John Ferguson was doing himself a disservice, and had it not been for the fact that he was so resolutely married, and so very important a part of her professional life, Christine would have been quite happy to have him in her bed rather than Joel. But he and his firm, Ferguson McCreath, were her most important clients, and instructed her in some of her most lucrative cases. He’d asked her here tonight not for the pleasure of her company, but to sound her out over a bit of business which could, depending on several factors, be coming her way.

‘You say the sweetest things, John. You could turn a girl’s head.’ This was a new sensation for Christine – flirting with colleagues. Did they think she’d turned into a randy menopausal old bag, a stock character from English comedy, a legal Wife of Bath with Mrs Slocombe tendencies?

John laughed; he looked handsome when he laughed. He was about her age, maybe a year or two older, also the father of two kids, born around the same time. After they had discussed whatever he’d asked her here to discuss, they would doubtless catch up on family life. She would tell him a little about Isabelle’s new business, but not about their increasingly frequent rows, and about Ben’s imminent departure to university, but not about her guilty feelings of relief that she would finally have the house to herself. John would trade similar reports. They knew each other very little, after all these years. They exchanged highly censored information. They were, after all, both lawyers.

They ordered food and wine, drank, ate soup and bread, chatted about changes in the law.

‘Now, I have a ticklish little case coming up that I could do with an opinion on.’

‘Officially, or unofficially?’

‘Officially.’ He smiled, and half-winked. ‘You’ll be paid, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Don’t be cheeky, John. I’ve given you more than enough freebies over the years.’

‘I think this one’s going to go all the way.’

‘Oh, goodie. Is it messy?’

‘Potentially, very.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Well,’ said John, once the main course was served and the waiters had retreated to a discreet distance, ‘at this stage both parties are still negotiating, but I suspect the wife won’t settle.’

‘And you’re representing the husband, I take it?’

‘Correct. Massimo Rivelli. Extremely successful Italian garment manufacturer, factory in Milan, makes clothes for some of the biggest names in the fashion business.’

‘I must ask Isabelle if she’s heard of him.’

‘Oh, she will have. He’s one of the top three or four, apparently. Anyway, it’s the same old story. Married for twenty-plus years, big house in Surrey, one grown-up child who, unfortunately, has special needs . . .’

‘Hmm. That complicates matters.’

‘Properties dotted around Europe and America. Everything hunky dory, he does his thing, she does hers.’

‘And I take it that his “thing” is the usual?’

‘Yes. The mistress is set up in a penthouse in Kensington, leads a very nice life, and Rivelli picks up the tab.’