‘Yeah,’ said Vincent. ‘We’ve worked together. On and off. For a long time.’ Suki was checking the glance between them.

‘Oh. My. God. This is your falling man? Our Vincent?’

Petra blushed. Vincent’s eyes dilated. She could swear on it.

‘The way you described him, I could have sworn you’d fallen in love with Adonis.’ Petra crushed Suki’s fingers. ‘Not this battered old model.’ She paused, staring at each of them in turn. ‘But, fuck, it makes sense now, doesn’t it? This calls for champagne, I think. Coincidences always indicate the opening of a new pathway.’

‘I won’t have anything, thanks,’ Petra said.

‘God, darling, how insensitive of me. That’s thoroughly inappropriate, given your state of mourning.’

‘Christ, Suki,’ Vincent said. ‘Always so bloody tactful.’ He darted a look at Petra, the dress highlighting what he’d given up, and looked away.

Suki didn’t pause. ‘But it might help, you know. Coming out, letting yourself forget your troubles for a while. I see Curtis is offering Georges Perpignan – lovely choice. You can’t say no to that, surely. Leave that behind the bar,’ she said, indicating the golden gift. ‘Vinnie will look after it, won’t he?’

For some reason, it sounded like a good idea. If some unpronounceable alcohol would re-establish that padded feeling of peace she’d just enjoyed, what the hell. She shrugged and Vincent poured them two glasses. Suki grabbed the bottle and led Petra through the kitchen and out to the back garden where a marquee had been set up, warmed with space heaters. It was fresh and calm out here, barely recognisable as the neglected patch where Petra had sat on her murderous vigil just three days ago. Apart from a couple of smokers on the back step, there was nobody else out in the garden. Suki and Petra sat in a couple of the cushioned garden chairs under the marquee and Suki topped up her glass and proffered the bottle towards Petra.

Petra shook her head. ‘How do you know Vincent?’ Petra didn’t believe in coincidence anymore. This last month, she’d been yanked around like a marionette. A gullible, naive fool playing a part in somebody else’s game. She would have just walked away from it all – the game had nothing to do with her – only it had sucked her mother in, and now she had nowhere else to go.

‘I’ve known him for several years. He’s a collaborator in Line Logistics. He’s a documentarian. All the images on the website, that’s him. And lately he’s been doing overnight research – ever since poor Beccie, he hasn’t been able to sleep at night. But it blows my mind that he’s your man. I mean, there’s no reason you shouldn’t like him – he’s lovely. But what are the chances?’