They all sang along to ‘Everytime We Say Goodbye’, really getting into it when it got to the ‘from major to minor’ bit, looking sentimentally into one another’s eyes, as if it really, really meant something.

The next song was ‘I’ll Take Manhattan’, and the conversation turned, inevitably, to Poppy’s show. Well, it was called Poppy Takes Manhattan.

Bella cursed herself internally. How could she not have seen this coming?

‘I have to say, Angel Face, that that friend of yours is going to be a huge success,’ said Justin, taking a drag on his spliff.

‘She’s certainly a very talented young lady,’ concurred Bernie.

‘And she’s looking hot as hell,’ leered Mark.

Something snapped inside Bella. It probably wouldn’t have, without so much booze inside her, but there was, and it did.

‘WILL YOU ALL JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT POPPY!’ she shouted.

And the room, for the second time that day, fell silent.

Chapter 13

Marty and Eleanor’s clapboard beach house in Westhampton was a monument to understated good taste. White-painted woodwork contrasted with dark floors – slate in the kitchen, polished wooden boards everywhere else – and was complemented by natural linens and cottons in muted shades of cream and taupe throughout. Jaunty blue-and-white-striped cushions and rugs added a nautical flavour, and enormous French windows leading to decks on both floors let in enough light by which to perform microsurgery, if one so chose.

Poppy and Damian were reclining on the lower deck on incredibly comfortable polished teak sun loungers – upholstered, naturally, in cream linen, and piled with cushions in different variations on the blue-and-white-striped theme. The deck looked out onto the white sandy beach, and a cooling breeze wafted in from the glittering cobalt ocean.

Poppy, exquisite in a pale yellow string bikini that matched her surfer-girl hair and showed off her golden tan, was happily immersed in a trashy novel. She’d been working so hard on Poppy Takes Manhattan that it had been ages since she’d had a chance to relax properly, and she was practically purring with contentment. Damian, as was his wont these days, was poring over his laptop as he ploughed on with his screenplay.

‘Sweetheart, don’t you want to take a break?’ said Poppy, reaching out to touch his arm. ‘You’ve been slaving away all morning.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got a job.’ Damian didn’t look up from the screen and Poppy sighed.

After their Prohibition party, they had both been filled with remorse. Poppy didn’t actually think she’d done anything wrong, but she knew that ever since her fling with Ben, trust had been a huge issue for Damian, which she could hardly blame him for. Of course he wasn’t going to react kindly to a gorgeous film star trying to snog his wife.

Damian, for his part, felt sheepish at losing his cool, and thought he’d made a bit of a tit of himself. Once the heat of the moment had died down, they were both desperate to make their marriage work, and when Poppy had called Damian the following day, the first thing they’d both said was ‘sorry’. In unison. That had broken the ice, and they had both started laughing. The making-up sex had been fast and furious, then languorous and romantic, and for that night at least, everything had been great again between them.