Chloe turned sharply on her heel and gained the sanctuary of her room. With the door safely shut behind her, she sank on to the stool in front of her dressing table and stared into her reflection. Her mascara had smudged into dark patches beneath her eyes, red-rimmed with the threat of tears, and her skin was flat and chalky. With an exhausted gesture, Chloe swept the surface clear of bottles and jars, laid her head down on her arms, and cried for Stephen.

Never, she thought. He had never let the suave mask drop, never in all their times together, and she had never seen him look as he had looked at Pansy tonight. Yet she had wanted and needed him more than anyone else before, and she had tried so hard to give him what he wanted.

Chloe screwed her eyes tight shut but the tears still streamed out, and there was no shutting out the sight of Stephen kissing Pansy’s cheek as if he wanted to devour her. And there was no muffling of Pansy’s voice, saying over and over, ‘Stephen is different.’ Pansy would get what she wanted, there was no doubt about that.

The hopeless tears burned Chloe’s cheeks and the sobs clogged her throat. At last she lifted her smeared face and pushed the heavy, damp hair back from her cheeks. In front of her she saw the pretty, inviting lettering on the sachet of a face pack. Savagely Chloe screwed up the pack and flung it at the waste-bin. It bounced off the edge and lay on the carpet, unfurling with a tiny crackle. She stared at it, then stirred uncomfortably.

With a deep breath, Chloe met her own eyes again. The swollen, streaming face was pathetic, and the habits of years were too deeply ingrained. Forcing herself to breathe evenly, Chloe reached out for her jar of cream. Gently, methodically, she began to remove her ravaged make-up. Her eyes were blank with misery.

Pansy had followed Helen upstairs. She came into the room behind her and lay wearily down on the bed. With her hands clasped behind her head, she stared up at the ceiling.

‘Won’t you make me a cup of coffee?’ she asked pleadingly.

‘Only instant,’ Helen said discouragingly. She didn’t want Pansy here.

‘Anything will do. God, how I loathe scenes.’

Helen stirred the uninviting liquid in a mug. ‘Plastic milk?’ she asked coldly and then handed the mug over. Neither of them spoke. Pansy sat up to drink her coffee, one arm wrapped around her knees.

‘Pansy,’ Helen said at last, knowing that she must say something. ‘You said that you liked Chloe. And that you’d never had women friends before. Don’t …’

‘Don’t what?’ Pansy asked challengingly.

Helen changed her tack, groping for words. ‘You said that Oliver isn’t important. Perhaps he isn’t, to you. But Stephen is important to Chloe. What is it that you want?’