‘Then why is she asking for it? Your wife is represented by Pennington and Blythe, Mr Rivelli. They are an excellent firm. They brief me on occasion. They would not advise a client to ask for a sum that she had no hope of getting. That would be a waste of time, and counterproductive.’

Rivelli waved his hands in front of his face and made a choking noise at the back of his throat. ‘Aaach! Do not complicate matters. She is angry, I have hurt her, she wants to hurt me back.’

‘We do not hurt people by asking for sums that we can’t get, Mr Rivelli. Divorce is a game, and like all games, it has rules.’

He started to look angry. ‘There are no rules! This is war! She wants to . . .’ He joined his fists, made a breaking gesture. ‘You are here to fight for me. That is what I pay you for.’

‘No, that’s not quite the case.’ Christine always remained impassive during these tirades. She was used to them. ‘If I stand up in court and say that my client is unable to meet his wife’s demands, I have to be sure that I am telling the truth. That is what one’s reputation is built on.’

‘Are you suggesting . . . ?’

‘Does your wife know something about your financial position that your solicitor does not?’

‘My wife knows nothing about my financial position!’ He stood up, the better to gesticulate. ‘She lives in a dream world! She has never understood business!’

‘Sit down, Mr Rivelli.’ No ‘please’; Rivelli looked shocked, but did as he was told. ‘If your wife believes you can pay this money . . .’

‘Which I can not!’

‘Then I would imagine she has a good reason for doing so.’

‘I told you. There is no hidden money. She wishes there was. She believes there is. But there is not.’

Denial Number Three. Perhaps, after all, he was telling the truth.

‘And are you willing to state under oath that the schedule of assets you have given Mr Ferguson is true and accurate?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Because if it is not, you are going to lose a great deal more than ten million, Mr Rivelli. You may find yourself under investigation . . .’

‘This is bullshit.’

Christine put down her pen, took off her glasses and crossed her arms. The silent treatment. It had worked on her children – even Isabelle, at her most ghastly, and it worked on clients.

Rivelli blushed. ‘Forgive me.’ He poured himself a glass of water. ‘This is very upsetting for me, as if I am under suspicion.’

‘Get used to it. A performance like that in court will go very badly for you.’