Sip, crunch.

‘I just wondered how your Dubai project is going.’

‘Oh. That. Fine. Hideous place. Lots of money. Goes against everything I ever stood for. End of story.’ He watched a woman walking towards the toilets; he could never stop his eyes from wandering.

‘Sounds a bit grim.’

‘Is a bit grim.’

Crunch, sip.

‘And you? Read about the Rivelli case.’

‘Oh.’ The newspapers had been kind; there was no reason why he should know more than they had printed. ‘Yes. Ghastly business.’

‘Ghastly man, by the sound of it.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Is he the one who . . .’

‘Yes. He makes Isabelle’s stuff up for her. I don’t like it at all.’

‘I don’t suppose he’s any worse than the rest of them.’

‘The rest of who? Garment manufacturers, Italians, crooks or philanderers?’

‘All of the above.’

‘He’s bad enough.’

The crisps were finished, the pints going down fast. There was no need to hurry, no babysitter to relieve, and yet Christine felt the urge to move on. Away from the pub, certainly. Away from Andy? ‘I haven’t seen her for a while, you know.’

Who? Your mistress? Or . . .

‘Isabelle, I mean. She hasn’t called for ages. Now she’s a big star and all.’

‘She doesn’t need handouts any more, I suppose.’

‘You’ve not seen her either?’

‘No.’ Christine thought back to her last disastrous discussion with their daughter. ‘She seems to be very busy.’ She had not told Andy about the abortion; neither had Isabelle, she assumed.

‘And Ben?’

‘Oh, he calls once in a while.’

‘Hmmmm . . .’

The drinks were getting very low.

‘What happened, Chris?’

‘I don’t know. They grew up, I suppose, just like we always told them to.’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean what happened to . . .’

Not us, surely.

‘To the family. Everyone getting on together, being jolly.’ He did that ridiculous English accent, but she knew he meant it.

‘We got divorced, Andy, remember? That’s what happened.’

He finished his pint, wiped his lips, got up and headed towards the toilet. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’ He walked away, muttering something that sounded like ‘worst mistake of my life’.

‘Game, set and match to Miss Cissé,’ said a man’s voice behind her. She had a sense of agreeable expectation.

‘Hello, Dan. Long time no see.’

‘I heard you were . . . busy.’

He knows about New York. Marco. The abortion.

‘Yes. Horribly so.’ He was waiting for more, but he wasn’t going to get it – not here, not now, surrounded by eavesdroppers. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s a full-time job just coping with all the orders for Cissé. Congratulations, by the way.’

‘Thank you. It’s kind of weird.’

‘Will okay?’

‘Sure.’ Why is he asking about Will? ‘He’s taking care of business for me.’