Christine was becoming an idée fixe. She was in the driving seat now, telling Massimo what to do, who to see, who to drop – and Victoria was quite convinced that his silence was Christine’s doing. Ever since hearing the fatal word ‘Scotland’, she had convinced herself that Massimo was giving Christine far more than just his legal business. Why would he take her there? Surely there was no need . . . And Christine, damn her, was an attractive woman, still younger than Massimo, infuriatingly well preserved and well dressed. True, her tits weren’t up to much, and her legs, though good, were a touch on the skinny side – but she was a professional, curse her, and a hideously successful one at that. Massimo, fool that he was, would be impressed by that sort of bullshit. Victoria had done her research, reading up on her rival – as she now saw her – torturing herself with details of one legal triumph after another. Christine Fairbrother may not be in the celebrity magazines – but Victoria was forced to concede that there might be levels of achievement even above that. Well, she would settle her hash. She would make her regret taking Massimo away from her. She thought she could have it all – Massimo’s money, the kudos of another high-profile divorce case and then, after a suitable interval, Massimo himself. She had another think coming.

Thanks to Joel’s unguarded mouth, Victoria now knew where Christine lived, where she worked, and who briefed her. Joel had his uses, besides being a sort of warm, hairy dildo on legs. Once Victoria had whipped him up into believing that Christine had done him wrong, it was easy to persuade him to spy on her. All she needed was confirmation of her suspicions – to see Massimo and Christine coming or going from one or other of their homes at a time of day that allowed for no misinterpretation.

Joel took to the espionage lark rather well, and within a week Victoria had the evidence she was looking for – a photo on Joel’s phone of Christine and Rivelli leaving his apartment block, together, arm in arm. He texted it to her, and she kept it carefully, backed up on her computer, a ticking time bomb.

Saks Fifth Avenue allocated a PR/PA person to cover them, whatever that meant, for the duration of their stay. He was a fast-talking Bronx Italian in his forties, with a rather obvious weave, who flapped his hands a lot and spent much time arguing with people on his cellphone. He made Isabelle nervous, but seemed to amuse Will, who, after twelve hours in his presence, was imitating his every phrase and gesture to perfection.