‘Sure,’ said Miranda, and Casey stayed chatting on her phone as she walked into the café. It was a small space, just a few tables. Mismatched teacups, riotous geraniums and curling rococo chairs. The cupcakes were a burst of colours, decoration in their own right: lemon meringue or blueberry, chocolate mocha or red velvet.

Clio, restrained, had ordered only a coffee, and was moving to one of two empty tables. They were next to each other, Casey was relieved to see.

Casey made her way to the counter, only glancing at the display. ‘Lemon raspberry,’ she said randomly. ‘And fresh mint tea.’

‘I’ll bring it over,’ the waitress smiled, and Casey sat down, almost next to Clio.

As she sat, Casey was talking quietly on the phone. ‘I don’t know what to do next . . . You don’t know what it’s like . . . They don’t know why it won’t work. I can get pregnant’, a gleam of a tear in her eye. ‘I just can’t stay pregnant.’

Clio was flicking through a pile of magazines stacked on the windowsill, but Casey knew she was listening.

Casey spoke for a few more minutes, then hung up the phone. She dug through her handbag, failed to find a tissue and smudged away mascara with a fingertip.

‘Here.’ Clio was holding out a tissue.

‘Thank you,’ Casey choked.

‘Sounds like you’re having a difficult time.’ Clio was all wide-eyed sympathy.

‘Oh,’ Casey managed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to bother anyone . . .’

‘Gosh, don’t worry,’ Clio smiled at her.

Sweet-natured, Casey diagnosed. Mother of two: lunches and charity balls and PTA. Regular tennis, and a lot of Pilates. Four holidays a year, at least, and welcomed by name – and a wide smile – at every shop on Bond Street. Casey smiled back weakly.

‘In fact,’ Clio went on, ‘I know someone who might be able to help.’

They talked for a long time over the lemon raspberry cake, Clio telling Casey about various friends who’d had, ‘Well, you’d call them miracles, honestly.’ Until finally they were leaving the little café, with a glowing smile at the waitress behind the counter.

Clio led the way back down the road – ‘I’ll take you to meet my husband; it’s less than five minutes away, so convenient.’ Just a few steps from the gate to the house, and then Clio was throwing her keys onto the hall table, shouting, ‘Darling, I’m home.’

The hall was large, double height, with a white marble floor leading away to a distant kitchen. Stairs edged with black wrought-iron banisters swept towards a glittering chandelier.

‘I wonder where he is.’ Clio looked around. ‘He’s usually absolutely flat out at work, but he’s at home today for some reason.’

As Casey peered up the stairs, Greystone appeared at the banisters, urbane in chinos and a smart blue shirt. He didn’t look dangerous, Casey thought. But then, neither did she.