The conversion of the huge Regency mansion in Eaton Square made Willoughby’s London home a duplex – servants’ quarters and kitchens on the ground floor and a lift to the first where they lived overlooking the central park. The underwriter answered the ground-floor entry bell, instantly releasing the door, and Charlie entered into a polished marble hallway where nobody had ever dumped prams or bikes or left messages on the wall. There was a small vanity mirror in the lift and Charlie stared back at himself, deciding the flush was from hurrying across the square. Now that it was about to happen, his feeling at meeting Clarissa again was eagerness rather than apprehension. New York had meant nothing, he was sure; a between-the-sheets experiment which had worked because they were both good at it. He’d been a bloody fool to imagine it was anything more.

Quickly he tried to control the shank of hair that curtained his forehead and was still with the comb in his hand when the lift stopped. Hurriedly he pocketed it, glad no one was waiting directly outside.

The lift led out onto a small foyer. Willoughby was waiting by the open door into the apartment.

‘Come in,’ he said.

Charlie had visited once before but there had been a lot of people and he hadn’t been aware of the size of the place. There was a large central corridor, with doors leading off either side; those into the drawing room were double-fronted and open, giving an expansive entry.