Ursula’s story begins at dawn on the day her ex-husband is to marry his new love. Ursula lies awake, alone with her bitter thoughts, until a reporter rings seeking her reaction to the wedding. For Bill Osborne is no ordinary ex; he edits a national newspaper and hosts a popular television series, while his new bride is a cabinet minister, no less.
If the intrusive journalist wants a co-operative response, why ring at 6 a.m.? And why hasn’t Ursula changed her telephone number? Such questions remain unanswered, and indeed Sandra Howard has surprisingly little to say about living one’s life in the public gaze, other than to point out that it’s a pain. Ursula won’t spill any beans, but waits for the next call, from her lover, Julian.
Julian is an antiquarian book-dealer with a year-round tan and a mysterious past. He has topaz eyes and unusual talents — ‘his hand unerringly finding the G-spot through my trousers’. Ursula is alive to his charms — even talking on the phone ‘I feel my nipples beginning to tingle and prick’ — but she can’t bring herself to get too close.
Her tense and contradictory emotional state is well drawn. Julian is nothing but a lean, muscled cliché — ‘The Porsche, like a powerful stallion, has a reek of male energy, and Julian has, too’ — but in describing the hurt and confusion left behind at the breakdown of a marriage Howard is subtle and perceptive. Those close to Ursula point out that it’s good that her children like their new stepmother, but she’s shutting out common sense. She pampers her ego by attracting men, but she’s lost the ability to trust: ‘Resisting the need for contact has become a habit and it’s a hard one to break.
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