‘Yes, of course. Oh well. Shame. It would have been nice to see you.’

Damn – was the desk just a pretext? Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? She’d instantly imagined him wanting to furnish his flat, to make it look nice, more like home, which must mean that he had someone to share it with . . .

But it was too late to backtrack. ‘Is that the only night you can do?’

‘It’s okay, Chris. It really doesn’t matter. I’ll see you soon, no doubt.’

He hung up. It was not even seven o’clock. She opened another bottle of wine.

Now then: An Affair to Remember or The English Patient?

Oh God, has it really come to this?

She chose The English Patient, on the grounds that it was longer.

Adele had finally forgiven Victoria for seducing her son’s friend at Christmas; their spats never lasted longer than a month. Victoria even started going to Adele’s parties – not, as Adele suggested, because she was in the market for a new boyfriend, but simply because she had nothing better to do. For the first time in ten years, she did not have the word MASSIMO in her diary. There were no trips in the offing, no long weekends to look forward to. Invitations to shows and parties had dried up; officially, Victoria blamed the economic climate, but in her heart she knew that Rivelli was keeping her on ice.

Well, two could play at that game. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that she could make Rivelli jealous – she’d tried that in the past, and it hadn’t worked – but it wouldn’t do any harm for him to know that she was out and about, enjoying herself, not moping at home waiting for him to call, sticking pins into voodoo dolls and forgetting to shave her armpits.

And at the back of her mind, Adele’s voice always whispered ‘Get yourself a new one before you’re too old . . . too old . . . too old . . .’

‘Darling’ – kiss, kiss, kiss, trois fois, Adele being Swiss – ‘you look lovely. Well done.’

Victoria was wearing the sky-blue Cavalli, a souvenir of happier times with Massimo, and selected largely because it was the most expensive piece in her wardrobe. If she was going to appear in public as a single-ish girl, she might as well look like quality goods.

‘Who’s here?’

‘The usual gang,’ said Adele, waving her hands towards the middle-aged professional men who made up her current stable. ‘You might like Gerry.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s a lawyer, darling. Don’t say a word, but his firm are representing Massimo’s wife.’

Right on cue, Gerry approached.

‘Ladies, my ears are burning.’

He wasn’t bad looking – not a patch on Rivelli, who was an Arab stallion in comparison to this old carthorse, but encouragingly well dressed, and flashing a Rolex.

‘Allow me to introduce a dear friend of mine, Victoria Crabtree.’