‘No. I told you.’ She’d booked herself in for an art course – not some adult education free-for-all, but a painting class taught by an artist she’d seen featured in Vogue. A series of six classes cost enough to feed a family for a year, but what was money – especially when it was someone else’s? She’d been meaning to do this for as long as she could remember, and besides, it meant that she had at least six afternoons away from Joel’s increasing demands. Something that she could call her own. Something in which to pour all the frustration of the last few weeks – or, come to that, the last ten years. Yes, art was the way ahead. Her creative spark ignited, there was no limit to her potential. She’d always felt that she was wasted in fashion. She’d already picked out a rather nice little gallery off Kensington Church Street where she would have her first exhibition . . .

The artist lived in Notting Hill, one of those white stucco squares which once housed communes and mad old ladies but which had now been reclaimed and tarted up and reserved for the rich. Painting must be financially rewarding as well as glamorous, thought Victoria as she rung the bell. You certainly don’t get to live in a house like this if you were struggling to remain true to your muse. Leanne Miller was obviously doing very nicely indeed. Victoria would have to check out what sort of prices her work fetched. Perhaps if they got on well she might be able to arrange a private sale, and have something worthwhile to present to Massimo when he came back. An investment piece.

‘Yeah, just coming!’ A London accent, possibly Essex – Victoria remembered reading in Vogue that Leanne had gone to a comprehensive school somewhere or other, and that she made great play out of her father having been a van driver.

The door opened, and there she stood – shorter than she looked in Vogue, and less dressed up – but even in a paint-spattered grey t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, she looked good. Her dark hair was short, and she wasn’t wearing a trace of make-up. It’s so unfair, thought Victoria. Some women just don’t have to try so hard.

‘Ah! Come in! You must be Victoria.’ She had a warm smile, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘Is it Victoria or Vicky? Or Vic?’ They shook hands, and Victoria felt herself being pulled inside.

‘It’s Victoria, thank you.’

‘Right you are.’ She followed Leanne through a huge, newly fitted kitchen and into what looked like an outsize conservatory. Four other women, very much from the same mould as Victoria, sat at easels, laying out their equipment.