everything is supposed to be bigger and better in America, but this is ridiculous. No one she knows lives like this. No one except perhaps the Queen and the Beckhams, and they don’t really count.

Because, really, who lives in houses like this other than royalty and celebrities? Who could possibly afford to maintain a house this size, never mind have an actual cinema, albeit a small one, in their own home! A cinema! With popcorn!

‘I just have to ask you something.’ Vicky turns to Amber, who is showing her around as if it’s completely normal, as if her house is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special. ‘Are you fantastically rich? I know that’s rude. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ Amber says. ‘And no. We’re not – how did you say it? – fantastically rich. My husband is a trader, and I’d say he does fine, but there are loads of people in Fairfield County who have far more money. Why do you ask?’

‘This house,’ Vicky gasps. ‘It’s just spectacular. It’s enormous. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Amber pauses, wondering how much to tell Vicky. Oh what the hell. ‘You probably won’t believe me,’ she smiles, ‘but I grew up in a trailer.’

‘What do you mean, a trailer? You mean like a caravan?’

‘Basically, yes. I grew up in a trailer park with a single mother and nothing. Literally, nothing. My clothes were all hand-me-downs from friends and neighbours. If you’d told me that one day I would live in something like this I would have known you would need to be certified.’

Vicky gasps again. ‘But how in the hell did you go from that to this?’

‘With a lot of hard work and determination. Richard comes from a completely different background, and he works hard too, but I never ever thought I’d live like this. So much of the time I take it for granted, but when I see your face, it becomes fresh again.’

‘So is this the biggest house of everyone you know?’

‘Good gracious, no!’ Amber laughs. ‘In fact you’ll find that most of these new houses look pretty much the same. Some are just a bit bigger and some a bit smaller. We can go and see some friends, maybe tomorrow, so you can compare.’

‘I’d love to,’ Vicky says dubiously, doubting that anyone could live in a house that’s bigger.

‘Let’s go and see the kids,’ Amber says, pausing outside a doorway that leads to yet another wing of the house, where Vicky finds an entire nanny suite complete with kitchenette and living room, and of course the playroom.

‘Mommy!’ Jared looks up happily from his drum kit in the corner.

‘Jar, honey, come and say hello to Miss Townsley,’ Amber says.

Vicky gets down on one knee so she’s on the same level as Jared. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, shaking his hand solemnly. ‘As we were walking down the hallway I heard some excellent drum playing. Were you playing a tape?’

‘No!’ Jared shakes his head. ‘That was me.’

‘You?’ Vicky looks puzzled. ‘It can’t have been you. I heard some seriously good drumming. I think it was a drummer in a rock band. You must have been playing a CD.’

‘No!’ Jared says, running back to the drum kit. ‘It was me. Listen,’ and he bangs the drums and cymbals, making a hell of a racket while Vicky opens her eyes wide and applauds.

‘Wow!’ she claps. ‘It was you. You’re fantastic at that. Do you play anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Jared says confidently. ‘I play the piano too. Do you want to hear?’ And with that he takes Vicky’s hand and leads her down the hallway towards the living room while Amber follows, astonished at how quickly Jared seems to have taken to Vicky, how good she clearly is with children.

‘You said you don’t have children of your own?’ she asks Vicky as they’re going downstairs.

‘No, but nieces and a nephew whom I adore.’

‘You’re obviously used to kids. It’s very rare for Jared to take to people like that. Jar, where’s Gracie?’

Jared shrugs as he opens the living-room door. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Well where’s Lavinia?’

‘Laundry room,’ he says, as he starts banging the keys of the piano.

‘Vicky, will you excuse me just a minute?’ Amber says. ‘I’m going to find Gracie.’

As Jared bangs out his next song, the door of the living room opens and a vision in chocolate stands there. She’s about three foot tall, bobbed hair with a giant pink bow in the side, a smocked dress that looks as if it is supposed to be pink, huge brown eyes that open wide when she sees Vicky, and she is almost entirely covered, from her nose to her knees, in smeared chocolate.

Behind her comes the overweight retriever, wagging his tail furiously as he licks the little girl’s fingers, then attempts to eat her dress.

‘Oh dear,’ Vicky says, unsure of what to do. ‘Um, has your mummy seen you?’

The little girl shakes her head.

‘Grace!’ Jared climbs down off the piano stool and stands sternly in front of his sister. ‘Where did you get chocolate from? And Ginger’s not allowed chocolate. It’s very dangerous.’

‘No!’ Grace frowns then dives into the very expensive-looking sofa, leaving streaks of brown all over it.

‘Oh Christ,’ Vicky mutters. It’s one thing to deal with family, but these children are not family, and she’s really not sure what she should do. She thinks about picking Grace up to take her out of the room, but Grace doesn’t know her.

