It took Rivelli a week to get over the shock, as he put it, of the baby – but, given time, the Italian heritage kicked in and he started thinking there was nothing quite as important as being a Pappa. He called one evening and told Victoria that he would take care of everything, that he had plans for her and the child – plans that she must keep to herself. He was still under investigation by the Revenue, he said, beset by creditors, and must be very careful about how he was seen to be spending his money, but when it had all blown over and he was really free, they would be together. There was plenty of time. The baby wasn’t due for months – it would be spring again, and they would be together at Le Mûrier, this time for good. Could she bear to leave London? What did she think about being a Sainte-Maxime housewife? She would have all the help she needed. She wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

She was leaving in three days. Take such-and-such a flight from Gatwick to Nice. Someone will be there to meet you. The staff will have everything ready. All you have to do is take it easy, enjoy yourself, go shopping, rest, wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay quiet, tell no one where you are or you’ll arouse the lawyers’ suspicions and we’ll be back at square one. The quieter you keep it, the sooner we’ll be together . . .

Victoria packed few possessions, leaving as much as she could behind. She was attentive to Leanne, tolerant of intimacy, showing interest in her projects and business. But Leanne was sulky and brusque, always ready to pick a fight, accusing Victoria of seeing men behind her back. Well, she would be out of there on Monday, leaving London a long way behind, ready to begin again in the one place where she had always felt at home. She hoped Massimo would hurry – but if she had to be alone anywhere, it might as well be Le Mûrier. She could relax and recover, and think about what might yet turn out to be the one big spanner in the works.

If the baby was Ben’s.

If the baby was black.