She woke up frowning, the blue light flashing like a beacon in the still-dark room. Her hand reaching blindly for the phone, she then recoiled as the white screen glared back at her angrily: one missed call from Lucy Santos. One from her mother, from Stephen, from Milton, her sister. Why on earth were they all calling her so early? What could possibly have happened? What time was it?

Eleven twenty—

Eleven twenty-five? How was that possible? She couldn’t sleep past the dawn chorus in London! She glanced across at the interlined Armani Casa curtains, only a thin blade of light peeping through at the furthest edge. It was their fault.

She swung her legs out of bed, knocking over the wine bottle she’d left on the floor. It was empty, thankfully – or perhaps not, her hand flying to her head as the dull thud began to impress itself upon her. Okay, so maybe it was the rosé’s fault too.

She staggered into the shower, feeling light-headed with panic. It was too late to reset her morning to its usual determinedly mindful state via the yoga flows and green juice Stephen always found so baffling, and she grabbed an espresso on her way out instead, leaving the building an impressively quick fifteen minutes later with her ponytail ribbon tied in damp hair, the blue light still flashing on her phone.

She crossed the street, her new Celine shades on and her earbuds in as she joined the busy-busy crowds already halfway through their mornings, intermingling and becoming one of them and trying to get back on track again. She walked quickly, pressed voicemail and listened to her messages, desperate to catch up with her morning. She felt rattled and edgy. How could she have let this happen? Why had she allowed herself to wallow in the past like that last night? She was usually so disciplined.

‘Charlotte? It’s Lucy. Listen, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about yesterday, and I reckon you’re right, maybe I should do more of what I love. So I’ve done a bit of a search and uh, there’s an exhibition on at the Prado at the minute that I’d love to see. But . . .’ She cleared her voice, sounding embarrassed. ‘Well, thing is, I’ve not got anyone to go with. I don’t suppose you’d be up for it? Just an hour or so? Call me.’

She pressed to listen to the next.

‘Darling, it’s Mama. Have you left already or are you back? I can’t keep up. Anyway, we really must thrash out the menus as they need to go to print this afternoon. It was just the font we were sticking on – I know you felt the Kunstler was tricky to read but really we’re all grown-ups, aren’t we, and I do think the Bookman is just too . . . dull.’ She drew a breath. ‘Anyway, ring me back, darling. But not before two. I’m in with Dr Faroodh for some more plumping—’