‘I have his number already.’ Camilla produced the scrawled note from her pocket. ‘Tom Bartlett gave it to me.’

‘Your agent? When?’

‘I went to see him this morning. To tell him I couldn’t go to New York. He said Mr Carradine was the man for me.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve been trailing around London after such a traumatic experience and that impossible, overnight plane journey.’ Marina sounded peeved. ‘Tom Bartlett may be important in your work, but I’m sure you could have made your explanations on the telephone. Really, darling, your sense of priorities is simply not—’

‘Don’t, Mother. I can’t cope with a lecture just now. I need some rest. But if you know this doctor maybe you could arrange the appointment for me. I’m too tired to explain the whole thing on the phone to some faceless, snotty receptionist. Where’s Daddy, by the way? I rang, but there was no reply.’

‘He’s in Holland, talking to Prince Bernhard about lions or tigers, or something wild. It’s an important meeting. He’ll be back tomorrow or Saturday. I didn’t tell him about the robbery when he telephoned this morning, because there didn’t seem to be any point in his rushing back early. For the moment, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.’ Marina’s expression was sad. ‘Let’s turn down your bed so you can sleep for a while, and I’ll make the appointment with Edward.’

‘Was that where you’d been in Harley Street, just before I left for Nairobi?’ Camilla asked. ‘You’re not going to have a facelift, are you? It’s not necessary, and you’re too young to even think about such a thing.’

‘How sweet. No, I wasn’t contemplating a facelift. Actually, I hadn’t been feeling very well, so I went for a few tests.’

‘What sort of tests?’

‘I just wanted to see if I was anaemic, because I’d been rather tired. It’s all under control now. And the cottage is an ideal place to rest. I adore all that fresh air and quiet.’

‘That’s new for you.’

‘Perhaps I’m becoming mellow,’ Marina seemed pleased with this idea. ‘Or lazy even, in my old age.’

‘I’d hardly describe forty-three as old age.’

‘I suppose not. Once upon a time I thought forty was unimaginably ancient. Now I’ll be delighted if I’m still around at fifty. Let’s look at your forehead.’

In the bathroom Camilla peeled off the dressing to expose the ugly mark. The black stitches ran the whole way across her forehead at a slight angle, dipping down into a small hook on the right-hand side, above her eyebrow. Marina’s horrified expression was reflected in the mirror, and suddenly Camilla was convinced that she would never work as a model again. She saw her future evaporate, leaving her washed-up and unwanted without the beauty she had always taken for granted. Her mouth twisted and tears blurred her vision.

‘Let’s put this neatly back in place,’ Marina said, and Camilla allowed herself to be led back to the bedroom where her mother applied a new dressing.