The streets were busy; Clover had to step off the kerb numerous times as assertive couples strode past. Christmas was beginning to feel imminent, with children building snowmen in the playgrounds and carols playing in the shops. The competition had swelled the town’s population, of course, but the sight of occasional snowboarders in oversized layers and drab colours was strangely jarring. The town felt not just frozen, but frozen in time. It was like being in the 1950s, as sable coats were clutched tightly against the bitter wind, the jingle of bells tinkling in the background as the horse-drawn sleighs were pulled through the streets, passengers bundled under blankets and against hides for warmth. Clover half-felt she should be ‘promenading’ in an opera coat and heels, not her jeans and Uggs.

She turned a corner, into a narrow side street. Matty had mentioned it was past the church and off to the left. Clover stared blankly at the luxury goods as she passed by the windows – Rolex watches on blue velvet pillows; cashmere jumpers in rainbow-hued stacks; glossy dragées and truffles in rows beneath giant chocolate angels; wooden toys and giant snowglobes on pedestals. Everything was the best, glittering and beautiful. Clover could buy what she liked. Liam had already come in with a negative pickup offer for a worldwide distribution deal that was six times what she’d got for Pipe Dreams. The full inside story of Kit Foley’s fall from grace was hot property. She could name her price.

The dress – a flutter of cobalt blue silk – announced itself as Matty’s even just on the approach. It was so perfectly her, Clover didn’t even check the price. Whatever it cost, her friend must have that dress.

She pushed on the door and went in, pointing to it in the window. Within minutes, a new one was being tissue-wrapped for her, Clover still staring blankly out of the window, unable to feel any festive cheer. She felt numb, last night’s conversation with Mia still playing on a loop in her head.

She watched an elderly lady walking on the other side of the street. She was hunched and taking tiny steps in her sheepskin bootees; Clover couldn’t imagine how long it must take her to get anywhere.

‘That will be six hundred and ninety euros, please.’

Clover’s attention was back on the shop assistant in a flash. ‘Six . . .?’ She dipped her head, rifling in her bag for her purse and trying to hide her shock. Was this something she’d get used to? Did she want to get used to it – a life of six-hundred-euro dresses?

She handed over the card just as a sound outside made her look up. The elderly lady had tumbled, Clover just able to glimpse a couple of kids sprinting past in the opposite direction.

‘Oh god, that lady!’ she cried, just as someone began running to her aid from the near side of the street.