I binned the useless film, locked up and drove home in time to listen to The Archers on the waterproof radio in the shower.

It was a birthday present from Richard; I can't help feeling there was a bit of Indian giving involved, considering how often I have to tune it back to Radio 4 from Key 103. I don't know why he can't just use his own bathroom for his ablutions. I'm not being as unreasonable as that sounds; although we've been lovers for over a year now, we don't actually live together as such. When Richard first crashed into my life – or rather, my car – he was living in a nasty rented flat in Chorlton. He claimed he liked a neighbourhood where he was surrounded by students, feminists and Green Party supporters, but when I pointed out that for much the same outlay he could have a spacious two-bedroomed bungalow three minutes' drive from his favourite Chinese restaurant, he instantly saw the advantages. The fact that it's next door to my own mirror-image bungalow was merely a bonus.

Of course, he wanted to knock the walls down and turn the pair into a kind of open-plan ranch-house. So I persuaded Chris to come round and deliver herself of the professional architect's opinion that if you removed the walls Richard wanted rid of, both houses would fall down. Instead, she designed a beautiful conservatory that runs the length of both properties, linking them along the back. That way, we have the best of both worlds. It removes most of the causes of friction, with the result that we spend our time together having fun rather than rows. I preserve my personal space, while Richard can be as rowdy as he likes with his rock band friends and his visiting son. It's not that I don't like Davy, the six-year-old who seems to be the only good thing that came out of Richard's disastrous marriage. It's just that, having reached the age of twenty-seven unencumbered (or enriched, according to some) by a child, I don't want to live with someone else's.

I was almost sorry that Richard was out working, since I could have done with a bit of cheering up. I got out of the shower, towelling my auburn hair as dry as I could get it. I couldn't be bothered blow-drying it. I pulled on an old jogging suit which was when I remembered my shopping was still in the car. I was dragging the carriers out of the hatchback of my Nova when a hand on my back made my heart bump wildly in my chest. I whirled round, going straight into the 'ready to attack' Thai boxing position. In inner-city neighbourhoods like ours, you don't take chances.

'Hang about, Bruce Lee, it's only me,” Richard said, backing off, raising his palms in a placatory gesture. 'Jesus, Brannigan, hold your fire,' he added, as I moved menacingly towards him.

I bared my teeth and growled deep in my throat, just the way my coach Karen trains us to do. Richard looked momentarily terrified, then he gave that Cute Smile of his, the one that got me into this in the first place, the smile that still, I'm ashamed to admit, turns me into a slushy Mills and Boon heroine. I stopped growling and straightened up, slightly sheepishly. 'I've told you before, sneak up on me outside and you risk a full set of broken ribs,' I grouched. 'Now you're here, give me a hand with this.'

The effort of carrying two carrier bags and a case of Miller Lite was clearly too much for the poor lamb, who immediately slumped on one of my living-room sofas. 'I thought you were doing your brains in to the sound of young black Manchester tonight?' I said.

'They decided they weren't ready to expose themselves to the fearless scrutiny of the music press,' he said. 'So they've put me off till next week. By which time, I hope one of them's had a brain transplant. You know, Brannigan, sometimes I wish the guy who invented the drum machine had been strangled at birth. He'd have saved the world a lot of brain ache.' Richard shrugged his jacket off, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up.

'Haven't you got someone else to mither,' I asked politely.

'Nope. I haven't even got any deadlines to meet. So I thought I might go and pick up a Chinese, bring it back here and litter your lounge with beansprouts out of sheer badness.'

'Fine. As long as you promise you will not insinuate a single shirt into my ironing basket.'

'Promise,' he said.

An hour and a half later, I pressed my last pair of trousers. Thank God,' I sighed.

No response from the sofa. It wasn't surprising. He was on his third joint and it would have been hard to hear World War Three over the soundtrack of the Motley Crue video he was inflicting on me. What did penetrate, however, was the high-pitched electronic bleep of my phone. I grabbed the phone and the TV remote, hitting the mute button as I switched the phone to 'talk'. That got a reaction. 'Hey,' he protested, then subsided immediately as he registered that I was using the phone.

'Hello,' I said. Never give your name or number when you answer the phone, especially if you've got an ex-directory number. In these days of phones with last number re-dial buttons, you never know who you're talking to. I have a friend who discovered the name and number of her husband's mistress that way. I know I've got nothing to fear on that score, but I like to develop habits of caution. You never know when they'll come in necessary.

'Kate? It's Alexis.' She sounded the kind of pissed off she gets when she's trying to put together a story against the clock and the news editor is standing behind her chair breathing down her neck. But the time was all wrong for her deadlines.

'Oh, hi. How's tricks?' I said.

'Is this a good time?'

'Good as any. I've eaten, I'm still under the limit and I still have my clothes on,' I told her.

'We need your help, Kate. I don't like to ask, but I don't know who else would know where to begin.'

This was no pick-your-brains business call. When Alexis wants my help with a story, she doesn't apologize. She knows that kind of professional help is a two-way street. Tell me the score, I'll tell you if I can help.'

'You know that piece of land we're supposed to be buying? The one I showed you the pix of yesterday? Yeah?'

'Yeah,” I soothed. She sounded like she was about to explode.

'Well, you're not going to believe this. Chris went up there today to do some measurements. She figured that if she's going to be designing these houses, she needs to have a feel for the lie of the land so the properties can blend in with the flow of the landscape, right?'

'Right. So what's the problem?'

The problem is, she gets up there to find a couple of surveyors marking out the plots. Well, she's a bit confused, you know, because as far as we know none of the other self-builders we're working with have asked anyone to start work yet, on account of we haven't completed on it yet. So, she parks up in the Land Rover and watches them for half an hour or so. Then it dawns on her that the plots they're marking out are different altogether from the plots we've been sold. So she goes over to them and gets into conversation. You know Chris, she's not like me. I'd have been out there gripping them by the throat demanding to know what the hell they thought they were up to.' Alexis paused for breath, but not long enough for me to respond.

'But not Chris. She lets them tell her all about the land and how they're marking out the plots for the people who have bought them. Half a dozen have been bought by a local small builder, the rest by individuals, they tell her. Well, Chris is more than a little bewildered, on account of what they are telling her is completely at odds with the situation as we know it. So she tells them who she is and what she's doing there and asks them if they've got any proof of what they're saying, which of course they don't have, but they tell her the name of the solicitor who's acting for the purchasers.'