Christmas had gone well enough. He’d made a large settlement on their son. He had shown his contrition at endless family lunches, endless masses. Janet had said a lot about ‘swallowing my pride’ and ‘things being different’ – and hinted that she might even drop divorce proceedings.

Victoria saw them arrive together, and was a mess.

Christine watched Janet Rivelli’s eyes – perfect blanks, until they lighted on Victoria. Then they widened slightly, flared, sparkled – like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled, thought Christine, remembering an old snatch of Browning.

‘The co-respondent?’

‘Mmmm,’ said John, who could say more with less than any man she knew. She liked that. She had got into the habit of thinking of him as a maybe, an almost, a not-quite . . . That he was accompanying her tonight, albeit in the role of Isabelle’s ‘Uncle’ John, was heartening. And he had made an effort with his dress, looking ridiculously well preserved for his years in a charcoal grey Dolce & Gabbana suit.

Isabelle and Will watched the two women avoiding each other.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Will, through a clenched grin, ‘handbags at dawn.’

‘Not again,’ sighed Isabelle. ‘Can’t they just leave us alone?’

‘Notoriety isn’t a bad thing.’

The room held its breath as the two stars came close to a collision. Even the sound system seemed muted.

But Janet passed by, her eyes fixed on some distant horizon, her face unflinching. The room exhaled, the music returned to full volume.

For all his poise, Rivelli was clearly rattled. Perhaps if they could get through this party without any more dramas – and Rivelli loathed dramas above all – the marriage might survive. He hoped so. He liked his present arrangement very well indeed – and if Victoria was disappointed, well, so be it. There were others to take her place. She could have the flat, maybe. Something to show for the last ten years. Yes, that might be an idea. He could sacrifice Victoria to keep his marriage . . . If only they could get through tonight . . .

The show was in a club just north of Oxford Street, once an elegant members-only establishment that had been decaying picturesquely for decades before being rediscovered by the Hoxton set as the ideal ironic West End venue. There were still remnants of the original mouldings on the ceiling and pillars – great swathes and flourishes and Corinthian toppings that were once gilded but were now a dusty green. The walls were deep red; somewhere underneath the varnishing of time and use there was some suggestion of damask. The floor was an original worn parquet, almost black now; high, churchlike windows disappeared into the cobwebby murk above. A catwalk thrust from the rear of the room, almost the entire length, twinkling with yards and yards of fairy lights.