‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t recall your name.’ Millicent opened the proceedings, and reached down to the coffee table that separated her from her unexpected guest, groping for the table lighter and an ornately engraved solid silver box. ‘Cigarette?’ she offered, opening the trinket, which would have paid Phyllis’s bills for a number of years.

Phyllis coolly accepted one and allowed it to be lit. In the past, she’d once used the end of a lighted cigarette to inflict a burn on someone, giving her the chance to run for it, and thus getting her out of a potentially tricky jam. She didn’t expect to have to resort to anything so uncouth this time, but having the cigarette gave her something to do with her hands. For in spite of being confident of having the upper hand, she was not totally without nerves.

‘You can call me Irene,’ Phyllis said. It was, in fact, her second name, but she’d never liked it and only used it on occasions when she preferred to remain elusive.

‘And what can I do for you, Irene?’ Millie asked, perching carefully in the armchair facing her. Like her daughter before her, she sensed a threat here, and like her daughter, she wanted to know more.

Although she’d had what most people would have called an easy life, Millie had always known how to fight her corner to get what she wanted. True, this had usually involved using her looks to manipulate the men in her life. But she’d also been to a posh public girls’ school where she’d learned tricks from her fellow pupils that would make sewer rats hesitate – along with proper deportment and French, of course.

And if there was one thing life’s experiences had taught her, it was this. Knowledge was power. And knowing your enemy could be especially useful.

Phyllis, watching the other woman closely, saw the moment the cat-green eyes hardened and realised, with a droop of her spirits, that she might not have things her own way as much – or as easily – as she’d previously hoped. Oh well, she thought, with a wry twist of her lips. Very few things in life that are worthwhile come easy.

‘It’s about Terry,’ Phyllis began mildly.

Millicent slowly nodded. ‘Of course it is,’ she agreed just as mildly.

‘He was mine,’ Phyllis said conversationally, drawing casually on her cigarette and idly watching the smoke ascend to the ceiling as she blew it out.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Millie asked, genuinely startled.

‘Mine,’ Phyllis reiterated mildly, still regarding the glowing end of her cigarette with calm contemplation. ‘You should have kept your hands off him,’ she added.

‘I think you’re confused,’ Millie said, her voice just as calm as that of the woman seated opposite her. ‘I never had my hands “on” him, I assure you.’