‘I meant I didn’t think you’d plump for this.’

‘For what?’ I felt horribly raw and defensive. ‘Three beautiful children and a million-pound house in the Cotswolds?’

‘Oh, do me a favour, Rose. You were never about the money. You were about the ambition, the story and the …’ He was distracted by a beautiful mixed-race boy in jeans so low-slung the shadow of his arse was visible. ‘The kill.’

‘I’m really happy being home with my children, thank you.’ It was true – most of the time. ‘What you mean, Xavier, what you really mean is – you don’t like James.’

‘You said it, darling, not me.’

‘You might as well have done.’

‘And you married him, not me. Thank God.’

There was a long pause.

‘You know why I married him,’ I said quietly.

‘But it’s not enough, is it, Rose? It’s not enough being his nursemaid.’

‘I’m not.’ I was furious.

‘Or, dare I say it, darling—’

I held a hand up in protestation. ‘So don’t say it, Xavier.’

‘His mummy.’ He ignored me, stretching with nonchalance, looking out at the high-rises that encroached on us. Canary Wharf blinked blindly.

‘Shut up! James is a good father,’ when he feels like being, ‘and he’s very talented. He’s passionate about his work. He’s made some brilliant music.’

‘If you like that sort of thing. But does he love you?’ Xav removed something from his back teeth with great delicacy. ‘I mean, really love you? Like you deserve to be loved?’

‘Don’t mince your words will you, Xavier? Christ, it’s not Brief bloody Encounter or something. It’s real life.’

‘I’m nothing if not a mincer, darling, you know that. So why do you stay with him?’

‘Because.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I want to give my kids a chance. Because I want them to have what I had.’

‘Which was … ?’

‘A stable home,’ I said rather helplessly. ‘A normal loving home. Parents who liked each other.’

‘Rose,’ he said gently, ‘you can’t fake that type of thing.’

‘I’m not.’

But we both knew I was lying. ‘I think I’ll have another one.’ I drained my drink.

‘That bad, eh?’ He waved at the waitress. ‘I just worry that your dear husband’s the kind of arsehole who hangs out here with his baseball cap on backwards aged forty, boasting to a couple of tarts half his age that he once took an E with the Chemical Brothers and stayed up till Wednesday.’

‘So what kind of arsehole are you, Xav?’

‘The kind who can’t resist one,’ he drawled. ‘Excuse me one moment.’ He slid off in the direction of the boy.

I checked my phone again. Nothing. Funny how suddenly I was wedded to this bit of plastic. Like it was my lifeline.

Xav slid back.

‘Blimey, that was quick,’ I marvelled. ‘You didn’t just—’