Becky remembers pushing Maisie in her pram, past a group of schoolkids two years below her. Hearing the word ‘slut’ mock-whispered and then their laughter. Knowing that she wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t protest it. She had tried to walk taller. She had forced herself not to speed up. Don’t let them see that they’ve hurt you. Don’t give them anything. Not so much as a flinch. And with her back to them, while her pace went unchanged, unhurried, her face was free to twist into an agony of shame and anger and sadness. Antonia knows all this, thinks Becky. She knows which parts of her Becky can see and she has decided which other parts she’ll show her. The rest can only be guessed at.

How are Antonia and Matthew, truly, walking in their kitchen at dawn? Stepping around that rug?

She watches Antonia try to open a packet of Fox’s chocolate biscuits wrapped in matt-navy foil. Her fingers are long and thin and she is wearing one particularly striking ring, an almond-shaped sapphire circled with tiny diamonds. To Becky, it looks like the Death Star surrounded by angels. Becky wonders how Antonia would seem, clad in Medea’s robes. How would she wear her face, if allowed to be all rage, all revenge, all agony?

‘Here, let me,’ Becky says, taking the packet from Antonia. ‘These are Maisie’s favourites. There’s a bit of a knack to it.’

‘I’ll look and learn.’

Maybe it’s this small kindness that prompts Antonia to unlock another layer of her private hell to Becky.

‘Bart is having a horrible time, having to side-step the press every time he leaves the house. He’s very sensible, he’s a good boy, he’s got used to saying, No comment. I think it’s just awful how these people feel that they can do that to somebody. I feel sorry for them. They can’t have much else in their lives.’

Becky knows that Antonia won’t ever say anything to her about Matthew and Amber’s historic or recent indiscretions. Perhaps she has tried to wipe it from her mind entirely, knowing that their marriage, the business, the family, everything that they have built together, must now be protected. Fought for. And if there are casualties, well, so be it.

‘Have you ever met this girl?’ asks Antonia.

‘Who?’

‘Amber Heath.’