‘So tell me, how are you going to satisfy the demand for your clothes? I mean, now you’re in Vogue, you’re going to have a lot of orders, aren’t you?’

‘We’ve got selling agents to take care of that side of things,’ said Isabelle.

‘But the actual manufacturing. I mean, you don’t get it all made by child labour in Korea, do you?’

‘Of course not. We’re under exclusive licence to the biggest manufacturer in Italy.’

‘Oh,’ said Christine, and even as she said the next words she had a horrible feeling that she knew what the answer would be. ‘And who is that?’

‘Rivelli.’

She got up and started clearing away coffee cups.

‘Oi!’ said Isabelle. ‘I haven’t finished with that yet!’

‘I’ll get you a fresh one.’ Their hands jangled over the cup, and spilt the remains over the upholstery.

‘Don’t try telling me it’s inappropriate because you barged in and decided to represent him. He’s the best in the business. You should be happy for me.’

Will sat with his hands on his knees and his mouth open. He had steered them through the reefs, straight into an iceberg.

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that you know something about him but you can’t possibly tell me because it’s all highly confidential, bla bla bla.’

Damn her, she’s a mind reader, thought Christine. ‘No, of course not. It’s just he has a bit of a reputation.’

‘Oh please,’ said Isabelle. ‘He’s old enough to be my father.’

‘I didn’t mean in that way. Why do you interpret every remark on a crude sexual level?’

‘I can’t imagine, Mother. You’ve got far more experience of that sort of thing than I have.’

‘Mmm, lovely coffee,’ said Will, ‘any chance of a top-up?’ Christine and Isabelle ignored him and so, grateful for an excuse to leave the room, he fled to the kitchen and looked out of the French windows at the crocuses pushing their orange heads through the dark London soil. Blue tits pecked nuts from a feeder. A black cat stalked along the fence, and disappeared into a thicket of ivy. The rest of the world just got on with it. He was tempted to join them. The living room was ominously silent. He waited for the explosion.

Christine barged in with a tray full of cups and glasses which she dumped, almost dropped, on the table. A glass fell over, causing a domino effect.

‘Here, let me . . .’ Will sprang into action, saved the day, avoided breakages.

‘How do you cope with her?’ asked Christine, her voice lower than normal.

‘Oh, lots of stroking. Lots of avoidance. You know,’ he said. ‘Tact.’

‘Tact!’ Christine snorted through her nose. ‘I’m famous for my tact. I’ve reduced internationally famous celebrities to tears with my tact.’