Like all great social tacticians, Maya simply ignored what her opponent was saying, and resumed her original line of attack.

‘Jessica has been tarting herself up in your dresses because she’s desperate to advertise herself to your mother. She thinks that’s the only way she’s going to come out of this divorce intact. But it’s backfired, hasn’t it?’

‘Has it, Maya?’ Isabelle folded her arms across her chest.

‘Well, I mean your mother’s not much good to anyone these days, is she? Not since that business with Rivelli.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you don’t, darling.’ Maya composed her face into that special look she reserved for idiot children. ‘Well, I really must be getting along.’ She had a momentary advantage, and thought it best to make a tactical withdrawal. ‘I leave you to the art. Enjoy!’

She might have won the round had she not tripped on a giant squeezed-out tube of paint and fallen on top of the art critic from the Guardian, who didn’t know who she was, and called her a clumsy bitch.

Andy was waiting in the pub when she got there. The venue was significant – neutral territory, neither at her house nor his, a place they went together in happier times, when the kids were young and they counted themselves lucky to get a babysitter for a couple of hours, a stroll over the Heath and a couple of pints before returning to reality.

Christine watched him for a moment from the doorway before stepping forward and making herself known. He looked tired, leaning on the table with his elbows, staring into space, a pint of bitter barely touched. Older, she supposed – well, we’re all getting older. Happy? Not happy, no. Alone. Lonely. She must look the same. Disappointed, bitter, depressed . . .

She took a deep breath, thought this won’t do and put a smile on her face.

‘Mr Cissé, I presume.’

He looked up as if waking from a dream. ‘Ah. My former wife, unless I am very much mistaken.’ He stood, pulled out a chair for her, got her settled. ‘I don’t suppose a woman of your status drinks London Pride any more.’

‘On the contrary, that’s just what I want.’ And it’s what I’d better get used to, thought Christine, who feared that the champagne days were over. ‘And a bag of crisps.’

‘Salt and vinegar?’

‘Of course.’

He walked to the bar, and Christine felt a hideous tug in her stomach. They knew each other so well, all their preferences, their history, their little moods and foibles. Why had they thrown that away over . . . what? An indiscretion? A mésalliance?

Andy returned with drinks and crisps. He opened the bag out, placing it between them, salt and grease glistening on the silver foil. They crunched and sipped.

‘This is nice,’ he said, almost sighed.

‘Yes.’

‘Quite like old times.’

‘Andy . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’