‘Come on,’ she said. ‘They’re supposed to do a bloody good Bloody Mary at the Hoxton Grille. My treat.’

‘No, I . . .’

‘After that performance, it’s the least I can do.’ She marched on to the street, and beckoned him along. He followed her at a brisk trot, like an eager Labrador puppy.

Rocky Rodean had been the nation’s darling for nearly forty years. The fans had followed him through disappointing albums, flop musicals and a string of failed marriages, and still they adored him. They tutted over his messy love life, his failed marriages, but they turned up for his concerts. There was even enough residual affection for him to sustain his daughter’s fashion career, and to steer her to the safe haven of a job with one of the big Paris couture houses. But all these things were peripheral to the basic fact that Rocky Rodean had been a presence in people’s lives for so long that, like Cliff Richard and the Queen, it was impossible to imagine life without him. To hate Rocky Rodean would be like hating your own childhood.

Representing Rocky’s wives in the divorce courts was not an easy gig, as several barristers knew to their cost. Even if you won, and got the wife du jour what she wanted, you’d be jeered and booed outside the courts by armies of fans. On one occasion, eggs had been thrown. Christine did not want to be pelted with eggs, but beyond that she didn’t really care if the nation hated her or loved her. When John Ferguson asked her, over lunch, if she felt ready to get back to work and offered her the Jessica Rodean brief, she did not hesitate to say yes.

After a couple of Bloody Marys, Isabelle threw caution to the winds and started doing Fiona Walker impersonations. Dan nearly expelled tomato juice through his nose, and started coughing violently instead, until his eyes watered and the veins stood out in his neck and forehead. Isabelle patted him on the back. When he’d finished coughing, she continued patting.

‘Thanks,’ he said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose.

‘My pleasure.’

Food arrived – two full fry-ups. Isabelle needed both hands for that.

‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘It feels awful to be sitting here drinking and eating and having a lovely time while Will’s lying in hospital.’ Her knife and fork hovered above her plate. ‘But I need to eat.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

She told him.

‘You’re very fond of Will, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Isabelle, mouth full of bacon. ‘I don’t think I can do this without him.’

‘Right.’

Dan sipped his drink.

‘You should be with him.’

‘I know. But . . .’ She gestured helplessly with her cutlery. ‘What can I do?’

‘Get on the first plane to LA and stay there until he’s better.’

‘He might never get better.’