Thank you. Massively, seriously, thank you. You can't imagine how jazzed I am to get such lovely reviews. It is sustaining me as I wrestle with my next project. Now, as promised, the end of Part II:

Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds

I am not at all surprised when, five hours after it all happened, Jane calls, tearful.

"Lizzie?" she asks, "they won't let me see him."

"Charlie?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"They say I'm not family."

"Sweetheart, you're not."

She takes long and shaky breaths. After a long pause, she all but whispers, "I just want to see that he's all right."

"I know." And I do. This is Jane all over again, and why am I not surprised that she is clearly, blindingly still not over him? Well, because it's Jane. "I guess you're just going to have to let him contact you."

"But what if he…" She trails off, no doubt horrified by her own thought. "He should know how I feel."

"Yeah," I say slowly, "but maybe now isn't the time."

"What if it's the only time?"

"Janey, I don't think he's dying. It's probably just nervous exhaustion, you know? They've all been worried about him for weeks, over working himself, not resting…it's probably just the accumulation of a punishing campaign."

She sighs and sniffs. "Yeah," she says slowly. "But how did you know this? And why didn't you tell me?"

I scuff through to the kitchen and begin making myself a cup of tea. This conversation is exhausting, and just a little irritating. If she cared this much, why did she leave in the first place? Or at least, not keep in contact?"

"Janey, you work for his opposition. Whether deliberately or otherwise, you might have leaked things which you had no place in knowing. I wasn't going to betray them, accidentally or otherwise."

"But I would have?"

"Jane!" I pour the water into my mug, and take out my aggression on the tea bag, before I realise that it has, in fact, split. "Damn," I mutter, and pour the leafy water down the sink.

"I would have?" she repeats, shriller.

"No, of course not, but it was fairer to everyone if you had nothing to tell. Your loyalties were already divided enough without me sharing gossip about Charlie, all right? I did it for you."

"Really?" she asks, just a little petulantly. It is on these occasions, and these occasions only, that Mom's DNA shines through. I consider dropping the phone into the kettle.

"Yes, of course."

Blissful silence settles from the other end. It is broken, seconds later. "Are you still in contact with Will?"

"Janey, don't even go there. He, of all people, does not need to be bothered now, all right?"

"Yeah," she says slowly. The crazed-Mom moment is clearly passing. "Yeah, OK," she says again. "I guess I'll wait and find out with the rest of the world."

"Good," I say, frankly relieved. "I'll let you know if I hear anything, but for now, you could just email him?"

She is silent for a second, and then, "yeah. OK, I might."

"Good," I say again.

"Sorry Lizzie," she says. "That was…well…"

"Ugly?"

"Ugh…yeah. OK, well I'm going to go and slam my head in a door a few times."

"Yeah, don't do that. You're far too pretty."

She laughs, and sighs. "OK," she says. "Thank you for not yelling at me."

"Anytime," I say, and am relieved to hear the click of her hanging up. I finish making my cup of tea, debate with myself for fully five minutes, then pick up my cell and dial Jaime's number.

"Hey!" she says, sounding bizarrely pleased to hear me.

"Hi, Jaime, I'm sorry. This must be a terrible time to call."

She laughs slightly. "Not really," she says, with delightfully brutal honesty. "I mean, Caroline's team is going spare, but the rest of us are just waiting really."

"So no news yet?"

"No more than is about to be released."

"You wouldn't be an angel and…"

"Exhaustion due to over work and lack of sleep."

"Really? Nothing more sinister?"

"They're testing him for pretty much everything, but the initial diagnosis is exhaustion."

"And he should be all right?"

"Allegedly. They're prescribing complete rest."

"OK. That sounds all right."

"It's pretty much the best that it could have been."

"Yeah." I sigh. "Well I'm sorry you guys had to lose like that."

She laughs. "Seriously," she says. "That will be the most talked about concession, ever."

I find myself smiling, despite myself. "It was dramatic."

"Though we're all wondering what Will will do when he corners the Senator over writing a concession speech when he wasn't supposed to be doing any work at all."

"From the look of it, he wasn't reading. I think he improvised it."

Jaime lets out a long, low whistle. "Well," she says, "whoever knew that he had Jefferson's entire life memorised?"

I laugh. "I'm not surprised." I sigh. "Look, J, you're an angel, but I've got to go. Send my best to the Senator if you see him?"

"Will do. Talk to you soon Liz."

I hang up, and sag against the kitchen counter, exhausted. I can't imagine how Will's feeling right now. Probably my exhaustion but quadrupled. Several times over. I sip my tea, and think, just for a second, about Will. Then I stop. It's not healthy, after all.

