Only once had her radar let her badly down – and that was in the case of Cissé v Cissé. Her own divorce. Her own husband, not only having an affair under her very nose, but playing away throughout their marriage, even when the children were small, even when Christine, who always used her maiden name for practice, returned to full-time work in order to support Andy in his fledgling architectural practice. Yes, even then, when she came home exhausted from the magistrates and the county courts in far-flung corners of England to face grizzly babies, dirty nappies and sulky nannies, when Andy was allegedly burning the midnight oil over some new project that was bound to make his name, he was entertaining his girlfriends in restaurants and clubs and half-built flats all over town. Christine had been the last to know – in the time-honoured fashion. It was the gossip of the robing rooms that Christine Fairbrother could handle the hottest divorces in the world but couldn’t manage her own marriage.

Well, that was all behind her now. They’d settled out of court – ‘amicably’ – as the euphemism has it, for Andy was far too smart to risk it all in a messy trial. They’d divided the assets, she’d held on to the family home in Highgate, and Andy moved in with his mistress. Oh, it was all such a cliché, so vulgar, so predictable. Christine would grow old alone, abandoned, wondering where it all went wrong. He’d get through one mistress after another, until his capital and his business were run into the ground and he ended up lonely and bitter in rented accommodation, scratching around for work, calling in favours, an embarrassment to his friends. She’d seen it a thousand times before. If this wasn’t her and Andy, the love of her life, the father of her two children, she’d laugh.

What had gone wrong? It was easy enough, in retrospect, to blame her career. Maybe she hadn’t been around enough, never had the time to be a good wife to Andy, pushed him into the arms of other women – but there was always a good reason. Mortgages had to be paid, children fed, clothed, cared for and schooled, holidays booked, bigger houses bought, cars upgraded and multiplied. She, Christine, had provided it all – at least in the early years. And when Andy’s architectural practice took off, they’d been able to give the kids the best of everything. Isabelle had clothes, riding lessons, ballet lessons, skiing holidays with her friends, the best education, from nursery school right through to a fashion degree at Central St Martins. Benedict, music mad from the moment he could clap his hands and sing, had every instrument, gadget and gizmo that money could buy. He had a home studio in his bedroom. When he went to university in September, he’d be taking a small orchestra with him.

And with Ben gone, and Isabelle visiting only to ask for money and to blame her mother for the divorce, what was left for Christine? What had it all been for, this life of hard work and sacrifice? A husband who had never been faithful, children who no longer needed her, and in her daughter’s case actively resented her? Well, thought Christine, standing in front of mirror, lowering the heavy horse-hair wig on to her head, there is always work. And in a couple of years’ time, I’ll be a QC – able to pick and choose my briefs, raking in the cash, at the top of my profession, envied, admired and feared. Loved? Well, perhaps not, but we can’t have everything, can we? Work has never let me down. And if I concentrate, if I focus all my energies on this one goal, then the gown I wear will no longer be wool, but silk – the silk that’s reserved for QCs, the ultimate symbol of success.