I threw a cushion at her. ‘Don’t be awful. You’re such a cynic.’

She grinned. ‘I’m a realist, love.’ As she plonked back down onto the chair, her sleeve billowed up, revealing a huge purple welt on her forearm.

‘Ouch. What happened there?’

‘Akhmad … likes to play rough.’ She gave a tinkling laugh, but her eyes avoided mine. I made no comment, observing as she fidgeted self-consciously with her cuff.

She reached across and patted my stomach. Diversion tactics. ‘So, how long have you got to go now?’

‘Too bloody long. I feel like a proper heifer already.’

‘You look fine, really. Blooming.’

‘That’s a tactful way of telling me I’m fat. I’m eating far too much, I know. I’ll need to come along to the gym with you once in a while, after the baby’s born. I mustn’t let myself go completely.’

‘You are not fat. But yeah, that would be good. We don’t see nearly enough of each other. I really miss our chats.’ She looked suddenly pensive.

‘Everything is … okay, isn’t it?’ I asked. Her expression made something twist uncomfortably inside me.

‘Of course. Never been better.’ She shook back her curls, avoiding eye contact as she surveyed the room once more. ‘Life is treating me very well.’

We chatted for a couple of hours. She spoke a little about Akhmad, but eventually let slip that she also had a regular girlfriend, too; another model. She was keen to show me her photograph – a statuesque, striking girl with ebony skin, cropped hair and chiselled cheekbones.

‘Her name’s Maryam,’ she told me, her eyes shining. ‘She came over from Somalia with her family when she was twelve. We met on a shoot a couple of years ago, but we’ve grown really close these last few months. Her family were dirt poor and she’s had a difficult upbringing. But she’s kind and so smart – she actually has a degree in philosophy – and she’s got a great sense of humour, too. She’s off here, there and everywhere at the moment, though, so I don’t see her as often as I’d like to; but her career’s really taking off, so it’s great.’

Reading between the lines, I suspected that there was more genuine enthusiasm for the blossoming relationship with Maryam, but Akhmad was obviously funding things, and from what I could gather the arrangement was mutually convenient. I had the niggling feeling though, that, in spite of everything, deep down she wasn’t really happy.

I told her about the noises in the attic and disrupted sleep, and she listened with wide-eyed interest.

‘Get that bloody man of yours up there to have a proper look. It all sounds a bit iffy to me. I’d go up myself, but I’m not really dressed for it.’