Just when I'm merrily blasting my mind clean with Hannah Montana, concentrating on the endless exploits of Miley Stewart rather than everything else that is going on around me, Kit slumps onto the couch next to me, tired and slightly painty after a full day with the six year olds, and says, unceremoniously, "Lydia's going to Brighton Beach. Had you heard?"

"On her own?" I dread to think of Lydia on her own.

"No, with the Forsters."

"Jenny?"

"Yeah." She steals my coffee mug, and sips at it. "They're camping."

I snort. Really, I can't help it. "Lydia? Camping?"

Kit rolls her eyes. "Oh, can't you imagine it? Lydia, in the great out doors, with nothing but canvas and tent pegs between her and Jenny Forster's three older brothers."

OK. Now I feel ill. "Thanks for that," I say, and steal back my coffee. "Where are they camping? And who thought it was a good idea taking her to New York?"

Kit gives me a long and withering look. "New Brighton State Beach, Santa Cruz."

"Oh."

"Yeah, well it's not much better."

"No, it's not. I dread to think what she might do."

Kit looks pointedly silent.

"Is she planning something hideous?"

She shrugs. "I try to hear as little as possible nowadays."

"I hear you on that."

She grins. "Yeah, well, what can I do?"

"Nothing," I concede, "though…maybe I'll talk to Dad."

"Good luck with that," she mutters.

We settle into companionable silence, watching Hannah, until Kit, frowning in disbelief can take it no longer.

"What is this?" she explodes. "Superman for a new generation?"

"What do you…?"

"None of them can tell it's the same person? It's just different hair and fancier clothes. Everything else is the same! Are kids supposed to be this dumb?"

"Pretty much."

She sighs, and slumps against me. "It really was easier when we were six."

"Tell me about it," I say, and we fall back into companionable Disney channel watching.

There was a time when the study was my quiet, restful sanctum. A place for me to retire whilst the herd of crazy women which inhabits the rest of my house would absolutely and definitely keep out. Somehow, over the years, this hallowed respect of complete silence and seclusion has been shattered, no doubt by the purchase of one single computer, situated in said study, with which all five of my daughters became instantly obsessed. And yet today, for the first time in a long time, I was enjoying a quiet morning. Sol and Jem had the work covered. I had everything done I needed to. I was finally catching up with paper work and emails in blissful seclusion, and then, with a dangerous look of determination and concern, Lizzie walks in and drags the other chair up next to me. This will not end well. I can just feel it.

"Daddy," she begins, curling up in the chair. "Can I talk to you?"

I glance at her, and sigh. "Is there anything I could say to make you go away?"

"No."

"Then of course darlin'. What can I do for you?"

She bites her lip, and worries a thread on her shirt sleeve, before looking up. "Lydia can't go to Brighton Beach."

"Is she wanted in California?"

"Dad!" she says, annoyed already.

"I'm sorry," I concede. "Carry on."

She sighs. "It's just," she begins, "she's too young."

"To go away from home for the summer? She was going to camp aged ten."

"This is different."

"How?"

She pauses and rubs her forehead, clearly distressed. "I don't know," she admits, "but it is."

"Lizzie…" I begin, but she shakes her head.

"You're not worried about it? About as far from here as she could be? With the barest supervision? She can't be trusted not to do something truly stupid."

"Like what?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Lizzie, sweetheart, has she done anything to your detriment?"

"No," she says slowly, unsure. "Not as yet."

"Then why are you so determined?"

She curls tighter in her chair. "She's just…she's running wild and you don't seem to even be noticing, and she's such a bad judge of character. She's so desperate to get out of here, to get noticed. I'm just worried."

I rest a hand on her head. "Lizzie, how can I stop her going two thousand miles away when you'll be double that from here?"

"You just should."

"Why, because you're trustworthy, and she isn't?"

She grimaces. "Something like that?" She sighs. "I don't know, Daddy. I just know that Lydia, on her own, far away from here? That's a bad plan."

I shrug. "I can't stop her going any more than I can stop any of you from growing up."

She stands up. "She can't be trusted," she says, hollowly, "and other people can't be trusted around her." She stands in the doorway, looking incredibly disappointed, like her seven year old self again when I couldn't come to her ballet recital. "She's going to ruin this family."

"That's not fair," I say. "She may be a little wild, but she cannot do anything to yours or Jane's or any of your sister's reputations. Don't be so melodramatic darlin'."

She looks for a second like she might cry, then she sighs, pulls herself together, and says, "there's more to ruin than reputations in this family. I thought at least you would see that." And then she is gone in a whirl of disappointment and concern, and I am left to consider the various merits of my daughters, knowing that pleasing one will now surely upset the other. With five daughters, a father can never win.

END OF PART II