A week – but, if things worked out, she intended to stay for a while. There was nothing to keep her in London. Solicitors and estate agents were sorting out the house in Chelsea – four floors of light and space and exposed brick and sanded oak, an absurd extravagance, but, now that the business with Rivelli was sorted out, an affordable one. An army of builders and decorators would take over, under Will’s guidance. He would project manage. He would ‘run the London office’, whatever that meant. And when Cissé moved to Los Angeles, the London office would close. The house could be rented or resold. Will would . . . well, Will would never be out of work.

Only one thing remained before Isabelle left for Los Angeles. She had to see her mother. Tempting as it was to slip away, she forced herself to pick up the phone and arrange lunch – one last time. Let’s see if we can spend a couple of hours together without screaming. Let’s see if she can force herself to be pleased for me. I won’t talk about Mike, and she can keep quiet about whoever she’s seeing now. She won’t go on about the abortion, and I won’t mention Rivelli. We can be mother and daughter, chatting about clothes and recipes and whatever else normal people find to fill in the silences when they’re not shouting at each other. One more go.

Joel disappeared a few weeks before Christmas, in theory to visit his family. Since then, there had been no word. Will sat at home restlessly clicking his mouse, but there was nothing in his email apart from work stuff, house stuff, begging letters from former St Martins students and the thrilling news that he’d won four hundred thousand pounds on the Kenyan State Lottery. Nothing on Facebook, or Messenger, or MySpace. No calls, no texts, not even a Christmas card. Of the dozens of ways Joel could have got in touch, he had availed himself of none.

So that was over, then. He’d left Joel off the hook about the theft, and as soon as the coast was clear, Joel had done a bunk. So much for falling in love.

He’d let Rivelli off the hook as well. The confession that he’d been so clever to record was useless. If he used it, he incriminated Joel – and, now that he’d lied to the police to keep Joel out of trouble, he’d incriminate himself as well. The police were satisfied – well, perhaps ‘satisfied’ wasn’t quite the right word – that the whole business was a storm in a teacup, and let them off with a few stern words about wasting police time. Will had nothing on Rivelli at all. The money that he owed Cissé was further from their reach than ever.