So she just laughed along with Adele, put her feet up on the sofa and settled herself to sleep.

Adele left her to it.

Victoria closed her eyes, and tried to picture herself and Ben – whose face she could barely remember – living together, bringing up baby, celebrating birthdays and Christmas. It was hard to make out, like figures seen in a mist.

And then she saw Rivelli, close up, in sharp focus, his brown body, his grey hair and blue eyes, his huge square strangler’s hands. She shuddered, and the baby stirred.

‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ she said, smoothing her stomach with circular motions of her hands, ‘he can’t get us.’

When Isabelle arrived at Cedars-Sinai after a long flight and a nightmare of misplaced reservations at the hotel (Mike was out of town – and she wasn’t so sure about Mike any more), she found Will sitting up in bed flanked by two police officers, one in uniform, the other plainclothes, who looked as if they had just stepped off the set of a glossy daytime soap.

‘Well, you’ve got everything you need, I see,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead. The last time she’d seen him he was as good as dead. Now he was Will again – still bruised, still scarred, but alive, wonderfully, undeniably alive. She wanted to hold him, to squeeze him, to bury her face in his armpit and scream out all the rage and fear and sadness that she’d been through in the last weeks. But he didn’t look quite up to that.

‘Yes, they’re treating me quite well,’ said Will, his voice slightly slurred. A tooth at the front was broken. ‘At the moment I’m being interrogated. I rather like it. Care to join us?’

‘Sir,’ said the uniform – dark hair, immaculate sideburns, square jaw – ‘you sure about that?’

‘Oh God, yes,’ said Will. ‘She knows the worst, and what she doesn’t know she’s guessed. She’s not my wife or anything.’

Isabelle sat at the foot of the bed. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’ll just sit and look at him.’

‘Do something useful, like designing some new uniforms for the poor nurses,’ said Will. ‘They look terribly dowdy. Internationally known award-winning designer, you know,’ he said to the cops. ‘Now, where were we?’

‘At a party in Laurel Canyon,’ said plainclothes, a blond edition of his uniformed colleague. ‘You had just taken something in the bathroom.’

‘Oh Will.’

‘No interruptions from the stalls, please. Yes. That’s right. We were with this bloke that Joel had picked up with – what the hell was his name? He’s a film director. Porn. A foreign accent. Swarthy looking guy, plucked eyebrows, shiny Botox face, and those ridiculous jaw muscles you get from taking steroids. What the hell was his name?’

‘Carry on, Will. It’ll come to you.’