‘I’m going to see Tom Bartlett later this morning,’ she said. ‘He’s not our agent just for the good days. I’m sure he’ll have a dozen dolly birds only too ready to take my place on this shoot. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t carry on with the project. You weren’t chosen as a minder for me, Ricky. You got this job because they like your work. If you don’t believe that, you’ve got a problem that’s nothing to do with me. Thanks for your sympathy and concern and the cup of coffee you haven’t offered me. I’ll phone you later, when I’ve talked to Tom.’

‘Don’t do me no bloody favours,’ he said, sulky and petulant.

‘And don’t bother to call me ever again, Ricky, not for anything.’

He did not make any move to see her downstairs. Camilla retrieved her suitcase from the hall porter and lugged it out of the building. It was rush hour and it had started to rain. She stood for half an hour on the cold street before she could find a taxi, and she was close to tears of gratitude and exhaustion when the driver climbed out and helped with her bag. It was too early in the morning to appear at Tom Bartlett’s office and she needed to go home and rest for a while. In the flat she made herself coffee and sat down on the sofa where Anthony had made love to her a million years ago, and where she was now sitting alone and incomplete and adrift without him. She smoked a cigarette and developed a pounding headache. As she swallowed two aspirins she wondered if it was the tobacco or the long gash on her head that was causing her such misery. When she lay down in the bedroom and tried to sleep, her mind raced like an overheated engine. Outside in the square a car backfired, and she bolted upright in a state of panic.