It had gone again in the next instant as he remembered himself, the flickering connection abruptly switched off as he turned away and demanded more wine. But it had happened and she knew they’d both felt it. For one fractional moment, he hadn’t hated her. And if he could manage one, then he could manage two. The thaw had begun, she knew it had. She’d known it when Cory, after two weeks of staring at the wall in a blacked-out room with her sitting quietly on the sofa, waiting, had finally turned over and asked her the time. And she knew it now, too. Kit might never like her, but he was learning to tolerate her. She could work with that.

A waiter gallantly held out her ski jacket for her and she shrugged it on. Its pillowy warmth was an instant comfort; in spite of the rich dinner and toasty fire, the earlier chill had set in her bones and she could still feel it flickering up and down her spine. Julian had collected them earlier in his Panamera and was dropping them back at the chalet too. She would be in bed in under ten minutes.

‘Oh! What’s all this?’ Julian asked as the door was opened onto the street.

A small crowd had gathered, some of them carrying banners. Clover, coming through, caught sight of Kit’s name on one.

‘It looks like your fan club has found you,’ Julian laughed, looking pleased and turning back to Kit as he stepped out after them. Kit looked on with a suspicious half-smile.

It had been a surprisingly positive night, what with the young fan, Julian’s news, and now—

Something, a bright, glossy streak, flew through the night and landed on them. There was a moment in which time contracted and everything held still, like a television on freeze-frame. Then Matty gasped and screamed as she saw her cream suit covered in blood. Julian looked stunned too. It had gone over his hair, his face.

What—?

He reached for Matty blindly, pulling her away from the small crowd that was beginning to encircle them. Kit. There were a dozen, maybe fifteen people, all suddenly baying at him, throwing buckets, pelting them all with . . . Clover couldn’t tell what . . . old fruit? Rotting vegetables?

She blinked, trying to understand what was happening. She felt cold liquid ooze over her skin. As if in slow motion, she put her finger to it and stared at it.

She looked again at the banners. Her German was rudimentary but she could translate them well enough. Kit Foley – blood on your hands! Kit Foley – go home!