‘Oh, what, then? You think from the age of seven we should just be able to stand on our own two feet? That we don’t need you any more?’

‘Darling, I don’t think you can say that you were in any way neglected. You’ve always had everything you wanted.’

‘But I never had you. You had your work. That came first.’

‘And now you know how that feels, Isabelle. And if one day God willing you ever have children then you will know how bloody hard it is. How you can never do the right thing. How you’re pulled in ten different directions every hour of every day – your husband, your children, your job, let alone yourself. And what do you get in the end, for all that compromise and self-sacrifice?’ She wanted to say ‘loneliness and ingratitude’, but that sounded too harsh, too final.

‘Self-sacrifice? Mum, come on. What have you ever sacrificed?’

‘My marriage.’

There didn’t seem to be much answer to that, and for once Isabelle had the good sense to keep her mouth shut.

‘So,’ said Isabelle, after a long, painful silence. ‘Looks like you’ve got a big gig coming up.’ She indicated the pile of papers on the kitchen table, covered in highlighter pen and festooned with index tags.

‘Yes, I have, actually,’ said Christine, shuffling the papers around. It was all to do with Rivelli, but Isabelle didn’t need to know that. ‘Just in the nick of time, really. The coffers were getting rather empty.’

‘Yeah, but you’re all right, aren’t you? Big fat salary and all that.’

Christine smiled. She was used to explaining this at parties, but had always assumed that her own family would know better. ‘Barristers are self employed, darling. No work, no pay.’

‘Oh, well . . .’

Really?

‘And I haven’t really worked for six months.’

‘Since . . .’

‘Rivelli. Exactly. I rather blotted my copybook with that one.’

‘But you’re okay now, aren’t you?’ Isabelle actually sounded worried.

‘It seems so. I’ve done my time in the wilderness. Since then, plenty of other barristers have done even more stupid things. One of my learned friends was recently found to be keeping a large stash of cocaine in his desk drawer. In chambers. The sort of amount that couldn’t possibly be for personal use. The type of thing that would land a civilian in jail for quite some time.’

‘Wow.’

‘You didn’t think drug abuse was confined to the fashion world, did you? God, it’s like a snowstorm in the Inns sometimes. And then of course we’ve had the Christmas party season. That usually throws up a few indiscretions. No – I’m old news now. Everyone’s forgotten about my little indiscretion.’

‘Huh. I wish.’

‘Actually, darling, I rather need to talk to you about him.’

‘No need. You were right. I should have listened.’

‘What do you mean?’