The lounge was massive, full of large gold-damask-covered sofas, some modern but obviously priceless occasional tables and three matching chandeliers, all lit up down the centre of the room in a dazzling line. The entire length of one wall was glass, and when you stood in front of it you could look out over a vast sweep of sloping lawn to willows dipping their branches into the dark, fast-flowing River Thames. Ducks and swans glided past. The setting sun glinted on the water.

‘It’s a hell of a view,’ said Josh.

‘It’s what sold the place to us. We’ve only been in two years. Can be a bit of a pain in the arse with the river so close, because apparently it does flood here sometimes. But we’re on a slope, as you can see, and just as well because the council do fuck-all to clear it. The rates we pay, you’d think they’d cut back the weed, do a bit of dredging of the silt and shit that builds up – something. But so far we’ve been lucky and the river hasn’t burst its banks. Philippa’s been costing me a fucking fortune, doing this place up. It’s great, don’t you think?’

‘It’s fantastic,’ said Shauna, green with envy, taking off her shades and drinking in the full splendour of it.

My God, to own a place like this. To wake every morning to that view and think, This is mine. This was what she wanted. Something exactly like this. She thought of Jeb Cleaver, showing up and trying to intimidate her. Trying to drag her back to what she used to be. Well, she wouldn’t let him. This was the way forward. This was what she deserved – and she was fucking well going to have it, or go bust trying.

‘Right!’ said Philippa, coming in from the kitchen and clapping her hands as if they were children to be assembled into straight lines and marched off down the road. ‘Dinner’s ready, let’s sit down.’

The dining area was a candlelit nook beside the big bank of windows. There was a circular table that looked like marble, and thickly padded high-backed chairs. Neither Josh nor Shauna had ever seen such luxury. The soup was already on the table, waiting for them. There were warm fresh-baked rolls in a wicker basket, and curled pats of butter. And there was a young woman in a black dress and white waist apron, standing discreetly outside the kitchen door, ready to serve them.

When Shauna took a mouthful of the soup, it was stone cold. She glanced at Josh. He was eating it, saying nothing.

‘What?’ he asked her.

‘The soup’s cold,’ said Shauna.