From what Rob had told me, Alice was rich and married and had two children. I had brought up an aerial view of her house on Maps; it seemed large, not quite large enough to have what you would call grounds, but there was a wide drive, and a substantial lawn bordered on all three sides by fields. It was not on a par with the manor, but even without seeing it up close, I could tell it was worth a couple of mil.

The last time I’d seen Alice I was tempting her to run me over in a car park. What did I want to say to her now? Was this dress going to say it? Or did I need a cashmere knit, designer jeans, and a handbag that cost a couple of grand?

I see your house and husband and family and raise you—with what?

I switched this way and that, wondering how many times in my life I had stood like this, presenting myself to the mirror. Legs. Arse. Stomach. Tits. Those worrying upper arms. There was something archetypal about it. All those women, all across the world—women in Paris and Moscow, Lagos and Sydney—women throughout time—at the court of Louis XIV, in Weimar Berlin, in sixties San Francisco—and all of them, having that moment, the moment of self-appraisal before their reflection. If the clothes parsed the right code, if they accentuated what you had, if they disguised what you lacked: beauty, money, class, confidence, youth.

I wondered how many women had felt as I was now feeling, and then I wondered if Alice had ever felt like this, and then if Alice had loved David and how badly she had been hurt by what we’d done, whether it had stopped her sleeping and made her heartsick; if I had broken something she valued and made her feel small and not said sorry.

After I made my purchases, I went down to the brightly lit displays and cosmetic stands on the ground floor. Handbags were set on pedestals like statuary. One was encrusted with diamonds and had its own security guard.

The message on my phone was from Mr. Hutchinson. His contact at the phone company was on leave, but he should have something for me the following day. In the meantime, he would look into Peter’s credit rating, try and turn up more about his employment record, and make a few calls.

The light filtering in from outside was weak; I lingered in front of a makeup stand, painting my lips and making fish faces in the mirror. The makeup girl sidled over.

“Just looking,” I said, before she could get anything out.