‘I’m not sure, really, Maggie.’ He stared at me like I was some peculiar stranger. ‘I’m really not sure.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I could do with another drink, I know that much.’ Then he turned and, pulling his wallet out, cut himself an enormous line of cocaine on the kitchen table.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I hissed.

‘What does it look like?’

‘I thought you’d stopped all this?’ I shook my head, bewildered.

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie, don’t be such a fucking prude. It’s only a bloody line of coke. I bet you’re the only one in your office not bang on it.’

‘What?’

‘You know what. All your bloody media-whore mates.’

‘Shut up, Alex.’ I could hear the doorbell ringing now, laughter outside in the street.

‘I thought you liked a good time, Mag,’ he snapped, rolling up a ten-pound note.

‘It’s not because I’m a prude, you bastard. You know exactly why it is. My mother –’

‘Oh, change the record. I know she was doped up to the eyeballs. So what?’ Alex stared at me and then he snorted that enormous line. ‘Fancy one?’ he mocked, and sniffed massively, pushing the rolled note at me. The queen would blanch now if she could see what she was up to, I thought disjointedly.

‘No, I bloody well don’t,’ I said. The bell rang again insistently.

Alex strode past me, pushing his shirt into his trousers, as unkempt as ever, rubbing his nose. ‘Time to face the music, baby.’ He bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin, but his yellow eyes were full of menace. ‘Tidy yourself up, yeah?’

I looked down to see an enormous ladder running up my filmy hold-up. ‘Shit. Alex, wait!’ I stumbled in my silly heels as I tried to catch his arm, but he was too fast for me. He was already gone.

* * *

In the cab the driver was singing along tunelessly to Dolly Parton’s Jolene. Alex reached forward and rudely slammed the glass divide.

‘I quite like that song,’ I protested. Alex gave me a look and started opening his post. I couldn’t be bothered to argue: I simply wanted to get through Barbara’s party sober; to get to the Dorchester unflustered; to get the whole bloody night over with, in fact.

Alex tossed letter after bill onto the seat, until, with a nasty lurch, I recognised Malcolm’s scruffy scrawl on the final envelope he held. Without a word, Alex tore it open. Without a word, he read it once. His eyes narrowed. He looked out of the window. We were in the heart of the City now, heading for some swanky restaurant on the river. Still silent, Alex screwed the letter up into a ball and threw it on the floor.