My head has clarified overnight. I can see everything differently in the pale morning light. Not just me and Dan … and Daddy … and our marriage … but work. Who I am. What I’ve been doing.

And it needs changing. No more ladylike steps. No more convention. No more caution. I need to stride. I need to grab life. I need to make up for lost time.

I drop the girls at school and nod, smiling tightly, as everyone who didn’t see me last night gasps over my new chopped hair. Parents, teachers – even Miss Blake the headmistress as she passes by – all of them blanch in shock, then rearrange their faces hastily as they greet me. The truth is, it does look quite brutal. Even I was shocked anew when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I say pleasantly, ‘Yes, I fancied a change,’ and ‘It needs a bit of tidying up,’ about six hundred times, and then escape.

I must book a proper haircut. I will do. But I have other things to do first.

As I arrive at Willoughby House, Clarissa’s jaw drops in horror.

‘Your hair, Sylvie!’ she exclaims. ‘Your hair!’

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘My hair. I cut it off.’

‘Right. Gosh.’ She swallows. ‘It looks … lovely!’

‘You don’t have to lie.’ I smile, touched by her efforts. ‘It doesn’t look lovely. But it looks right. For me.’

Clarissa clearly has no idea what I mean – but then why should she?

‘Robert was wondering what you were up to yesterday,’ she says, eyeing me warily. ‘In fact, we were all wondering.’

‘I was cutting my hair off,’ I say, and head to the computer desk. The Books are stacked neatly in a pile and I grab them. They go back twelve years. That should be enough. Surely?

‘What are you doing?’ Clarissa is watching me curiously.

‘It’s time for somebody to take action,’ I say. ‘It’s time for one of us to do something.’ I swivel to face her. ‘Not just safe little actions … but big actions. Risky actions. Things we should have done a long time ago.’

‘Right,’ says Clarissa, looking taken aback. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

‘I’ll be back later.’ I put the Books carefully into a tote bag. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck,’ echoes Clarissa obediently. ‘You look very businesslike,’ she adds suddenly, peering at me as though this is a new and alien idea. ‘That trouser suit. And the hair.’

‘Yes, well.’ I give her a wry smile. ‘It’s about time.’

I arrive at the Wilson–Cross Foundation with twenty minutes to spare. It’s an office in a white stucco house in Mayfair and has a staff of about twenty people. I have no idea what they all do – apart from have coffee with idiots like me at Claridge’s – but I don’t care. It’s not their staff I’m interested in. It’s their money.

The Trustees’ Meeting begins at eleven o’clock, as I know from consulting the Diary of Events that Susie Jackson sent me at the beginning of the year. I’ve heard her describe Trustees’ Meetings many times, over coffee, and she’s quite funny about them. The way the trustees won’t get down to business but keep chatting about schools and holidays. The way they misread figures but then pretend they haven’t. The way they’ll make a decision about a million pounds in a heartbeat, but then argue for half an hour about some tiny grant of five hundred pounds and whether it ‘fulfils the brief of the Foundation’. The way they gang up on each other. The trustees of the Wilson–Cross Foundation are very grand and important people – I’ve seen the list and it’s all Sir This and Dame That – but apparently they can behave like little children.

So, I know all this. I also know that today, the trustees are making grants of up to five million pounds. And that they’ll be listening to recommendations, including from Susie Jackson herself.

And what I know, above all, is that she owes us.

I’ve told the girl at the front desk that I have an appointment, and as Susie comes into the reception area, holding a thick white folder, she looks confused.

‘Sylvie! Hi! Your hair.’ Her eyes widen in revulsion, and I mentally allot her two out of ten in the Tactful Response category. (Ten out of ten goes to the girls’ headmistress, Miss Blake, who caught sight of me and was clearly shocked, but almost instantly said, ‘Mrs Winter, what dramatic hair you have today, most inspiring.’)

‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’

‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’

‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.

‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.

‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’

‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’

‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.

‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’

‘Right,’ says Susie, her manner becoming more formal. ‘Well. As you know, we have many demands upon us, and we treat each application with great care …’

‘Don’t give me the bloody spiel!’ I say impatiently. ‘Why have you donated constantly to the V & A, the Wallace Collection, Handel House, the Museum Van Loon in Amsterdam … and never Willoughby House?’

I’ve done my homework, and I can see I’ve hit home. But instantly Susie rallies.

‘Sylvie,’ she says, a little pompously. ‘If you think there’s some kind of vendetta against Willoughby House—’

‘No. I don’t think that,’ I cut her off. ‘But I think we’ve been too polite and unassuming. We’re as deserving as any other museum and we’re about to go bust.’

I can feel my inner Mrs Kendrick wincing at that word: ‘bust’. But the time has come to be blunt. Blunt hair, blunt talk.

‘Bust?’ Susie stares at me, looking genuinely shocked. ‘How can you be going bust? I thought you were rolling in it! Didn’t you have some huge private donation?’

‘Long gone. We’re about to be sold off to be condos.’

‘Oh my God.’ She seems aghast. ‘Condos? I didn’t – I thought – We all thought—’

‘Well. So did we.’ I shrug.

There’s a long silence. Susie seems truly chastened. She looks at the folder in her hand, then up at me, her face troubled.

‘There’s nothing I can do today. All the budgets are worked out. The recommendations have been made. Everything’s been planned out to the last penny.’

‘But it hasn’t been agreed.’ I gesture at her white folder. ‘These are just recommendations. You could un-plan. Un-recommend.’

‘No I couldn’t!’

‘You could make an amendment. An extra proposal.’

‘It’s too late.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘It’s too late.’

‘The meeting hasn’t begun yet!’ I suddenly flip out. ‘How can it be too late? All you need to do is walk in there and say, “Hey, trustees, guess what, I’ve just heard some terrible news about Willoughby House going bust and I think we’ve somewhat overlooked them, so let’s make a donation, hands up who agrees?”’

I can see this idea lodging in Susie’s brain, although she still looks resistant.

‘That would be the right thing to do,’ I say, for emphasis. ‘And you know it. Here’s a document with some useful information.’ I hand her a sheet with a few bullet points about Willoughby House written neatly on it. ‘I’m going to leave this with you, Susie, and wait to hear from you, because I trust you. Have a good meeting.’

Somehow I force myself to turn and leave, even though there are hundreds more arguments I could make. Less is more, and if I stay, I’ll only launch into some rant which will piss Susie off.

Besides, I’m on a mission today. That was only part one. Now on to parts two, three and four.

By five o’clock I’m exhausted. But I’m on a roll, too. In all the time I’ve worked for Willoughby House, I’ve never put myself out like I have today. I’ve never pitched so much, or cajoled so much or talked so passionately to so many people. And now I’m wondering: what have I been doing, all this time?

I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Doing everything according to Mrs Kendrick’s Way. Even in these last few weeks, even knowing we were under threat, I didn’t strike out boldly enough. I didn’t challenge anything; I didn’t change anything.

Well, today I have. Today it’s been Sylvie’s Way. And Sylvie’s Way is quite different, it turns out.

I’ve never called the shots here before. But today, I’ve summoned Mrs Kendrick and Robert for a meeting and I’ve stipulated the time and place and I’ve drawn up the agenda and basically I’m in charge. I’m on it. I’ve been steely and focused all day.