“I am having a bad time,” said Frances, “a terrible time, and part of what’s terrible about it is that I don’t know what you can do to help, what anyone can do, apart from putting a match to it all.”

“I can’t organize a party,” I said, “or dress up as a waitress, or cook a five-course meal for forty people, but if someone could give me a cup of coffee, I’ll go through every piece of paper in this office and reply to it or do something about it or put it in a file or throw it away. And then I’ll get back to my own life.”

Frances’s smile changed to something of a frown. “What have I done to deserve you?” she asked.

I felt the tiniest shiver of apprehension. Was I being too obvious? “I’m trying to do as I would be done by,” I said. “Does that sound too yucky?”

Frances smiled again. “I’m a drowning person being dragged to the shore,” she said. “Who cares?”

Chapter Thirteen

Beth arrived just after eleven. She apologized, saying she had been out late, but she looked entirely fresh and rested. And she was immaculately dressed, entirely different from the day before: a dark gray pencil skirt with a little slit up the back, shoes with very low heels, and a waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. Her skin glowed, her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She made me feel shabby, old and boring. She seemed surprised and not completely pleased to see me. “Where’s she going to work?” she asked Frances.

“She’s going to hover,” I said, before Frances could reply. “Just sort out a few things and not get in anyone’s way.”

“I was just asking,” said Beth, and was interrupted by a merry tune from her mobile phone. She opened it and turned her back on me; I noticed there were seams on her black tights.

It was immediately obvious that it would take more than a day or two to restore order to the chaos of the office. It surprised me that Frances had let everything get into such a mess: she seemed the kind of person who would be calmly and instinctively organized: knickers folded in her underwear drawer, herbs and spices arranged alphabetically on the kitchen shelf, car insurance and MOT documents neatly filed.

“Did Milena do the organizing and filing?” I asked, as we drank our first coffee of the day, poured from a new cafetière.

“That’s a laugh,” said Frances. “No. Milena was the gorgeous public face of Party Animals. It was her job to schmooze the clients, flirt with the suppliers and come up with the brilliant ideas.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“We picked up the pieces,” said Beth, from across the room.

“She sounds quite a character,” I said.

“You must have seen that,” said Frances.