Will tried to think of a suitable platitude, and was about to say ‘The cobbler’s children go unshod.’

‘Tell me honestly,’ said Christine. ‘Is she still on drugs? Is that it?’

‘What, mood swings and all that? No. I assure you, Isabelle does not need drugs to have mood swings.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘I think she’s just very sensitive about the business side of things.’

‘I see. So I’m to be kept in the dark. Only to be called on when money is needed. I’m surprised I haven’t been tapped for a loan already.’

‘Those days are over, I hope,’ said Will. ‘And you needn’t worry. We’ll pay you back. Every penny.’

Christine glared at him, and for a moment Will felt almost total sympathy for Isabelle. But then the face softened, and she smiled. ‘Didn’t she tell you? I’m made of money.’

They didn’t hang around to chat. By six o’clock, Christine was alone, the washing up done, wondering what to do with her Sunday evening. There was nothing on television, and the prospect of opening another bottle of wine and watching a DVD was a bit too Lindaish to be contemplated.

Face it, Christine, you’re lonely. You need a man in your life. But who?

John was out of the running; he was at his sick wife’s bedside, and however much Christine liked the idea of spending her declining years in his company, she wasn’t quite ready to step into a dying woman’s shoes. Joel – tempting, but too much trouble. He’d stopped calling, at last, and Christine was relieved. If she could have him without all that went with him, just on tap, as it were . . . God, she was thinking like a man. That would never do.

If only the phone would ring . . .

The phone rang. It was Andy.

‘Hello, ex-husband. Are you as bored as I am?’

‘What? Oh, no.’ There were sounds of revelry in the background; obviously Andy was not sitting at home wondering how to fill the hours before an embarrassingly early bedtime. ‘Listen, I just wondered what you were doing on Wednesday night.’

‘Oh! Right, hang on.’ Another date? Where was all this leading? Christine fetched her diary, more for form’s sake than anything; she knew she was free. ‘Okay, Wednesday. Hmmm . . . Let me see. Well, if I juggle a few things around I suppose I could make it.’

‘Great. I want to come over and pick up my rolltop desk, and it’s the only night I can do next week.’

Not dinner, then. She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘Hang on . . . Actually, no, Wednesday’s no good. I was looking at the wrong week. I’m speaking at City Law School,’ she improvised.

‘Oh, right.’

‘Have to keep my public profile up, you know.’