All of this must have shown in her face. As she reached the end of the catwalk, stopped and slipped one brown, toned leg through the slit in the violet chiffon, letting the lights play on the crystal encrustations on her shoes, the applause reached a crescendo.

They like me, she thought. They really like me.

For a few seconds, she held the pose, scanning the front row for friends and family.

The seats that she’d reserved for her mother and her father were empty.

Part One

Autumn/Winter

Chapter 1

Rain rattled against the windows, mixed with grit and dry leaves swept up from the dirty London streets. It hadn’t rained for weeks, but all the same it was a terrible end to a disappointing summer, the clouds marching relentlessly across the sky day after day, cold, barely a glimpse of sunshine. And now, finally, just in time for the August bank holiday, it had made up its mind to rain. The smell of wet earth wafted up from the filthy pavements, where weeks’ worth of London grime was being washed away in sour, oily rivulets. The smell reached all the way to the top of the house, where Victoria stood, clutching her dressing gown around her, nursing a hangover and facing a brand new day at noon. Far below, working people hurried along with umbrellas, buffeted by the wind. The plane trees in the garden square rocked and swayed, their dark, exhausted leaves suddenly shiny with rain. It was the sort of day when she felt like going straight back to bed again. Had done so, in fact, many times.

There was nothing in particular for which to get up. Adele had suggested lunch – but Adele had been as drunk as she was last night, and was even less likely to be in shape by lunchtime. There was a Pilates class at two, and another at five, but that would mean having a bath and choosing an outfit and getting the car out and driving all the way to Chelsea . . . And in this weather, the traffic would be awful . . . She could do some work – there was the new Vogue to be digested, trends noted and analysed, research to be done, calls to be made. But without a deadline – Victoria never had deadlines – it was hard to get started.

Perhaps she would just open a bottle of wine, run a bath, soak for a while, shave her legs and go back to bed. After all, Massimo wasn’t expected until tomorrow, at the very earliest. Plenty of time to make herself presentable, to put on the face that the world saw. But for now . . . She took one last glance out of the window, and drew the curtains. They smelt of cigarettes from too many late-night parties, too many days spent listlessly smoking on the sofa. She really should take them to the cleaners, or buy new. She was sick of green velvet, of the funereal tone it gave to the room. She wanted something light, bright, inspiring. The whole room needed freshening up. Her hands strayed over Elle Decoration, then drifted away again, exhausted, the magazine unopened. It would wait. She’d rather keep the money. No point in lavishing all that care and attention on a flat that wasn’t really hers.