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deep breath. ‘In that case, Mr Cartwright, what can I do?’
    ‘Do?’
    ‘His investments? His savings? There must be something I can sell to pay off the mortgage.’ She was not sure she had ever used that word before. I never pretended to understand any of this, she railed at Laurent. It was meant to be your job.
    ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Delancey, that in the months before his death Mr Delancey spent heavily. He all but emptied several accounts. As well as using the proceeds of the life-insurance policy, any monies remaining will have to settle his credit-card debts and his – ah – back payments due on the alimony to his ex-wife. As you know, you as his spouse will have no inheritance tax to pay on his estate, but I suggest that in the meantime you reduce your outgoings to a minimum.’
    ‘What did he spend it on?’ said Kitty.
    ‘I’m afraid you’d have to go through his card statements to get any idea. Most of the cheque stubs are blank.’
    Isabel tried to remember what they had done in those last months. But, as had happened in the first weeks after his death, time had blurred her memory. Her years with Laurent had become an amorphous, shifting bank of recollection. They had had a lovely life, she thought wistfully. Long holidays in the south of France, meals out in restaurants several times a week. She had never questioned where the money had come from.
    ‘Does that mean no school fees? No nanny?’
    She had almost forgotten Kitty was there. Now she saw that her daughter had been taking notes.
    Mr Cartwright turned to Kitty with relief, as if she was speaking his language. ‘That would be advisable, yes.’
    ‘And you’re basically saying we’re going to lose the house.’
    ‘I understand that your . . . Mrs Delancey no longer has a . . . regular income. You may find it easier to cope if you move to a cheaper area, reduce your household expenses.’
    ‘Leave this house?’ Isabel asked, stunned. ‘But it was Laurent’s. It’s where we brought up our children. He’s in every room. We can’t leave it.’
    Kitty was wearing the determined expression she had adopted as a small child when she had hurt herself and was trying hard not to cry.
    ‘Kitty darling, go upstairs. Don’t worry. I’ll sort this out.’
    Kitty hesitated only briefly, then left the room, her shoulders suspiciously fixed. Mr Cartwright watched her go, looking awkward, as if he were responsible for inflicting her pain.
    Isabel waited until the door closed. ‘There must be something we can do,’ she said urgently. ‘You know about money. There must be something I can do to keep the children near their father. They loved him. They probably saw more of him than they did of me because I was away working so much. I can’t do this to them, Mr Cartwright.’
    He had gone pink. He stared at the papers, and shuffled them a little.
    ‘Are you sure he didn’t have any assets in France?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m afraid he has only debts there. He appears to have stopped paying his ex-wife almost a year before his death. I’m pretty sure that what we have here is an accurate picture.’
    She remembered Laurent complaining about the alimony. They’d had no children, he would grumble. He did not understand why that woman could not support herself.
    ‘Look, Mrs Delancey, I really can’t see any way of reorganising your debts. Even if you let the nanny go and take your children out of private school you’ll be left with significant mortgage repayments.’
    ‘I’ll sell something,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he had some good art. There might be a few first editions in the bookcase.’ Her eyes rested on the haphazard arrangements of tatty paperbacks and she conceded privately that this was unlikely. ‘I can’t put them through this. They’ve suffered enough as it is.’
    ‘You wouldn’t want to return to work?’
    You have no idea, she thought. ‘I think for now the children need . . . one parent . . .’ she cleared