‘Oh Christ, this can’t be good. It’s my agent. Hello, Denise,’ said George cheerfully as he answered it. ‘How are you, darling?’

‘I’m wonderful, darling,’ she replied. ‘And how are you, darling?’

‘Smashing, darling. And what can I do for you? I suppose you’re calling to let me know that the BBC wants to renegotiate my contract a year early and give me a substantial salary bump?’

‘If only wishing made it so,’ she said, laughing joylessly. ‘What are you doing right now, darling?’

‘Talking to you, darling.’

‘I mean, are you at home, darling?’

‘I am, darling.’

‘And are you busy?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Fabulous. Could we meet? Shall we say Soho House in an hour?’

‘Is it good news or bad news?’

Denise laughed properly now. ‘Now, you know I don’t believe in such terms,’ she said. ‘All news is good news. Even bad news leads to new opportunities so ultimately becomes good news.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So is it good news or new opportunities?’

‘Have you seen today’s Daily Mail?’

‘No, I’ve given up reading the papers.’

‘Then just meet me at twelve,’ she said. ‘Dean Street, all right? The last time I was in Greek Street, James Corden was there. Never again, I swore after that. Never again.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can’t give me a little clue, though, as to whether I’m going to come away in a good mood or not?’

‘Afraid not, darling. I’ll tell you all at twelve. Until then.’

He nodded and hung up.

‘Well?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘I don’t know. She likes to deliver good news in person so she can receive my gratitude face to face. But she also likes to deliver bad news in person so she can talk me out of firing her.’

‘Something tells me that, of the two of you, she’s the one in more stable employment right now.’

THE SKI INSTRUCTOR OF VERBIER

Sometime before George exited his taxi on Dean Street, Beverley was seated not far away, across the street in Barrafina, enjoying a latte and an early-morning Bellini while awaiting the arrival of her ghost. Before her lay a print-out of the latest chapter of what was now officially titled The Ski Instructor of Verbier, each page scarred red where Beverley had made increasingly furious corrections.

A copy of that morning’s Daily Mail lay on the table, and Beverley unfurled it, reading the lead article once again. She was angry with George, of course, but she also felt deeply upset by how their once happy marriage had reached this place of mutual infidelity and distrust. There was a time when they had loved each other, been kind to each other, when they had been desperate to be in each other’s company. They had thrown themselves into parenthood and, even if their children had so far failed to build lives independent of them, she had plenty of friends who never even saw their offspring, while hers would barely leave the house. There was something positive there, surely? When and how had their passion fallen away?