She sat up in bed and called for Terrance to come in.

He opened the door and she noted how old he’d become. They’d been together for twenty years, on and off, and he was a loyal servant. She often wondered what made men faithfully attend others, but she guessed it was consistent employment, and the fact he was able to reside in a most sought-after postcode, in the middle of the vibrant capital: her favourite of all of them. Always immaculately dressed, Terrance smiled at her and stood in the doorway.

‘Fabian is here, madam. Shall I tell him you’ll receive him shortly downstairs? I have the fire going.’

It was gone midday, but Vivienne had stopped caring what time it was years ago. She could do what she damned well liked.

‘No, he can come in here. I can’t be bothered to get up. Has he been fed?’ she asked.

‘He’s not hungry, ma’am.’

She nodded. She was still well turned out, even in bed, and she was fully dressed, with make-up and jewellery in place, so she was more than decent to welcome guests. She knew that her mid-fifties was too young an age to take to one’s bed – without a lover at least – but she disliked the outdoors. It was too full of people who thought they knew what was good for you. She put down her book, a mindfulness tome about retiring not expiring. Bart turned his nose up at her self-help books, but then Bart wasn’t in possession of emotions like other humans, she’d decided long ago. And now he was gone. Just like that. Burned to death in a crushed lump of metal. She felt nothing. It had been hard work pretending to be the mournful wife in front of the police, but they didn’t know what she did. She was fully prepared to turn it on when she had to. Of course there’d be an inquiry because there was someone important riding with him in the helicopter. A lord, no less. Stupid fool. He was probably showing off.

They’d lived separate lives for the best part of a decade. Vivienne had married too young, but Bart had been persistent. Still, she looked on the bright side: she was soon to have all of his money. Her favourite home was this one, where she stayed as often as she could stand the inclement weather. When she wanted sun, she flew to their estate in the Caymans. It was easy to avoid one’s husband if one could afford it. It suited them both. Bart could indulge his perversions and she was left alone to read, post blogs, tend to her only child – not that he needed it any more – and volunteer for acceptable charity work. She took Terry with her wherever she went.