Isabelle, still wearing an evening gown of her own design, had forgotten all about Mercy Williams and the fame and fortune that awaited her as the woman behind what was now the most talked-about dress in the world. Her phone was so full of voice messages and texts that the SIM card was in danger of meltdown – but she had not even thought to turn it on.

A police officer accompanied her on to the ward. ‘You better prepare yourself, honey,’ she said. ‘He don’t look so hot.’

Will looked like the Mummy, wrapped in bandages, a tube stuck in his mouth, held in place by sticky plaster. What little of his face was visible – a bit around the eyes and lips – was so swollen and discoloured that she was hard pressed to recognise him. But his hands were resting above the blankets – those hands that had so often held hers, or goosed her, handed her a coffee, helped her with a roll of silk or a fiddly pattern. She recognised the hands.

‘Can I touch him?’

‘If you’re very careful,’ said the nurse. ‘He’s kind of delicate.’

Isabelle took Will’s hand so gently, as gently as she’d touch a newborn baby. She dared not squeeze.

‘Is he going to . . . be okay?’

‘We’re doing our best for him.’

‘Please do.’ Tears were rolling down her face, collecting at the end of her nose, dropping on to her dress. ‘Please. Please don’t let him . . .’

The nurse put a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay, darling. He’s going to be okay.’

Isabelle looked for reassurance in the nurse’s eyes, and saw only trouble.

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

‘We’ve never really met, have we? Not properly, I mean.’

‘No. I suppose not.’

Victoria looked tired and, without make-up, older than Christine remembered. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and needed washing. There were scabs on her forehead, the remains of the cuts and grazes she’d sustained in the accident.

‘And yet,’ said Christine, ‘we always seem to be under each other’s feet.’

‘Do we . . .’ Oh God, thought Victoria, please don’t let her start with the accusations. I can’t take it.

‘But first things first. How’s the baby?’

‘Ah.’ Victoria closed her eyes, waiting for the onslaught. ‘You know about that, then?’

‘Of course. He told me.’

‘Who?’

‘Ben, of course.’

‘I thought you might mean . . .’

The name hung in the air between them, unspoken. Plenty of time for that later, thought Christine. ‘He’s frantic with worry. As am I, I might add.’

‘I didn’t want anyone to know. It was an accident.’

‘And what were you planning to do, exactly?’

‘I don’t know.’

Yes you do. You were going to pass it off as Rivelli’s and live on his handouts for the rest of your life even though it’s going to be my grandchild . . .