‘It seems weird to be leaving,’ said Will, looking around the empty studio. The last crate had been taken away; everything going into storage, or being shipped to Los Angeles.

‘We’ve outgrown it,’ said Isabelle, picking her way through stuffed black bin bags full of rubbish, eighteen months’ worth of detritus, polystyrene cups, empty water bottles, old magazines, offcuts, phone numbers scribbled on Post-It notes, never called.

‘I know . . .’ Will unplugged his laptop from the phone socket for the last time, closed it up, put it in its case. ‘But I’ll really miss it. So much has happened here.’

Isabelle turned her mouth down, as if she was tasting something nasty. ‘Yeah. Burglaries. Drugs. Freezing to death on a dirty mattress on Christmas Day.’ Watching you fuck some boy. ‘Time to move on. When Chelsea’s ready it’ll be much better. More space. More light. More convenient for everything.’

‘More expensive.’

‘I can afford it.’ She put her coat on – a long black wool coat that had been sent over by Jasper Conran – and brushed off a few specks of dust. ‘Anyway, the lease is up. They’re knocking this place down. I don’t suppose even you can screw your way out of that one.’

Will didn’t respond. At one time he’d have pinched her bum or poked her in the ribs, and they’d have tickled and giggled their way out of trouble. It wasn’t worth it these days. She always meant exactly what she said. She had changed fast.

‘Anyway, Chelsea’s going to be great,’ she said, fiddling with her phone, not looking at Will. ‘It’s what I always wanted. A great big Victorian house with a huge studio space. All mine.’ Her phone rang. ‘All mine . . .’

Will picked up a couple of rubbish sacks and carried them out into the street. They’d be taking it all away this afternoon. He’d lock up for the last time, take the keys round to the estate agents, and that would be the end of that. No more studio. No more sandwiches on the green. No more late-night takeaways or impromptu discos or parties-for-two . . .

Isabelle pushed past him, still talking on her phone, leaving the studio without looking back.

‘Of course, Mike,’ she was saying, ‘I’ll be there. Just send the car. Okay. Love you too.’ And then she was gone.

Instead of shaking her hand and wishing her well and saying that he really had to get to work, as he had every right to do, John put Christine’s arm through his and walked her around Lincoln’s Inn Fields until she stopped crying.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she kept saying. ‘I mean, it’s Linda. It’s not as if it’s even unexpected. She’s always been so . . .’ And then she’d start crying again.