"Richie's asked if I want to meet his daughter."

She'd thrown the information out was to stop Gareth wittering on about some new website he'd heard about—Facebook. It was, he promised Lillian, The Next Big Thing and something their company needed to adopt early. Lillian couldn't work it out at all and marketing talk bored her.

Richie's request worked its distraction magic. Gareth's eyes rounded when she told him. He swung his chair around, so he faced her.

"Well, this is big news. Lorraine says you know it's very serious when someone wants you to meet their kids."

How Lorraine got to be an all-round relationship expert when she'd not had kids and been with Gareth since she was fifteen, Lillian was yet to fathom. Still, the request had struck her as serious. She prickled with nerves and excitement, unsure which one dominated.

Richie had suggested she meet Ash at his house though Lillian would have preferred a neutral venue. Still, at least they'd be relaxed.

"I should buy her a present," Lillian said. "Curry favour and all that."

"What about some Glitz clothes? I mean, that's cool isn't it?" Gareth said, rolling his seat back so he could stand up. He made to move towards the backroom and their stock.

"No," Lillian shook her head. "She's only six, Ash. We don't do children's clothes."

"That young? I assumed she'd be older," Gareth said, sitting down again. "Can we start a kid's line, by the way? Lorraine says all the west end yummy mummies like to dress their children in designer clothes. It's a mini-me thing. Might be a fortune out there."

There were no limits to Lorraine's knowledge, Lillian had discovered over the years. From relationship expertise to predicting the market, Lorraine had an answer to everything. Lillian congratulated herself every time she managed not to make a sarcastic remark when Gareth repeated her opinions.

She wriggled a hand in a gesture that might mean yes or no to a future Glitz Kids and switched on her computer. This was what the internet was made for—researching presents to buy six-year-olds. Not Barbies, she decided. Weren't they too problematic, what with their shape and their occupations, their dog/baby accessories and everything else that made them out of bounds for the 2006 little girl?

But a book might work, or a nice non-pink outfit. Perhaps even a set of pyjamas. Enter the lion's den armed with gifts. Websites chucked all options at her, none of which jumped out as the best present to buy the daughter of your lover.

She phoned John. His younger sister Adriana had kids, which must make him a sounding board for what to buy a child to win her heart. And he would make encouraging noises too. He'd told her how much he liked Richie. She wanted more of that talk; words that would stop the weird fear that kept surfacing every time Richie did something.

He tells me how he feels. I twitch.

He says he sees a future with me. I panic.

He seems to be in earnest; am I ready?

It wasn't just a fluttery nervousness either. The panic woke her up at night, wondering at three am what would happen when he moved in, or when she took him to meet her parents in Surrey, and other such horrors. Then, her mind would race with worry. Why was horror the emotion she felt? How silly. Richie was what she wanted—a solid, reputable man, dynamite in bed and into her so much he came along to events, he asked about her business and impressed her friends.

What's wrong, Lillian?

She practised deep breathing, the meditation techniques she'd learned in yoga a long time ago. In one two three, out one, two, three, four, five. You used it when you wanted to shut down the noise in your head, the incessant chatter and the flit of thoughts back and forth.

John agreed to meet her. He could do so now if she wanted. He was finished in court for the day and couldn't face any more effing paperwork. "There's a catch, though," he added. "Have you been to that new burger place in Merchant City? You're to buy me dinner there. And it's to be our little secret. Do not tell Kippy."

A routine health check two weeks ago had revealed high cholesterol levels. Kippy, alarmed at the news, had insisted John follow a vegetarian diet to bring them down. The burger place, its speciality two patties topped with streaky bacon and blue cheese, was now off limits.

"Gareth, I'm off," she announced, powering down her computer. "I'm going to find a present for Richie's daughter. Write me a note about that Face-whatever thing and see what you can find out about kids' clothing. Are you okay to shut up shop?"

And not spend the rest of the afternoon on the phone to Lorraine—the subtext, but perhaps you didn't get to issue orders like that when you abandoned work early yourself. Sailing out the door, she didn't hear him call after her, "Lillian, are you sure Ash is six? Didn't you say Richie and his wife split up eleven years ago?"

She headed up the hill towards Blythswood Square where John's offices were located, a three-minute walk away. He was there already, jacket slung over his shoulder in tribute to the warm weather. He grinned at her and then grumbled, "I don't know what you buy little girls."

"Yes, you do," Lillian told him. "Better than me. And remember, at the end of this a fat, juicy burger awaits. Let it spur you on."

She threaded her arm through his. "This is a first for me," she said. "An invitation to meet a man's kid. That must mean he's serious, don't you think?"

They set off down the hill, heading for St Vincent Street and then Buchanan Street, Glasgow's main shopping centre. It was a rare sunny afternoon, the weather warm enough for people not to need coats. Or umbrellas, rain the default weather status for the city.

