By ten-thirty she’d hung up the work clothes that now felt less familiar than the jeans and T-shirt she wore to change beds at Roundhouse Row. A good book kept her mind from whirring on the subjects of business and relationships, past, present and possible until, finally, she fell asleep.

Wednesday brought another trip to IsVid to regroup over the tricky task of balancing what Clancy’s share of the business was worth with what IsVid could realistically afford. Tensions mounted. Monty got angry – though with whom wasn’t clear – and Will was upset and monosyllabic. Asila and Tracey emerged as the negotiators most likely to steer them all to a solution everybody could live with, especially when Monty lost his head sufficiently to explode at Clancy that she was ruining everything.

In return, Clancy lost touch with her professionalism for long enough to flash back: ‘What a fucking injustice! Will destroys our relationship in a particularly painful way, you guys respond by asking me to leave, and I’m supposed to give you my share of the business I slaved over?’

Monty sat back, face tight. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve all shared our views with Will about his behaviour and the situation it’s landed us in.’

‘But not asked him to leave?’ Clancy snapped. ‘Because I committed the sin of letting my emotions show?’ A red-faced Will sent Clancy a hurt look but she didn’t care. Anger sloshed inside her like acid. ‘If you can’t find the necessary dosh, would you like me to return to work at IsVid? Is that it? Who, here, can honestly say that’s a tenable solution?’ She glared around the table.

Silence.

Tracey, looking pale and unhappy, touched Clancy’s shoulder. ‘We’re all under stress but we can do this. Can’t we?’ She raised her eyebrows reprovingly at Monty, who mumbled, ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ as if it hadn’t been him who’d ignited the flash of fury.

In the afternoon, the company accountants arrived and, eventually, in an atmosphere of exhaustion, a figure was reached that Clancy would accept for her shares in IsVid.

Hands were shaken.

Though formalities were yet to come, Clancy had no reason to stay on the IsVid premises. Dazed, she stepped outside onto the busy pavement. London was sweltering, the buildings seeming to huddle together to trap hot, polluted air around them. She looked wistfully at young women chattering by, bare brown arms swinging as they hurried towards whatever the evening held in store.

It had been a stressful day and the thought of making her way from Islington into central London in a crowded and overheated tube train made her feel oppressed. She was relieved to ring Rory’s phone and discover the teenagers were at Will’s place. Well, hers and Will’s place really. But not really.

She gave them directions to meet her at a brasserie in Chalk Farm Road, uncaring that it had once been a favourite place for her and Will. She was halfway down a big glass of white wine, shoes kicked off beneath the table by the time the lads arrived. She hurriedly pressed send on the email she’d been composing to Aaron. Don’t want your family to worry, so emailing to say I’m still in touch with Harry and Rory.