She recognised the clothes (Chanel) before she recognised the woman who was wearing them – someone she didn’t like – something to do with Isabelle – and what was it? Rivelli? – of course. Victoria Crabtree. What the hell was she doing here? Surely Rivelli had chucked her out for good? Was she here to cause trouble?

‘Oh, hello. I’m just on my way . . .’

‘You’re doing a wonderful job in there. Massimo must be very pleased with you.’

Where was this leading?

‘Thank you.’ Christine waited for her to say something else, and then, after five seconds of silence, carried on walking. Victoria followed, out of the building, along the Strand.

‘It must be very hard for you.’

‘Sorry?’ Christine quickened her pace; Victoria kept up with her. Damn her, she could probably sprint in those heels.

‘With all the worry about Izzy.’

Izzy? Nobody called Isabelle Izzy.

‘I don’t think that’s any of your . . .’

‘Have you spoken to her today? How is she? I saw her yesterday and she was very tired but she seemed to be bearing up all right.’

Christine stopped and turned. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

She’s back on drugs.

‘Oh, gosh,’ said Victoria, ‘have I put my foot in it? She said she was going to tell you. I’m so sorry. Please . . .’ Victoria started backing away, holding her handbag in front of her like a shield. ‘Sorry. Forget I said anything.’ She waved a hand in front of her face, turned away and melted into the crowded street.

Christine hurried back to chambers, and called her daughter.

Isabelle opened the door rubbing her eyes, very grey in the face, wrapped in a filthy dressing gown. There were clothes and dirty plates balancing on top of unpacked boxes in the hall.

‘You didn’t say you were coming.’

‘Would you have tidied up?’ asked Christine, sniffing the air. The place needed a good airing.

‘What do you want, Mum?’

‘I’m worried about you. I’ve come to see how you are.’

‘Well that’s a first.’

Isabelle didn’t throw her out, so Christine went into the living room. The curtains were drawn, the television on, and something had been nesting on the sofa.

‘Is Will here?’

‘No. He’s at the studio.’ Isabelle sat down, pulled the duvet over herself. Christine perched on the arm of a chair.

‘You’re not well.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look at you . . .’

‘If you’ve come round here to shout at me, please don’t bother. I appreciate your concern, but you really shouldn’t have bothered. I’m sure you have more important things to attend to.’

‘Isabelle . . .’

‘Look, I’m just tired. Okay? I had a very late night and I’m trying to catch up on my beauty sleep.’ She curled her legs up under the duvet, shifted her weight on to one elbow, winced in pain.

‘You’re not well.’

‘I’ve got period pains.’