Things went well at first. They arrived on time, both of them fit and healthy – a far cry from the pasty-faced shadows of a few weeks back. Isabelle had put some weight back on; she was still too thin for Christine’s liking, but she no longer looked like a junkie. Her eyes were clear, and her hands did not shake. She’d even brought a bottle of wine, something that Christine did not remember happening before. She guessed, rightly, that this was Will’s idea.

‘Darling!’ Christine kissed her daughter on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful. Thank you so much for coming.’

‘My pleasure.’ Isabelle went ahead into the kitchen as if she expected to see half-naked twenty-year-olds sprawling on the work surfaces.

‘It’s all right, it’s just family. Oh, how lovely! Is that for me? I’ll open it right away.’

They talked about everything and nothing, Will asking questions about Christine’s working life, as a result of which Isabelle learned more about her mother than she’d ever known before.

‘A QC! Wow, that’s really something. You didn’t tell me your mother was going to be a QC, Isabelle.’

‘It’s not happened yet! The application is being processed.’

‘Yeah, but you’re sure to get it, aren’t you? I mean, with the kind of cases that you do. I’ve read about you in the papers a lot.’

‘Have you?’ asked Isabelle. ‘You never told me.’

‘Princess, you never read the newspapers. She takes about as much interest in the outside world as she does in . . . I don’t know. Golf, or something.’

‘She was always the same. Head in the clouds, playing with dolls, painting, drawing.’

‘And she’s turned it to good use. Your daughter is the hottest name in British fashion at the moment.’

‘Really? I’m so proud of you, darling.’

‘We’re in Vogue.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Of course,’ said Isabelle, sounding defensive for no reason.

‘Well that’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be a . . . whatever it is?’

‘Queen’s Counsel. Because you didn’t ask.’

‘Neither did you.’

‘Oh dear.’ Christine topped up glasses, gladder than ever of Will’s company. ‘We don’t communicate very well, do we? Must try harder in future. Now, I hope you’re both hungry. I’ve made lasagne. All the wrong things in lasagne, I suppose, but I do like it.’

‘It’s my favourite food,’ said Will, who seemed to know exactly where to find table mats and serving spoons. ‘Isabelle said you were a great cook.’

The meal was a success. Will steered them away from the reefs – boyfriends, husbands, fathers, divorce, drugs, drink, sex. Only after dessert, when they were sipping coffee in the lounge, did he take his eye off the ball.