‘Don’t say that!’ Will gasped in mock horror. ‘Honestly, that woman. Only Maya Rodean could turn a kidnap ordeal into a marketing strategy. If I see one more OK! cover with her mug staring out of it, I’ll scream. Honestly, couldn’t Dan have just rescued you and left Maya to her doom?’

‘And Joel? Any news?’

‘Oh, Jolene. Well, he’s still in LA, still making porn movies, still insists that he’s going to break into the big time. We keep in touch.’

Christine sailed past with a drink in her hand. ‘All right, children?’

‘Just talking about your ex-boyfriend, the porn star,’ said Isabelle.

‘Oh well, here’s to him,’ said Christine. ‘I suppose he’s found his niche. He was certainly good at it.’

‘As several of us here can attest,’ said Will. ‘Speaking of which, where is Victoria?’

‘Not sure,’ said Christine. ‘Look, Isabelle, it’s almost time to get going. You might want to tidy yourself up a bit.’ She gestured to her chin; Isabelle found the flake of pastry, and glared at Will, who looked wide-eyed and innocent. ‘Taxi will be here in a minute. Ben? You ready?’ She clapped her hands, just as she had when they were children, late for school. ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’

Two women in a black cab on their way to Westminster, both wearing Cissé gowns. The older of the two, her dark hair cut in a smart bob, a very few grey strands highlighting the brown, wears a dark magenta satin sheath, a catwalk sensation at the recent Cissé-for-Givenchy show, not yet for sale in the UK, and when it was it would stretch the budget even of a super-successful family barrister. The younger is in fuchsia pink, bias cut, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline, a gathered waist and an uneven, scalloped hem – something she’s playing with, not quite the finished product, whipped off the back of a dummy, the last bit of sewing finished by hand as the Eurostar sped under the sea. Her hair is combed out into an almost perfect sphere, held back at the front with a pair of her boyfriend’s sunglasses. Their shoes are by Louboutin, both pairs.

‘Oh that bloody woman,’ says Christine, checking her lipstick in a small hand mirror. ‘How does she always manage to ruin everything?’

‘Now now,’ says Isabelle. ‘I’m sure she didn’t have a nervous breakdown on purpose, just to spoil your day.’

‘Huh. You could have fooled me.’

‘Anyway, I think you should be very proud of Ben. He took control of everything quite wonderfully. He’s a natural father.’

‘He’s a better father than she is a mother, that’s for sure.’ She clicks the compact shut, throws it into her tiny black handbag.

‘Oh give her a chance, Mum. It can’t be easy.’

‘I just wish she’d let him in.’