Neither Christine nor Andy wanted to rush. They didn’t see each other for a few days after that first night. But both of them sat in their respective offices smiling, feeling good about themselves for the first time in ages, not worrying about gossip and failure and money and contracts, just looking forward with calm anticipation for one of them – it didn’t matter who – to pick up the phone and arrange the next date.

‘I feel a bit like Elizabeth Taylor,’ said Christine, when Andy cracked first, ‘being re-wooed by Richard Burton.’

‘I’m not sure “re-wooed” is a word, but I take your point. Just don’t expect any diamonds.’

‘Oh. You disappoint me.’

He hadn’t denied that he was re-wooing her.

‘I can, however, run to dinner.’

‘Lovely. Where?’

‘My place?’

Christine felt her hand gripping the phone tighter, felt the saliva suddenly leave her mouth. His place? His place? The place that he had got for . . . that woman? She took a deep breath.

‘That would be nice.’

And why not, after all? Perhaps he wanted to show her that the past was in the past, that ‘she’ and her successors had moved on, that there was no one else in his life . . .

She would be gracious. She would say nice things. She would try not to notice any signs that he was struggling, financially or domestically. But beyond that, she didn’t have a clue how to play it. She knew perfectly well that there was a lot of trust to be regained, that he had been a bastard throughout all the years of their marriage, made a fool of her, smashed up the family and alienated the children, and that she should move on and never have anything further to do with him.

But then there was the inconvenient fact that she loved him, that she wanted him back in their home, back in their bed, back as a father to Isabelle and Ben and back as her husband. And having a husband by your side, even an ex-husband, was a very good way of stilling the wagging tongues of the wine bars. Perhaps her fortunes had changed at last. Perhaps she could still hope for silk.

‘It’s nice . . .’

‘Smaller than you imagined?’

Why lie? ‘Yes. I rather got the impression it was palatial.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Andy took her coat, led her through to the combined living room/kitchen/dining room and poured her a drink. ‘Palatial it ain’t. But the views are nice.’ Yes, the views were nice, out over Docklands, cranes exploding from the ground like fireworks, everywhere the hustle and bustle of change.

‘It seems strange being here.’

They chinked glasses before he replied.

‘I’ve missed you, Chris.’