On the plus side, they had been approached by a major Hollywood studio to tender for a design job – dressing a New York rom-com that would basically be a shop window for Cissé. Will hired a photographer and a stylist to showcase the clothes for a portfolio that he’d send out to LA. Amelie Watts was up for the gig – she had her eyes on Hollywood too. All they needed was a handsome young man to drape around her, and the job was done. To that end, Will arranged a casting call with one of the smaller agencies; he didn’t want to spend too much money, after all. They had lined up a dozen young men in various colourways for his consideration. It’s a tough job, thought Will, but someone has to do it.

There was no direct suggestion that Christine was to blame for the collapse of the Rivelli trial, and his financial misconduct did not reflect on her in any way at all. If anyone was in trouble, it was John Ferguson, who might be accused of conspiracy to defraud HM Customs and Excise. Christine’s hands were clean. She had accepted the schedule of assets, at face value. She had interrogated Rivelli at length on that very subject. She had nothing with which to reproach herself, nothing at all.

But she knew what she’d done. She’d broken every rule in the book, and if it didn’t all blow up in her face and wreck her career, she would be the luckiest woman alive. No one in chambers had said anything about the nature of her relationship with her former client – perhaps they genuinely didn’t know. Perhaps the story had gone no further than a confidential conference between Janet Rivelli and her legal team. But stories like that had a way of getting around, in the casual commerce of Inns gossip. Christine had heard enough of it in her time. It was just a matter of waiting for the whispers to begin. If Isabelle knew, then others knew. The story was out there; someone had talked. Who? A driver? A PA? It didn’t matter.

She sat alone in chambers, long after everyone else had left. The room was quiet. No chat, no phones, nothing to distract her from the latest developments regarding equality and contribution in the field of ancillary relief – something she really needed to get on top of.

The words sat on the page, meaningless as hieroglyphs, then taking off, flying around her eyes like birds, flocking, forming patterns, faces, the faces of babies . . .

Christine snapped back, shaking her head, concentrating her mind.

It did not work. The paper was too white, the print too small, too dense. She would have to book herself in for an eye test . . .

Don’t think about the abortion. The dead child. The grandchild you will never know.

A deep breath. Funny how her eyesight had deteriorated in the last few days.