As Victoria went into labour in Hackney, and Isabelle stepped out of the shower high above Tokyo, Christine lay awake in bed in Highgate, reflecting on the first day of Rodean v Rodean. It had gone well, even better than she’d dared to hope. Jessica had behaved herself, answered yes and no when required to, and done nothing remotely attention seeking. Rocky turned up late, unshaven, wearing a crumpled jacket with the sleeves rolled up – exactly how Christine herself would have styled him for the role of the errant husband. Jessica, by contrast, looked demure and dignified in a navy blue suit that they had selected themselves in Selfridges. The press could print all the baguette-swallowing photographs they liked; this was a woman who had grown up, tried to be a good wife and had it all thrown in her face by a repulsive old philanderer who was old enough to be her father. And when the court heard, later today, about some of Rocky’s younger playmates – young enough to be his granddaughters – the job was as good as done.

Christine felt a warm glow around her heart, something she had not felt for a very long time. She lay on her back, folded her arms neatly across her chest and, much to her surprise, managed to go back to sleep. She dreamed of her children as they were a long time ago, when Ben was a baby and Isabelle a demanding toddler, and somehow Andy was there, and the children were crying, and Andy was taking them away in a car, and she could not stop him.

The Elle Japon shoot was in a studio in Shinagawa that took up the whole top storey of a skyscraper with views right over the Tokyo waterfront area. The car dropped Isabelle off, and she was ushered into a lift that rose at alarming speed straight into outer space. When the doors opened, she was surrounded by stylists and assistants and journalists and interpreters who carried her into make-up and sat her in a chair in front of a mirror. The first thing she noticed, reflected beside her, was Maya Rodean, her face covered in pale green sludge, with teabags on her eyes. She was surprisingly easy to recognise.

‘Hello, Maya,’ said Isabelle. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘I can’t talk,’ said Maya, her lips barely moving, ‘or I’ll crack. This stuff costs a fortune. Still, Laruche want me to look my best.’