‘If you think it would be inappropriate for me to give your daughter a contract, I will withdraw my offer. Alternatively, if you think that it is improper for you to represent me, I will instruct Ferguson to find me someone else. Which would be very sad for me, of course.’

Very clever: he had made it her decision. She had used the same technique herself a thousand times. So – either she lost a huge, high-profile job at a time when she really needed it, or she scuppered her daughter’s best chance at a successful and sustainable career.

‘I don’t think there’s a conflict, provided we are quite clear about where we stand,’ she said, wondering how she could compromise her own professional standards quite so glibly. Perhaps it was the wine, the luxurious comfort of the Gavroche dining room, the inspiring effects of the lobster. Perhaps it was Rivelli’s eyes, his broad shoulders, his strong jaw . . .

‘I am in your hands,’ he said, and she rather wished he was. Dessert arrived, and there was much clearing of throats.

‘I appreciate your concern,’ said Christine, ‘but I don’t think it’s a problem. It’s not as if your interest in Isabelle is contingent on our professional relationship.’

‘Of course not.’

‘In that case, I will treat you exactly as I would treat any other client.’

‘Thank you, Miss Fairbrother.’ He had chosen a very delicious, very expensive dessert wine.

‘I wish you’d call me Christine.’

‘Ah, thank you.’ He put a hand on hers. ‘Christine. A te.’

‘A noi,’ replied Christine, who had been to Italy often enough to have a basic grasp of pronouns.

He smiled, and drank.

It was nice to talk about something other than fashion – stupid stuff, like the pets they’d had as children, what sort of holidays they liked, how bad they both were at driving. Dan, who could be so awkward and gauche in his professional life, was relaxed and relaxing over pizza and pasta in a restaurant by the river. Nobody shrieked when they walked in, no cameras flashed, nobody started furiously texting or scribbling. He insisted on paying, and afterwards they walked along the south bank, the lights strung between the dolphin lamp posts reflecting in the cold black water of the Thames. Isabelle jumped on and off the embankment wall, spun herself round on railings and, when she suddenly felt cold, took Dan’s arm and cuddled up against him.

‘I’m not dressed for a cold March night,’ she said. ‘I wish I had a big sloppy sweater and a pair of jeans.’

‘You can borrow some,’ said Dan.

‘Oh, I say! Is that an invitation?’

‘If you’d like it to be.’

She stopped; they’d walked further than she’d realised, and were almost at the Globe Theatre. There were fewer people around. He looked very handsome, even though his glasses had misted up a bit.