A liar.

A liar.

A liar.

She called Andy, and to her astonishment he answered.

‘Yeah . . .’ The voice sounded sleepy, but close. As if he was just around the corner.

‘Hi. It’s Christine.’

‘Chris.’ The sound a dry mouth clacking, water being sipped. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing . . .’

‘Are you okay? The kids?’

‘Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to panic you. I just wanted to . . . sorry, I thought you were in Dubai.’

‘No. Last week. Came back. Waste of time.’

‘Is it going all right, though?’

‘Chris, you didn’t phone me up in the middle of the night to ask how my current project is going.’

‘No . . . Sorry . . . I just . . .’

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

God, did it sound that obvious? ‘I just wondered if I could . . .’ Her vocal cords were getting tight, her eyes prickling. ‘See you.’

A brief silence, and then ‘Of course you can, darling. Any time you like.’

Summer that year consisted of one lovely week in August, just enough to get everyone accustomed to the idea of heat and short sleeves and flip-flops before reverting to the mild grey misery that had characterised July. But for that one week, Londoners woke to Wedgwood blue skies and a lemon yellow sun, light breezes that kept the humidity at bay, a warmth that penetrated the bones and made everyone feel like they were on holiday. In Hoxton, the squares and greens were crowded with naked flesh, the complicated trousers and arch little jackets discarded in favour of t-shirts and shorts; everyone was too happy to be fashionable.

Even Isabelle, a hermit since the abortion, started venturing out of the studio at Will’s suggestion, for little walks, breaths of fresh air, picnics in the park just like in the old days. In a pair of dark glasses, her hair concealed under a twisted, knotted offcut, she went unrecognised. For the first time in months, she smiled spontaneously. She started looking forward to the future, planning things for Fashion Week, joining in the lunchtime gossip that did the rounds of the Square. Gradually, she was coming back to life. She stopped taking prescription painkillers and immediately started looking less like a zombie. ‘It’s a great look for the catwalk, Princess,’ said Will, ‘but in real life, it sucks.’