‘Well, it looks good on the CV. I suppose these little things help. Bye for now, Maya. Sorry to dash off like this. My boyfriend, the singer with the biggest selling British band of the last five years, is holding the limo for me. Can we give you a lift anywhere? H&M?’

‘Sweet of you to ask, darling,’ said Maya, ‘but no thank you.’

Everything fitted into one small suitcase. That was it – all she’d got to show for a lifetime. A few pieces of couture, some jewellery, diaries, laptop, phone, shoes – no point in taking the really high heels, she wouldn’t be able to walk in them soon – and the essential toiletries. It was practically hand luggage.

Leanne was away for a few days. The timing was perfect. When she came home, there would be no Victoria. It would take her a while to realise that anything was wrong. Perhaps she was just out with Adele, or doing the rounds of the shows, a spot of shopping. And then night would fall, and the house would be quiet, and Leanne would start to worry, to look around, to realise that Victoria had gone. And she would never be able to find her. Victoria would make quite certain of that. She booked the cab, and began counting down the hours until she reached Le Mûrier, and life could begin again.

Linda died in her sleep, alone. The nurse told Christine that there had been no pain. A brother, whom Christine had never met, was arranging the funeral. There was nothing for her to do.

Nowhere for her to go.

She told the clerks she had flu, and sat at home for three days, not reading the papers, not answering the phone – not that the phone rang much. Andy was away again in Dubai, with no immediate prospect of his return. Ben was back at college. Isabelle – well, wherever Isabelle was, she was not speaking to her mother. And Linda, whose drunken late-night phonecalls had irritated her so much, Linda who had salvaged her reputation with one final act of kindness – Linda was dead.

John Ferguson sent a card.

Sorry to hear you’re under the weather. Get well soon. John F.

Perhaps he had a job for her – but she was in no mood for pity or charity. The Rodean divorce, she knew, would go elsewhere. Greenbaum was bound to get Rocky Rodean. He’d got everything else. He’d got silk.

Nobody was talking about anything except the Oscar nominations. Any day now, the world would know who would be walking down the red carpet in February. Journalists, photographers, magazine editors and agents sat in clusters in the bars and restaurants of Hollywood, scribbling names on pieces of paper, crossing them off, poring over Variety, conversing in whispers, behind hands.

Isabelle was only interested in one category: Best Actress.