She didn’t ask many questions. She knew it was Andy’s place, that Andy had gone away and that Christine had, somehow, guilt-tripped him into putting the flat at her disposal. It had Christine’s fingerprints all over it – everything falling into place so neatly, everything ordered and clean and functional, like this kitchen, like John Ferguson, so deftly turned from colleague to lover, and they looked so right together, damn them, just as Isabelle looked right with Dan, and Ben looked right crawling around on the floor to play with Felix, so clearly his son and not . . . anyone else’s.

But for Victoria – nothing fitted. The flat was fine, of course, luxurious, as good in its way as the penthouse in Kensington, if a little less convenient for shopping and lunching, but at least it was warm and secure, the lifts always worked, there was a concierge to help with the buggy, room for the Tesco van to park when they delivered the groceries – groceries nominally paid for by Ben, who was taking his responsibilities very seriously, but Victoria wasn’t a fool. She knew that a music student and part-time DJ could not afford to pay that amount into her bank account by monthly standing order. Christine had bought her lock, stock and barrel.

But once she was up there in the clouds, overlooking the docks and the city beyond, there was nobody home for Victoria, just the baby . . . And, for all that she’d thanked God when he was delivered safe and sound, she could still not put her hand on her heart and say that she was glad to be a mother. Oh, he had his moments; he was beautiful, everyone told her so, but her heart did not leap when he smiled, she had not felt the need to phone anyone when he started to crawl or when his lips formed a sound that might have been ‘Mama’. She supposed that love would come. It might make sense of things at last. But every morning was the same – just another round of feeding and washing, cleaning and cooking, sleeping when she was able, getting out when she could be bothered, discouraging visitors, dwelling on the past.

‘And here’s to Victoria!’

She hadn’t listened as everyone toasted everyone else, yukking it up in the sort of lovefest that now, more than ever before, made her feel sick and excluded.

It was Christine’s voice.

‘Welcome to the family, Victoria. I really mean that.’