The phone rang. Assuming it was Ben with an ETA, she muted Mahler and snatched it up.

‘Hello darling.’ The voice was slurred, female.

‘Oh! Linda.’ It was only quarter past nine; she was pissed already.

‘Lindy’s lonely.’ Christ, thought Christine, here we go again. She’d be in Daly’s, or one of the other legal watering holes frequented by people a third of her age, or at home, slumped over the second bottle of wine, wanting company.

‘Oh dear,’ said Christine brightly. ‘And Christine’s working.’

‘You’re always working,’ said Linda, running the words together. ‘Come on. It’s playtime.’

‘Not for this little girl.’

‘But I want to talk about our holiday.’

Holiday? This was news to Christine. ‘What? We’re not . . .’

‘Yes we are. Lindy’s got it all worked out.’ When she was drunk, which was most of the time, Linda referred to herself almost entirely in the third person. ‘We’re going to the Gam – hic! – the Gambia.’

There had recently been yet another documentary about middle-aged British women going on sex holidays to that godforsaken outpost of the Commonwealth. Presumably Linda, too, had seen it, although her reaction was obviously not one of disgusted contempt.

‘I am not going to Gambia.’

‘But darling, the weather is so lovely, and the men, oh the men are so nice . . . And now that we’re both single ladies . . .’

‘It’s a police state.’

‘. . . and the resorts look lovely, very good security too, you wouldn’t have to see anything you didn’t want to see.’

‘Linda, I am not, repeat not, going to Gambia with you.’

‘Well where then?’

‘Look, can this wait for another time?’ When you’re sober, she nearly added, but thought better of it. Linda was a pest, but for all that she was a friend, and most definitely in need. ‘I have got rather a lot of work to do, and . . .’

‘How’s that gorgeous husband of yours?’ When all else failed, Linda knew she could get response by sticking the knife in. She had been so impressed when Christine married a black man. Now she could not forgive her for letting him go.

‘My ex-husband is perfectly well, as far as I know.’

‘Cut the crap, Chris, you miss him like hell.’

‘Sorry, Linda. Ben’s home. Must run. Let’s talk soon, it would be lovely to catch up. Bye!’

She put the phone down. Silence descended. Ben, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Christine cleared her throat, took three deep breaths, picked up her sharp silver propelling pencil and set to work.

Chapter 2

‘Who’s next?’

‘Sales agents.’

‘Oh God, not more. This is doing my head in. Can’t we just pick one and get on with it?’

‘No. Not yet. We don’t have anything for them to sell.’

‘So why are we . . .’

‘Because when we do, we need the best. We need them to get our clothes into the shops that matter. I don’t want to be scratching around in crappy little boutiques and market stalls. I want to go straight into Selfridges, Saks, Harvey Nichols.’