‘God, no. He’s the only thing that’s right with my world.’

‘What, then? Family stuff? Problems at home?’

‘Yeah. Kind of.’

Cut to the chase, damn it.

‘Your mum?’

There! That got a reaction.

‘I just wish that she could . . .’ Isabelle’s face crumpled again. ‘That I could talk to her.’

‘You can talk to me,’ said Victoria, very quietly, as if shy of suggesting such confidence. ‘I know how much it can help.’

Isabelle desperately wanted to blurt it out, to say the words that seemed to be forming in her mouth like wooden nursery blocks spelling out ‘I’m pregant, and I’m going for an abortion.’ Instead she said ‘She’s always so busy. She always puts her career in front of her children.’

Then she understood exactly what she’d said, and started crying even harder.

Victoria was on the scent.

‘Oh, I see. Is it this business with Rivelli, then?’

‘No. Will’s taking care of that.’ Isabelle looked puzzled. ‘He’ll pay up in the end, won’t he? I mean he’s not . . .’

Victoria laughed. ‘I wasn’t talking about that side of things. I meant about your mum and Rivelli.’

‘Do you think it’s a problem?’

‘Well, it depends who finds out.’

‘I guess it’s pretty common knowledge.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have thought so. They’re being very discreet.’

The line between Isabelle’s eyebrows deepened, as if she was trying to work something out. ‘Hang on. What are you saying?’

Victoria put a hand to her chest. ‘Oh God. Didn’t you know?’

‘They’re having an affair?’

‘Apparently. Shit. I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘God almighty.’

‘It’s okay. As long as nobody finds out. I mean, he’s very careful,’ said Victoria.

‘But if they do . . . Christ, what does she think she’s doing? This could screw everything up! Why is she always sticking her nose in to my business?’

Your business! What about mine? ‘That’s mothers for you.’

‘Everything I do, she either criticises or screws up in some way. She’s always trying to tell me how to live my life. God, it’s no wonder I can’t tell her anything important.’

‘What is it that you can’t tell her?’

Isabelle blew her nose again, scrunched up the tissue and walked slowly across the studio floor. She dropped it carefully into the bin, stopped, waited, thinking.

Then she turned.

‘Victoria,’ she said, ‘can I trust you?’

‘Of course you can.’

‘I’ve got to talk to somebody, and . . . well, you just came along at the wrong time.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘The thing is, you see, when I went to New York . . .’

She picked up a bulldog clip, fiddling with it, attaching it to her fingers.

‘What? Did something happen?’

‘I got pregnant.’

Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she wondered if she was going to be sick. She swallowed hard, took a swig from a bottle of water.