‘Come on, Grace,’ she says, holding out her hand, and Grace slides a sticky, chocolate-covered hand into hers. ‘Let’s go and find your mummy.’

Amber’s hands fly up to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she says. ‘Gracie, what have you been eating?’

‘I did eat the chocolate that is in the pantry,’ Grace announces seriously, pulling out a kitchen chair.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ Amber shrieks, as Vicky stands by, feeling helpless.

‘Do you want me to clean her up?’ Vicky says.

‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

‘Mom?’ Jared comes running into the kitchen. ‘Grace fed chocolate to Ginger.’

Amber’s face falls. ‘You did?’

Grace shakes her head. ‘No, I did not feed Ginger. Ginger and I did eat the chocolate together.’

‘Oh God,’ Amber sighs. ‘How much chocolate? Where did you get it from?’

Grace leads her into the pantry where Amber discovers that Grace and Ginger have polished off almost the entire stash of chocolate on the top shelf. The evidence is still in the pantry – a box in the middle of the floor, that Grace had used to clamber up, then climbing the shelves like a ladder.

‘Grace!’ Amber admonishes sternly. ‘I’ve told you before, you are not allowed to help yourself to food in the pantry. And why did you let Ginger have chocolate?’

‘Chocolate is very dangerous for dogs,’ Jared interjects sternly to Grace, whose lower lip starts wobbling. ‘Now Ginger’s going to die and it’s all your fault.’

‘Oh Jared, stop it!’ Amber says, as Grace begins to cry, although he has a point. ‘Right.’ She wets some paper towel and cleans Grace’s hands and face, then pulls her dress over her head.

‘Lavinia!’ she yells, and a middle-aged Jamaican woman comes into the room, nodding coolly at Vicky.

‘Lavinia, I’ve got to take Ginger to the vet. Will you stay with the kids?’

‘No, Mommy!’ Gracie now starts wailing and attempting to cling on to Amber’s legs, and Lavinia attempts to prise her free. ‘No, Mommy! No, Mommy! Stay with me!’ Grace’s voice rises to a shriek, and Amber feels her patience coming to an end, particularly because Ginger is suddenly looking rather ill.

‘Lavinia, get them out of here,’ she snaps, as Jared starts crying too.

‘I’ll stay with them,’ Vicky says. ‘Don’t worry, you just take Ginger. We’ll be fine.’

‘Oh my gosh, I’m so embarrassed,’ Amber says, as she bundles Ginger out of the door. ‘I promise you they’re not normally like this. They’re normally the perfect children. I can’t believe the impression we must be making.’

‘They’re gorgeous,’ Vicky says. ‘Off you go. Don’t worry about a thing.’

‘Mrs…’ Jared stops. ‘What’s your name again?’

‘It’s Vicky.’ Vicky smiles. ‘My friends call me Vicky, so you can call me Vicky too.’

‘Oh.’ Jared looks worried. ‘But Mom and Dad say I have to call grown-ups Mr and Mrs.’

‘Well I understand that, but I like being called Vicky.’

Jared still looks doubtful, and suddenly his face lights up. ‘I know!’ he says. ‘I’ll call you Mrs Vicky!’

‘Ah. The thing is I’m not married, so if you were going to call me anything it would be Miss Vicky, although,’ she leans forward and drops her voice to a whisper, ‘I’d still prefer it if you called me Vicky.’

‘If you’re not married does that mean you haven’t got kids?’

‘Nope, no kids.’

‘And no daddy?’

‘Nope. Just me.’

‘Do you want kids?’

‘Oh yes. I love kids.’

‘I have a daddy.’

‘Yes I know. I’m looking forward to meeting him.’

Jared studies Vicky. He likes her. He just can’t figure out who she is. ‘Are you a friend of my mommy’s?’

‘Not exactly. But hopefully we’ll become friends.’ Vicky hesitates, wondering whether to even try and explain that she may be coming to stay here for a little bit while their mother goes on holiday, but no, that’s for Amber to explain.

‘So, do you like basketball?’ Jared says hopefully.

‘Well I’ve never played but I’ve always wanted to learn. You look as if you’re really good at basketball, do you want to take me outside and teach me?’

‘Yeah! Cool!’ Jared says, as he runs out to the mud room and puts on his shoes.

By the time Amber gets home with a two-week supply of charcoal tablets for Ginger, Vicky has shot hoops with Jared, has sat at the kitchen table with Jared and Gracie while they have their dinner – chicken nuggets and French fries followed by ice cream in a cone – has played with them in the garden, climbing to the top of the swingset with them and pushing Gracie high on the swing, and has helped Lavinia bath both of them.

