‘When’s he coming back?’

‘Mum, what’s all this about? Are you spying on Dad?’

‘No. I’m concerned for you, actually. I want you to call him.’

‘Look, Mum. I’m on my way to Los Angeles for what might very well be the make or break of my career. I’m trying to get one of my dresses on the back of an actress who has a very good chance of winning the Oscar. It may sound terribly trivial and stupid to you, but it matters to me. I don’t have time for this stuff about Dad.’

‘Darling, I . . .’

‘Also, I have a boyfriend out in Los Angeles, and I’m very much looking forward to seeing him again. I have a life, Mum. I have things to do. I know that comes as a bit of a shock to you . . .’

‘God almighty, Isabelle,’ said Christine, abandoning the legal tone, ‘you should just listen to yourself! I’m trying to tell you something important and all you can do is give me the spoilt brat act. Okay, I’m impressed. You’re going out to the Oscars. Hurrah. I hope you win. Is that what you want me to say?’

‘Yes.’ Isabelle folded her arms and stared out of the window. They plunged into the Rotherhithe Tunnel, the lights beating rhythmically against her tired, itchy eyes.

Christine took a few deep breaths and tried again. She wanted to talk to Isabelle about Rivelli, to warn her to take care in Los Angeles, to check in with her father while Christine was in France on the trail of . . . what? A murder mystery?

‘Has Ben said anything?’

‘Ben? Don’t try and involve him as well.’

‘Why not? It concerns him as much as any of us.’ Especially, thought Christine, if he’s the child’s father.

‘I don’t see why,’ said Isabelle. ‘Dad doesn’t discuss his private life with Ben any more than he does with me.’

‘I’m not talking about . . .’

Clunk.

Isabelle stared out of the passenger side.

‘Sorry, Isabelle, but what has your father’s private life got to do with anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I can tell.’

‘No.’

‘What is it, then? You’re obviously dying to tell me.’

‘God, Mum, don’t start having a go at me!’

‘I’m not. I mean, you’re Daddy’s girl, after all. I’m sure he tells you all about it. I’m sure you have a good laugh behind my back.’ Christine’s good intentions evaporated; her cheeks were burning, her eyes wet.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Your bloody father.’ Christine slapped the wheel. ‘He’s still doing it, isn’t he? Screwing around behind my back. My God, why did I think he’d ever change?’ There was a catch in her voice, and she shut up.