From <[email protected]>

Darling Jess,

For the first time since I persuaded you to go over there, I’m wondering if I did the right thing. I was so distraught to read your email and see how upset you are about the whole Julia thing. But are you sure, darling? Because I can’t contemplate what an extraordinary coincidence it would be if I’d pushed you into a job with someone so connected to your history. And I wonder, Jess, without wanting to dismiss what you’ve discovered, whether you’re reading a little too much into this? If there’s one thing I learnt from having your mother, the tenacious journalist, as a friend, it’s that fact is sacred. Don’t torture yourself with this unless you know it’s true. I’m so sorry this Daniel Buchs fellow has gone silent; I can tell how much you wanted him to help you. I wish with all my heart that I could help you, darling, but I’m afraid I’m a rather useless detective. But what you must know is that I am here for you, and that regardless of what happens out there, you’ll always have me, and your dad, by your side.

He’s coming to London next week to see my new show, by the way. I can’t tell you what an utter nightmare it’s been working with such an upstart young director. Positively dictatorial! I shall never do it again. But I have to say I’m proud of my sets – particularly under such challenging circumstances. Fingers crossed I’ll make it a hat-trick at the Olivier Awards next year (but don’t tell anyone I said so!).

Call me/text me any time, and take EXTRA good care of yourself.

Lots of love,

Maggie xx

It feels strange to be in a dark room watching jazz when it’s still light outside. The audience is a dim mass of heads bobbing to the music, while the stage is lit up in soft yellow and purple, illuminating the band and causing sweat to bead on Jorge’s forehead. He’s sitting at the piano, pounding the keys with a practised fluidity, pumping the pedals so vigorously he occasionally unseats himself. He’s rocking his head to the music, eyes closed, feeling what he’s playing rather than seeing it.

I’ve been drinking my wine far too quickly, as I tend to when sat in a bar on my own, so my head’s spinning a little when the lights go up for the interval and I see Jorge making his way over to my table. He grins and greets me with the obligatory three kisses.

‘Glad you could make it, Jess.’

‘That was really incredible,’ I say.