‘I’m fine. Just leave me alone. I’m trying to get some sleep.’

Christine was about to reply, but her breath jumped in her throat, and she had to close her mouth to stop herself from crying. An abortion. A dead child.

Eventually, she managed ‘Can we talk about it?’

‘Not now, Mum.’

‘Come over for dinner at the weekend.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Please.’

‘Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out. I didn’t want you to know.’

‘Don’t I have a right . . .’

‘No, you don’t. Here’s the deal, Mum. Don’t ask about my private life, and I won’t ask about yours. Okay?’

‘What makes you think I have a private life?’

‘Oh come on. Did you really think that nobody would find out? It’s all anyone can talk about. My mother and my manufacturer. Very cosy.’

Isabelle jabbed at the remote, and the sound came back on. One middle-aged woman was interviewing another about her portrayal of a rape victim in a primetime soap.

Christine held her tears back until she was safely in the back of a cab.

My mother and my manufacturer.

They knew, then, the gossips. How far had it gone? The fashion business, obviously – but how much further?

Christine lay awake, staring into darkness, the blue-green figures of the digital clock doing strange dances in her peripheral vision.

My mother and my manufacturer.

I had an abortion. Are you satisfied?

My mother and my manufacturer.

An abortion. An abortion. Are you satisfied?

A dead child – like the child she had lost after Ben was born, miscarried at three months when Andy was away on a job and she had been burning the midnight oil over an important new case, wondering if this time, with baby number three, it was time to give it all up and become a proper full-time mother. To put her career aside and give all her energy and her time and her love to her children.

Faces rose before her in the darkened room – Rivelli, Andy, Isabelle, Ben, the faces of unknown babies, of Joseph Greenbaum in court, of Janet Rivelli, of Victoria, and of the judge watching them all, recording, judging.

Adele was easily persuaded. Victoria let her believe that she wanted Gerry’s number for romantic purposes, that she was abandoning Rivelli and lining up a replacement. That’s what Adele would have done.

Victoria had other plans. She texted Gerry, with the photograph of Christine and Massimo attached, and a little message saying ‘Show this to Janet. She will recognise the location. Tell her they went to Scotland.’

That would put the cat among the pigeons.

Goodbye, Christine.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘At home.’ Christine dabbed powder under her eyes in the robing room mirror, concealing dark rings.

‘You didn’t pick up the phone. Your mobile was turned off.’

‘I had some bad news, John.’

‘Well you’re about to get some more.’