Hard-working clockwork. Working around the clock more often than you, my dear mother-in-law, would like. I know you think I’m an absentee parent, Caprice. You frequently remind me, with your eyes. With your waspish comments. It is rich coming from you, a woman who has never contributed to family finances. A woman who does not understand the importance of earning money. A woman who married a wealthy man and expects money to flow towards you, like a river. Don’t you know that river would stop flowing if it wasn’t for aspirational individuals like me? Aspirational individuals like your husband, whose hard work you took for granted?

The train jerks to a halt and I look out of the window. We’ve arrived at Vauxhall. People begin to decant onto the platform like ants. The mass next to me eases away, and for the first time in half an hour I feel as if I can breathe without concentrating. I sigh as I stand up. Now I must battle with the tube.

Having survived the journey, I walk along Ebury Street, Belgravia, with its fine Georgian architecture, and any doubts about my choice of career vanish. Once again my body solidifies with pride. I am proud of my independence. Proud of what I have established.

Into the building. Up in the compact lift. Left out of it, through an ugly modern glass fire door, into BPC’s half of the third floor. Julie is sitting behind a wide imitation marble plastic counter, typing. Her face is partially obscured by a large flower arrangement. She stretches her neck above pinks, chrysanthemums and alstroemeria to say, ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ I reply.

I look across the room. Ted has arrived too. His thick hair damped and scraped back, neat and tidy as ever.

‘Still no news from Sash,’ he informs me with a grimace.

‘Well then, why don’t you chase her?’

An instruction, not a question. He nods his head. I walk across their office, through another glass door, into mine.

My office is too tidy. There’s a dearth of the usual scattered papers. No large cardboard boxes filled with files of documents at the moment. No Post-it stickers plastered around my computer screen and desk to remind me of urgent tasks. I’m not as busy as I’d like. My favourite shipping magnate, and major client, Aristos Kaladopolous, is on holiday, breezing around the Greek Islands on his superyacht. A blue and white plastic monstrosity, complete with a helicopter pad, three launches and an army of jet skis. His new wife is keeping him occupied, so, disappointingly, he hasn’t become involved in any legal spats for eight weeks.