She had a client conference at three o’clock, so she dried her hair, dressed quickly and checked herself in the mirror. There was more colour in her cheeks than normal. For months she’d had the pallor of something living under a rock.

She was hurrying past reception when he materialised in her path.

‘So, when do you want to come for your first session?’

Christine hadn’t said anything about a first session; this was just a trial, she had understood, an assessment, a dry run.

‘Next week would be good.’ The words came without a thought.

‘Monday good for you? Might as well start the week as you mean to go on. And then shall I pencil you in for Thursday?’

‘Yes. Fine. Of course I’ll have to check in my diary when I get back to the office. Early as possible on both days.’

‘Seven?’

‘Oh. Gosh. Actually, that’s a bit too early.’

‘Name your time, Christine. I’m entirely at your disposal.’

God, his eyes were distracting, so warmly brown, the whites so white, so wet, the eyelashes so bloody long and curly. ‘Shall we say eight?’

‘That’s in. Eight till nine, Monday and Thursday. And we’ll talk about nutrition and get you a programme that you can do on the days you don’t see me.’

‘What? I don’t know that I’ll have time for that.’

‘You will. You’ll be surprised what you can do, once you’ve taken the first step.’

He had a lazy smile, very regular white teeth, a thick neck, darkness of hair at the V of his shirt.

‘Okay. You’re the boss.’

‘You got it. Till Monday, then.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Looking forward to it already, aren’t you?’

She was.

The conference with Mrs Giles the Farmer’s Wife was conducted with ruthless efficiency. Even John Ferguson, her long-time instructing solicitor, who was used to seeing Christine in action, raised an eyebrow as she went in for the kill.

‘The thing is,’ said Mrs Giles, her hands restlessly massacring a tissue, ‘my husband wants to put the farm and everything in trust for the children. If I ask for that much, he’s going to have to sell the farm.’ She was a homely looking creature, with fat apple cheeks, just as a farmer’s wife should be.

‘So?’

‘Well, that means I’m robbing my own flesh and blood.’

‘Are you saying, in effect, that you want us to accept your husband’s original offer?’ Christine sat back in her chair, pushed the file away from her, as if dismissing the case. Mrs Giles seemed to shrink.

‘No, but I can’t harm my children’s future just to . . .’

‘You do realise what he’s doing, don’t you?’ said Christine, looking over the top of her glasses. ‘This is emotional blackmail.’

John Ferguson, who was adept at the legal poker face, twitched a little.

‘He’s using the children to keep you from what’s rightfully yours. They’re a sort of human shield.’

Was that a smirk at the corner of John Ferguson’s mouth?