And the children are just as lovely as they had looked in the photograph. They are both sweet, well behaved, and thrilled to have a grown-up like Vicky be so interested in them. When Amber walks in Gracie is curled up on Vicky’s lap, sucking her thumb and clutching Lambie, ready for bed.

Gracie looks up to see Amber, then closes her eyes and continues stroking Lambie’s right leg, her comfort zone of choice.

‘Wow!’ Amber cannot believe how quickly the kids have taken to Vicky, although she can see why. Under different circumstances Vicky might have become a friend, and who knows, after this is done, maybe they will become friends. Because suddenly this seems far more of a reality than a dream. The fact of Vicky being here, the fact that Amber likes her, and more importantly that the children like her, enables Amber to breathe a sigh of relief.

Four weeks is a long time to be away from your family, particularly when the woman who will be replacing you is someone you don’t know. But even in the few hours since Vicky has been here, Amber can see that they will all be fine. That Vicky will look after the children just as well as Amber. And possibly even better, she thinks with a pang of guilt that she quickly suppresses. Now it just remains to be seen what Richard thinks.

*

Richard, poor Richard, is dreading coming home to find The Journalist there. He knows her name is Vicky Townsley, but refuses to think of her by name, demonizing her instead by referring to her only as The Journalist, aka the woman who is destroying his life.

Okay, okay, so he knows that may be a bit dramatic, but if The Journalist hadn’t written that piece in Poise! magazine, if he hadn’t bought that damned magazine for Amber that day, if Amber hadn’t written the letter, none of this would be happening.

And it’s not as if there isn’t enough stress going on in his life right now. God knows he wishes he could talk to Amber about work, but he doesn’t want her to worry about what’s going on in his life, and he figures it will all sort itself out pretty soon.

But then to add to all this stress The Journalist, that goddamned journalist, is going to be there when he gets home, which is the last thing he needs. He’s so angry with Amber. He read her letter this morning on the train, but he still doesn’t understand. If she’s unhappy then he must be the cause of that unhappiness, even though he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.

She may say it’s not a trial separation, more of an experiment, but since when do happily married wives leave their husbands and children for four weeks? Four weeks! It’s not like she’s asking to go off to a spa with the girls for the weekend – that he would understand. But she’s asking to go for four whole weeks, and to go and live the life of a single girl, which is the part he finds most worrying.

Why would she want to be single? Why does she want to live in a flat off Marylebone High Street, work on a magazine, hang out in bars and clubs in London of all places, when she has everything she could possibly want or need right here in Highfield?

It’s not as if he doesn’t understand where she’s coming from – he also finds the competitiveness of Highfield living exhausting and stressful, particularly given the state of his work at the moment, but how on earth could leaving change anything? How does going to London – London! – for four weeks make a difference? She says she needs a break from her life, but what if, and this is the thought that terrifies him most of all, what if she likes it?

And therein lies his biggest fear. What if she’s lying, if secretly she’s been planning to leave him, is treating this as a test run for a single life? Because while Richard’s life may not be perfect, the one thing he’s absolutely sure of is Amber. She remains the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the only woman he ever wanted to marry, and even though he is occasionally irritated by her lack of confidence, the lack of confidence that sends her running into Prada and spending thousands of unnecessary dollars without even thinking, the real Amber is still the greatest woman he has ever known, and he doesn’t want their marriage to change.

Change is the single most terrifying aspect of Richard’s life. It is fear of change that kept him at Godfrey Hamilton Saltz for ten years. Fear of change that has stopped him from leaving the trading floor altogether and utilizing the entrepreneurial skills he is convinced he has, buying a small, ailing company and building it into something large and profitable and wonderful.

Fear of change that has kept him in Highfield, dragged him down to the playground on Sunday mornings with the kids to talk shop with the other dads, made him put on his tuxa few times a year to accompany Amber to the social gatherings of the season, be gracious and charming to women like Suzy Bartlow and Nadine Potts, women whose evil he could sense, whose ostentation made his stomach turn.

It is fear of change that has kept him exactly where he is, even when he knows he is not sure how much longer he can go on. Fear of change that has kept him on the death train at 5.20 in the morning three days a week, on his way to an office he cannot stand, with people looking over his shoulder at every move, waiting for him to recoup the enormous losses he has caused, judging him as somehow unworthy because he was not making as much money as the others. And we wonder why he is stressed.

Richard stands up when the train pulls into Highfield and takes a deep breath as he steps off the train and goes to find his car in its usual spot in the commuter parking lot – the spot that he had to wait four years for, the spot he’s never going to give up, even if he found he was no longer working in the city…

Time to go home and meet The Journalist. He throws his briefcase in the back of the car and switches on the engine. Maybe she’ll be awful, he thinks. Maybe Amber will hate her, will refuse to leave the children with her. Maybe this won’t happen after all; and feeling slightly better with this thought, he starts the drive home.