‘Oh. She’s okay. Someone’s with her,’ the shop assistant smiled, watching the man crouch down beside her and begin talking to her.

Distantly Clover heard the buttons being pressed on the till as she watched the man reach over and gently lift the woman to standing again. She was so tiny, she couldn’t weigh more than his leg. He was tender with her, clearly checking she had no pain.

She watched the old woman say something to him and smile. Clover watched him watch her as the old lady took a few tentative steps; he had his arms outstretched towards her like an overprotective father, lest she should fall again.

‘Ms Phillips?’

Clover turned abruptly. ‘Huh?’

‘Your PIN, please?’

‘Oh. Yes.’

She punched in the number, checking she was pressing the right buttons for ‘confirm’. By the time she looked up again a few moments later, the old lady and Kit had gone.

She turned in to the hotel, clutching enough bags to feel she probably now looked like one of their guests. After buying Matty’s dress she had bought a high-end (and high-priced) remote-control Aston Martin for Johnny, a blouse for Charlie, some silver ski cufflinks for Tom, a wooden train set for Elliot and a toy elephant for Bella.

A group of carollers was gathered by the giant Christmas tree and singing ‘Stille Nacht’ – much, it appeared, to the chagrin of the photographers still gathered on the other side of the road. Still awaiting their next opportunity with Kit, the man of the moment, the man everyone was loving to hate.

He’d be back sooner than later, she knew, setting them all off into a frenzy. It felt like a minor miracle that they weren’t shadowing him down the streets. It had been a minor miracle too that she hadn’t bumped into him. If she hadn’t ducked into the boutique . . . But fate had had other ideas, conspiring to keep them apart.

She pushed on the revolving doors and stepped into the lobby. It was bustling, with a low hum of conversation and the muted tinkle of a piano playing somewhere, but she wasn’t in the mood to people-watch. She just wanted to get to her room.

She went straight to the lifts and pressed the button. Through the windows, she looked back at the press pack, waiting like vultures. Did they ever stop to think what it must be like for someone to be doorstepped by them? Did they ever consider the vitriol that followed after their lurid headlines, the catcalls in the streets of passers-by, the trolling online . . . Was what she had done to him any better?

The lift doors opened and she turned back—

Kit was leaning against the back wall, his arms folded against his chest. He glanced up as she failed to walk in.