Christine was to blame, of that she was certain. Why else would Massimo treat her like this? He should have come crawling back by now – it had been weeks, months even, since they were together in New York, and he’d never gone without her for that long, whatever their disagreements. No – he was under Christine’s thumb, and, what was worse, she was taking care of him in the bedroom as well as in the courtroom. Victoria knew Rivelli inside out; he was getting his oats elsewhere. And if another woman was able to satisfy him, then he would not need her any more. She could hardly believe it of Christine, so fucking demure in her tailored suits and her straight brown hair, her dark tights and plain black heels. But if Christine was good at her job and good in the sack, things were even worse than Victoria had feared.

It was time to fight back.

She was not completely without resources. Rivelli could cut off her money, sack her, evict her if he chose to go that far – but there were some things that even he could not take away. One was her friendship with Isabelle Cissé, the hottest name in British fashion whom she, Victoria, had brought to Rivelli. That deal, so easily made, could just as easily be broken, leaving Rivelli in the doldrums, dependent on rich Euro-matrons and their ugly, horsey daughters.

And then, of course, there was the photograph.

Victoria didn’t know much about the ins and outs of the legal profession, but she guessed that an affair between a barrister and her client was not the sort of thing that anyone would want made public. She had only to send that photograph to the right person – someone who could hurt Christine, someone on the opposition – and Christine would be destroyed. Massimo would drop her like a hot brick.

Leanne took her to the studio on the bike; she had meetings about a big one-woman show at a gallery in Brick Lane, so it was handy – and Victoria liked the idea of turning up in a crash helmet and a leather jacket.

She found Isabelle alone – so much the better – and in tears. Perfect timing. She went straight to her, and put a motherly arm around her shoulders.

‘Darling, what on earth’s the matter? Is it stress?’

Isabelle wiped her eyes, looked around for a tissue, which Victoria provided, and blew her nose.

‘Sorry . . . I didn’t want anyone . . .’

‘Come on, you can tell me all about it.’

‘I’m just so tired . . .’

And she looked it – all the shine gone from her hair, her eyes sunken and red. Back on drugs? Or something more?

‘Tell me about it,’ said Victoria, rubbing her back, ‘I’ve been buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly. They work us too hard in this business.’

‘It’s not that. It’s . . .’

‘Is it Will?’