‘Because you believe,’ said Victoria, patting her belly, ‘that this is your grandchild, I suppose.’

‘Is it?’

‘Who knows.’

‘Look, Victoria . . .’

‘How old are you, Christine? If you don’t mind my asking.’

‘Forty-eight.’

‘Not quite old enough to be my mother, then.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Christine. ‘But old enough to be your mother-in-law.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Silence fell. Victoria flicked angrily through Voiçi.

‘You’ve dreamed this whole thing up,’ she said at last, with a croak in her voice. ‘Massimo isn’t some kind of murderer. He’s . . . he said he was going to look after me.’

Christine said nothing; her eyes were fixed on the front page of Le Monde, lying upside down on the bed.

‘I don’t believe he intended any harm. He was looking after me. Dave and Sue are old friends. I’ve known them for years. They look after the house. I mean, Dave picked me up at the airport, for God’s sake . . .’

‘Oh my God.’ Christine grabbed the newspaper, turned it up the right way.

‘Rivelli’s not a murderer. He wouldn’t. Not me.’

‘Oh no. Oh please God no.’

‘What?’

Christine handed her the paper, pointing with a trembling figure at a downpage story under the headline OSCARS: HOMME DANS LE COMAS APRÈS L’ATTAQUE, HOLLYWOOD, LOS ANGELES.

‘Will . . . Oh my God. I must call Isabelle.’

Christine rushed to the door, and then stopped in her tracks. She looked back at Victoria, who was leaning round in bed, straining her neck.

They read the name in each other’s eyes.

Rivelli.

In another ward, in another hospital, in another country, on another continent, Will had not regained consciousness.

Isabelle went home to change, pack a hold-all and tell Mike what had happened. There were reporters outside the house, shouting questions about Mercy Williams – their only point of interest in the story, let alone the fact that her best friend lay dying in a hospital bed – but she pushed through them with a look on her face that could even scare her mother into silence.

Mike was not there.

There was a bottle of champagne on the dining room table, and a note that read ‘Congratulations! See you later.’

Nothing about Will. He didn’t know. Why should he know? The reporters outside the house – well, they were nothing new. They’d been there before – not so many of them, admittedly, but then it wasn’t every day that one of you got a dress to the Oscars, was it? Perhaps Mike was sulking. Perhaps he didn’t like being upstaged. Perhaps he’d served his purpose.

Then again, not yet. Will needed care, and care cost money. Mike had money. Isabelle – for all her success – had none.