‘I think that pretty much sums up what I want to say to you at this particular point in time.’ She scanned the ceiling, as if she might find something to add. ‘No. That says it all.’

‘What’s going on, Chris? Are you and John . . .’

‘It’s a bit late in the day to act the jealous husband, Andy.’

‘I thought you and I were . . . you know. Back on.’

‘So did I.’

He brooded into his wine. ‘Look, I don’t know what Isabelle’s told you, but . . .’

‘It’s okay, darling.’ She patted his arm. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just call it a day, eh? No hard feelings. Time to move on. It’s been fun.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say? It’s been fun? Is that all this means to you?’ He stood up and turned his back to her.

‘No, Andy. That’s not all. You meant everything to me – everything in the world, more than the children, more than my job, more than all of this.’ She gestured around the kitchen, the house, the garden, the world beyond.

‘So why can’t we be like we were? Come on, Chris. I want it. You want it.’

‘Because you killed it, Andy.’ The mask slipped, and her voice was harsh and ragged. ‘You stole my past. I’m not giving you my future.’

He turned to face her, seeing in a flash the next forty years of their lives together, all that could have been, growing old and watching the children and the grandchildren grow up, taking care of each other and loving each other more with every new year of memories between them. And then the vision disappeared like smoke, and there was Christine’s agonised face and two half-drunk glasses of wine glowing like little suns under the halogen spotlights.

He could think of nothing to say, and left without finishing his drink.

Maya was never alone. She went nowhere without an entourage, and while most of them looked as if they could be knocked down by a gust of wind, they were potential witnesses, and thus a nuisance. Rivelli wasted no time in making useful acquaintances in Tokyo – drivers, warehouse owners, bribable cops – and had the plan perfectly in place when Miss Rodean’s fashionably shod foot touched the tarmac at Narita International. He would kidnap her, call Rocky Rodean’s people with a ransom demand, and if the money was not instantly forthcoming he would release online video of Maya’s fingers being chopped off. She would never sew again.

All he needed now was the opportunity, and he spent several hours going over the Tokyo Fashion Week schedule, looking for a moment when Maya might be vulnerable. At last, he found what he needed.