He pulled into a roadside parking space besides Heathrow Airport and turned in his seat to focus his full attention on her. A gaggle of grey plane spotters wearing anoraks clustered nearby. Binoculars at the ready and radio equipment tuned to pilot's transmissions as they passed low overhead.

His blue eyes raked her newly repaired face. Briefly he marvelled at how good she looked under the circumstances.

"I think you and I may have a common cause and you may have a lot to offer my organisation. Perhaps since the world seems to think we work together then we should. If you are ambitious and want the opportunity to be a winner, Sarah, - you could do a lot worse?"

He said it quietly yet the words hung like a powerful charge in the air between them. Tired and aching as she was, thoughts of David and her children flashed before her. How close they were to financial melt down. The measures she already planned to take to avoid their final disaster. Her need for revenge. The importance of keeping these events from David. More than anything else now she needed a friend and a powerful one could be just what the doctor ordered.

And also she could not deny that the idea both frightened and excited her. It would be wonderful to achieve something that was better than just getting by. The thought of success was seductive. Success reflected in the bright paint work of this expensive small sports car with its' luxurious ambience of leather and expensive elegance. Sleek designer-wear, chic jewellery and spending to be something to look forward to not dread. Even more attractive, the thought of personal fulfilment, of recognition of potential.

Success had for so long now eluded her grasp. The achievements of school and early working life now seemed so far away. She remembered, the convent school besides the leafy parks of London's Roehampton where she had always been among the winners - academically in the top few, proud of being among the best, as were her successful shop owning parents.

She and her contemporaries had been confident the world would welcome them gladly and revel in their contribution. The 1980s and 1990s had seen those dreams turn to dust. Hard work fuelled by bright intelligence had not brought rewards. It had only extended slim opportunities to hang on to the little that was gained in the rat race from many hours of hard work.

She remembered the shame of the day she had supported her father on her arm as the magistrate threatened him with prison for not paying his business rate. Superstores backed with enormous capital had moved in. Without profits, her father had kept the shop going for years from savings and borrowing against assets.

The law still demanded its pound of flesh. The tax at approximately 40% of notional rent did not depend on making a profit. It depended on the mere existence of the business in that small part of Twickenham with its few part time staff.

Sarah had always thought that it was an iniquitous tax when applied to small enterprises. Its' only justification was to catch some of the profits of large businesses that could otherwise avoid tax by manipulating profits into offshore tax havens.

Yet it drove small business into the back rooms of houses afraid to advertise lest they should receive a visit from the Local Authority and be taxed out of existence. Large businesses loved that and the government loved large business and the non-executive directorships they offered.

The magistrate that handed down the punishment was on the board of the local superstore. He had achieved this through his political connections. He devoutly believed that if it was not hurting, it was not working. Sarah's father never voted for anyone again.