Victoria was sick on the plane, but it didn’t matter; she could feel the child inside her, and a little nausea was a small price to pay. She was leaving England for a new life in the sunshine. The last two years were like a dream – a self-destructive nightmare. Now she had what she wanted: a home, a future, Rivelli. A child. It was all so simple. The child solved everything.

As long as it was his. Not Ben’s. It must not be Ben’s.

She collected her bags, and breezed through customs, already sure that she could smell the pine trees and the rosemary, still green in the middle of winter.

The driver would be there to meet her.

She walked through arrivals and scanned the crowd for her name.

There it was, VICTORIA CRABTREE on a clipboard.

‘Hello, Dave.’

A familiar face, thank God – Dave the driver, Rivelli’s fixer in the south of France.

‘You’re looking well, Miss Crabtree. Come for long this time?’

‘I hope so, Dave,’ she said, letting him take her case. ‘A very long time indeed.’

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Isabelle stayed up all night to hear the nominations announced at dawn – in time for the morning news on the east coast. It was not unusual for her to be up at first light; life with Mike was largely nocturnal. They’d done the rounds of the pre-announcement parties, but ducked out of the ceremony itself; Mike could get invited to anything, but Isabelle preferred to hear the news alone. Then she could start planning, undisturbed by shrieking.

‘See you at the after-party,’ said Maya, as Isabelle left the pre-party.

‘I’m afraid I’ll be working,’ said Isabelle.

Maya swished past with her nose in the air, and was absorbed by her retinue.

Of the five nominees for best actress in a leading role, only two interested Isabelle; the others, besides being insipid beanpoles with no tits, already had deals with major Paris couture houses. Isabelle had done her homework. There was no point pitching to someone who was already being paid millions to wear Versace.

This made Isabelle’s job a lot easier, and she was confident that one, if not both of the remaining actresses would wear Cissé on the night.

There was Tilly Ostergard, the young redheaded star of Our Little Secret, the controversial box-office smash about a woman’s triumph over child sexual abuse.

And there was Mercy Williams, already being hailed as the greatest comeback of the century, who had hauled herself out of well-publicised crack addiction not only to record a Grammy-winning album but also to star in Moanin’ Low, a biopic of Libby Holman.