"Very," John hugged her arm tighter. "Adriana waited a year until she let Mark meet hers." Adriana had divorced her first husband ten years ago. Her second was a quiet man who spoke so little you jumped in fright when he did—the perfect backdrop for Adriana's histrionics and drama.

First criteria covered, Lillian supposed. This was why she'd asked John to accompany her, so he could pour words of reassurance in her ear.

Buchanan Galleries teemed with people, all eager to spend their money post pay-day. "Build-A-Bear?" John asked, tipping his head upwards to where the shop was located. "You make it yourself, I think. Customise it. My nieces loved them when they were that age—six isn't it? That's how old Richie's daughter is? He must have split with his wife when she was really young, the little girl."

Lillian nodded, though the words didn't sound right. When had John split with his wife, that conversation they'd had in Girona when he told her what happened, had he said the year it was then? And hadn't she asked about Ash—what's your daughter like?

"Spoiled," he said, the words fond. "Demanding and prone to tantrums. The apple o' my eye, obviously."

Inside Build-A-Bear, its floor teeming with small people at knee height who kept crashing into her, she changed her mind. The idea seemed to be that the child designed the soft toy. She might put it in clothes Ashley thought were hideous. Outside, John suggested they try John Lewis, the department store at the back of the mall. It had a decent-sized toys department and helpful shop assistants.

"This is one of our best-sellers for little girls in that age group," the assistant, dressed in the store's regulation black, directed them towards the Barbie dolls. Fashion Barbie topped the list, followed by the Barbie stables and plastic horse.

Lillian's heart sank. She didn't want to buy a Barbie. It might make Ashley happy, but what sort of messages to little girls did that send out? The question, is there a business owner Barbie, met with a puzzled stare.

"Don't buy the fashion one, then," John said. "Though it's ironic, considering what you do." He pointed at another set of dolls, one of which was dressed as a doctor. "That one?"

The assistant tried to talk her into some of the accompanying accessories, but Lillian decided instead to buy the High School Musical dance mat. That seemed a neutral present. And little girls loved dancing, didn't they? She agreed to the gift-wrapping service, even though it added an extra three pounds to the cost.

Outside, she steered John to the burger place. "Do you think Kippy will be able to smell it on me?" he asked as they headed down Buchanan Street and turned left onto Queen Street. "He's a bit nanny-like at the moment."

No, Lillian said, and wondered if responsibility for another person's health was what she too would worry about in years to come. Nice to think she might. She promised herself she'd nick enough of John's chips to take points off the overall bad health score of the burger.

Flip Fantastic had done its best to avoid diner associations, the décor more reminiscent of a gentleman's club with its wood interiors, velvet seats and subdued lighting. Chips were an add-on too, rather than being included automatically. A waiter materialised and ran through the menu—this burger, that burger, locally sourced, organic meat, etc.

John ordered the works and made Lillian promise again not to tell Kippy. Food ordered, he said, "How was your weekend with him, the one in Barcelona by the way? I forgot to ask."

"It was lovely," she said, deciding against telling him about the 'love rat' revelation. John might tut at that. In years to come, though, when they were an established couple, Lillian could joke about it.

"I found out he'd been a serial cheater!" she'd say, laughter bubbling in her voice. "I thought, 'oh dear no, Lillian! Bad news!' But look how it turned out!"

John listened to her talk instead of where they'd stayed and what they'd eaten, though she lost his attention when the food arrived—a spilling over the side helping of caramelised meat, onions, oozing cheese, crispy bacon, token salad, and a side order of twice-cooked fries.

"And you're meeting Ash at the weekend, then?" he asked just before taking a jaw-defying bite of burger.

"Mmm. First time I'll have been to his house too. I assume I take a toothbrush, though I shouldn't, should I? That's presumptuous. And not if his daughter's there. She won't want a strange woman in her dad's bed."

John shrugged. "Either that or you make sure you're up early the next morning before she sees you."

His phone went, and he mouthed "sorry" at Lillian. The tinny conversation she overheard told her it was Kippy. For a lawyer, John was a rotten liar. He told Kippy he was in a salad bar in the west end.

"Kippy sends his love," he said when he'd hung up. "And that little girls are far trickier than boys. Based on his experience of Katrina's kids."

They both shuddered. Kippy's cousin, known to them both, had four daughters aged from three to fifteen, wicked minxes all. Kippy had never forgiven the oldest (or Katrina) for wrecking one his works in progress the time Katrina visited with her then two children and let them loose in his studio. Her youngest child, Mhari, was notorious for kicking the shins of any new adults she met.

"She can't possibly be as bad as them," John said, slapping away Lillian's hand as she reached for yet another of his chips. "It'll be fine. She'll love you. How often does he get access?"

Again. Something else Lillian didn't know. Shouldn't she have more information before she met this child? Maybe, though, Richie had told her this information, and it had drifted over her head. It was too late to ask now the things she ought to know, or back out.

This will be fine, Lillian, she told herself. The next stage in our relationship. It's all good.