This was going better than Victoria expected; Rivelli looked positively stricken.

‘Then how . . . How did it happen?’

‘I don’t know. I really, truly went to that party believing that I could help you get a deal with the best new designer of the year. I even went to the trouble of ordering one of their dresses to wear, and paying for it myself.’

Was this pushing it too far? After all, Victoria’s money was Rivelli’s money.

‘Then how come they sent the same one . . .’

‘I don’t know. It was a ghastly mistake. They’re young, Massimo. Inexperienced. They may have misinterpreted something I said. Oh God, it’s probably all my fault. I told them how much you’d like it. They must have thought . . .’ More tears, more sniffling. ‘Oh, Massimo, what have I done? I’m so sorry.’

He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I see that now.’

‘I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that. I’ve always tried to be . . .’ Her voice went small and girlish. ‘Good . . .’

Rivelli’s arms encircled her, warm and strong, and his lips found hers.

Benedict left for university on a Sunday morning, packed his books and clothes and instruments into the back of a hired van and cleared out. Joel was on hand to help him load up. Christine found this extremely awkward – the two young men treated each other as equals, spoke the same language, dressed in similar clothes. They chatted about music, about sport, about clubs. They were quite at ease with each other. When Ben was ready to leave, there was much back-slapping and shoulder-gripping and use of the word ‘mate’.

‘Alone at last,’ said Joel, peeling off his shirt, which was dark with sweat. ‘Fancy a bath?’

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, cooking, eating and making love, until, at about nine in the evening, Isabelle arrived unannounced, wide-eyed and, thought her mother, far too thin.

‘I’ve just had a text from Ben,’ she said, stepping into the house, not even acknowledging Joel, who was, fortunately, wearing some clothes at this point. Christine was in her dressing gown.

‘Oh yes?’ said Christine, trying to keep her voice from scaling the octaves. ‘Has he arrived safely?’

‘Yes he has,’ said Isabelle, in a way that implied no thanks to you.

‘Would you like a glass of wine, darling? We’re just . . .’

‘I need to talk to you, Mum.’

‘Right.’

‘Alone.’ She glared at Joel, who jumped up.

‘I’ll just go and make myself useful in the kitchen,’ he said, springing over the back of the sofa in characteristically athletic style. ‘Don’t mind me, ladies!’

‘What the hell is he doing here?’

‘What does it look like? As if it’s any of your business.’

‘Ben was terribly upset.’

‘No he wasn’t.’

‘Yes he was. I can tell. He’s my brother, you know.’

‘I had noticed.’