Will was on the same flight as Isabelle – economy rather than first class, so they wouldn’t be sitting together, which was something of a relief. He didn’t suggest that Christine might like to pick him up as well; he’d had enough Cissé family psychodrama to last him a lifetime, and wanted to conserve his energy for Mercy Williams and the Oscars.

Unknown to Will, Joel was also on a flight to Los Angeles, from another airport with another carrier, his ticket paid for not by Cissé but by Rivelli Srl.

And Rivelli himself was flying out of London, under an assumed name – he had several passports – to spend some time with his mother in the family home in Milan.

‘You’d better come in, now you’re here.’

Christine wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, and had come determined not to get into a fight, whatever Isabelle said.

‘I thought you might like a lift.’

‘I see.’ Isabelle did not say thank you. ‘I suppose you’ve been here before?’

She’s snooping around for information about Dad.

‘Dad’s flat? Of course.’

‘Yes.’ Isabelle looked hard at her. ‘I thought you must have done.’

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Christine walked to the window.

‘Not bad.’

Isabelle carried on packing.

‘I’m going to France myself.’

‘Right.’

Oh really Mum? That’s nice. Is it a holiday? You deserve one, you work so hard. Are you meeting Dad? I’m so pleased your back together again, sorry I was such a little cow about it.

As none of that dialogue was forthcoming, Christine just replied ‘Yes, right.’ No point in telling Isabelle why she was going. I suspect that my ex-lover, your manufacturer, is trying to kill all of us, and I’m just after a bit of evidence from his ex-mistress – you know, the one that got you into coke.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ said Isabelle. ‘I can still afford a taxi.’

‘Is that why you think I’m here? Just to save your cab fare?’

‘Well? Isn’t it?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Christine, keeping her cool, ‘it was the only way I could think of to see you.’

‘And why the great hurry to see me all of a sudden? I’m sort of busy at the moment. Can’t it wait till I get back from LA?’

‘Not really, darling, no.’

‘Okay.’ Isabelle picked up her suitcase. ‘I’m ready.’

They didn’t speak until they’d been on the road for five minutes.

‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ said Isabelle.

‘You may find this hard to believe, darling, but in the thirty or so years that I’ve been driving around London, I have gone to Heathrow once or twice.’

‘Okay. Keep your hair on. Now what’s the big emergency?’

‘Have you spoken to your father recently?’

Ah. Here it comes. The third degree.

‘No. He’s in Dubai. Why?’