She began unpacking her dirty clothes, reminding herself there were only a couple of weeks left till St Moritz, Kit’s professional debut. They would be gone from here by Christmas but there was still a lot to do between now and then. They had amassed a solid bank of B-roll material – they had all the glistening panoramas, showy tricks and pithy opinions they could ever need, enough to make two films. But now they were coming to the nub, and the truth she had been trying not to face was that if she was going to get anything from Kit in his interview, she was going to have to somehow undo the damage she had done.

Because it wasn’t sleeping with him that had been her greatest crime, but admitting that she hated him. As long as he believed that, he wouldn’t trust her and she would get nothing from him. She had to find a way to dial it back and unsay those words. She had to make him believe – for just long enough – that she was prepared to hear his story.

She looked up, realizing Matty was talking to her. ‘Sorry, what?’

Matty rolled her eyes. ‘I said he’s a class act. A man, not a boy, you know?’

Kit? Clover caught her drift. ‘Oh. Julian . . . Yes.’

Johnny stuck his head around the door. ‘Who wants a drink?’

‘Yes,’ Clover almost gasped. The last thing she needed right now was to listen to Matty bang on about how rich, handsome and thoughtful Julian was. They left her mooning over the roses. Clover didn’t think Mikey Schultz was a red roses kind of guy, but they’d swapped numbers and he’d sent her some funny selfies en route to Italy.

‘I want to make the most of having this place to ourselves for a bit,’ Johnny said as they walked into the empty living space. Squashed cushions on the sofa suggested someone had been lounging around recently. A silver tray of assorted gins, vodka, vermouth and various spritzers had been left out on the table for them, along with bowls of crisps, breadsticks, olives . . . ‘Whoa!’

They stopped in their tracks, looking up in amazement at the five-metre-high Christmas tree. It had been decked with what must have been miles of multi-headed white lights and was positioned in the far corner of the room, by the picture window. It occurred to Clover that Kit would be able to see it lying in bed. Or in that bath. She looked up again at the glass wall, trying to imagine him moving around up there – reading a magazine or one of his self-help books, blind to the sheepskin sofa or the thread count of the sheets.

‘Carlotta did that all on her own?’ Johnny asked.

‘Fin must have helped, surely?’ Or the fire brigade? The local school? How had they even got it up the stairs?