Isabelle had never seen her mother like this before – upset, vulnerable, not in control. The reality of the divorce came into sudden, unwelcome focus. Christine had sailed through it untouched, Isabelle always believed, cold as ice, not a hair out of place. And now she was blinking back tears, her hands shaking on the wheel.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Isabelle. Just don’t say anything to him.’

‘I won’t.’

They were approaching Heathrow.

‘There are some tissues in the glove compartment. Could you get me one, please?’

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

‘I won’t see you off, if you don’t mind,’ said Christine, after parking.

‘Okay.’ Isabelle hauled her suitcase off the back seat, stuck her head back through the passenger window to say goodbye. Her mother did not lean across to kiss her.

‘Thanks for the lift, then,’ she said, with a stabbing sensation around her heart. Christine looked stricken, deadly pale.

‘My pleasure,’ she said, a deep furrow between her eyebrows. ‘Have a good trip.’ She might have been seeing her off on a school outing.

Isabelle walked away, glancing back to see her mother still sitting at the wheel, staring at the blank concrete wall ahead of her.

Will always got to airports ridiculously early because he hated being rushed, but on this occasion he was happier than usual to be sitting on his own in departures with hours to spare. He’d checked in his luggage – a small case of his own clothes, a large case jam-packed with Cissé gowns – and was enjoying a full English breakfast. Heart attacks be damned, he thought, tucking into a shiny brown sausage skewered on a piece of white toast. If we don’t get to the Oscars, my life’s not going to be worth living anyway. In any case, he was hungry. His farewell to Joel, which had lasted most of the night, had burned up a lot of calories.

Back at Will’s flat, Joel was collecting his few belongings – toothbrush, underwear, trainers, and a few items of clothing that he now regarded as his – and shoving them into a hold-all. A car was on its way.

The house on Corso Magenta was gated and grilled, the walls several metres thick, the roof a solid and impenetrable structure of slate. Even helicopters couldn’t see what, or who, was inside.