It was all happening too fast – like everything in the last two years of her life. Leaving college, setting up in business, the struggle to get the first show, all the deals, the trips to New York and Paris and Los Angeles, the features in Vogue, the awards, the Oscars . . . Everything piling up on top of everything else, like a spoilt child with too many toys at Christmas, throwing one aside to open another. Her mother, her father, Will, Maya, Joel, Ben, Victoria . . .

And now Dan.

It should have been so hard to make the choice, to throw her life into a new and unexpected direction, changing all her plans, all her options, for a man that she barely knew.

But it was easy. So easy. As easy as coffee and croissants and a kiss on the neck, as easy as spending the rest of the day in bed.

Epilogue

Epilogue

It seemed strange to be drinking champagne at eleven o’clock in the morning, but then, as Christine thought as the first cork popped, it’s not every day that you go to the House of Lords to be appointed as Queen’s Counsel. Sun was shining through the open French windows, birds were singing, daffodils nodding in the garden. It was the first really warm day of spring – a perfect day to change a heavy gown of wool for something lighter and cooler in silk.

A little smoke appeared at the mouth of the bottle, a few bubbles, but they died back; John Ferguson knew how to open champagne properly, just as he knew how to do everything else, with efficiency and grace. Their eyes met, and she gave him a little round of applause. He looked younger now than at any time in the last five years, the face fuller, the eyes less tired. Love could do that to you.

He handed her the first glass, and kept pouring; there was just enough in one bottle for everyone. When they were all served, he proposed the toast.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we all know why we’re here. So please join me in raising your glasses to Miss Christine Fairbrother, QC.’

Seven glasses were raised and clinked in every possible combination.

‘Congratulations, Mum,’ said Ben, who was standing as close as possible to Victoria without actually pressing himself against her.

‘Well done, Christine,’ said Victoria, who never took her eyes off her son, now a robust one-year-old, sitting on the floor under the kitchen table playing with a wooden spoon.

‘Bottoms up, Miss F,’ said Will, who had finally got rid of that awful scrappy little beard, and now sported a rather fetching scar that broke the line of his left eyebrow. Apart from that, he was unscathed.

‘Mum,’ said Isabelle, who had been up since six helping her mother to dress – in a Cissé gown, of course – ‘I’m so proud of you.’