Victoria was in combative mood. And she’d need to be – Rivelli was not going to be a pushover. She may have liberated him from an unhappy marriage, but she knew in her heart that he would never have made the break unless it was forced on him, and that it would be a long time before he could forgive her for causing a scandal. Rivelli abhorred scandal, and had managed his life very well in order to avoid it – and now she, Victoria, his long-term mistress, the very person on whose discretion he relied, had turned him and his wife into figures of public amusement. She would not blame him if he never wanted to speak to her again. But Victoria would not give up at the first hurdle. Nobody said that the metamorphosis from mistress to wife would be easy. Like any major change, it involved pain. If you were going to be put off by scandal and sulking, you weren’t cut out for the job.

Four hours later, she awoke with a start, her head falling on to her chest then snapping back with a crack. The empty tumbler was on the floor, a cigarette burnt to a long white column in the ashtray. She could not remember falling asleep, and for a moment had no clue as to her whereabouts. What was it, this dingy room, the dirt, the nasty décor, the hum of traffic? There was a split second of panic, as if the last ten years had all been a dream, and this was reality . . .

Victoria pulled herself together and headed for the bathroom. A shower, and a caseload of make-up, would make her feel better.

Rivelli was not difficult to find; she had only to call the New York office to get a run-down on his diary. They wouldn’t know about his current froideur; as far as the employees were concerned, Victoria and Massimo were friends, colleagues, no more. That was the party line, and the staff would stick to it if they wanted to keep their jobs. What they said about her behind her back, Victoria neither knew nor cared. So unless Massimo had given explicit instructions to banish her to the outer darkness . . .

‘He’s seeing Saks this afternoon,’ said a girl with a Vassar accent, ‘and then he’s going to a reception at the Whitney.’

‘What time does that start?’

‘Six.’

‘Right.’ Victoria made a note. ‘RSVP for me.’

‘Yes, Miss Crabtree.’

No nonsense about ‘you haven’t been invited’. Rivelli had not declared a fatwa – yet. What a surprise he was going to get.