‘Oh well,’ said Andy, ‘just a wild, unstructured thought. I’ll see you soon, ex-wife. I’m sure we have all sorts of exciting child maintenance issues to discuss.’

‘Andy, don’t be . . .’

He’d gone.

Isabelle spent Christmas Day at the studio, although she told everyone, including Will, that she’d be at her mother’s. There was no point in letting on that she was going to be alone in the cold, dark studio, without even a telly for company, perhaps working on a few dresses, more likely passing the day in a Valium haze. Valium was the only thing that got her to sleep these days, just as cocaine was the only thing that woke her up – and she’d run out.

She would sleep and read and maybe do a bit of work and listen to some music and sleep again, waiting out the day, like a siege.

Eating didn’t figure in her plans, even though she knew that she was hungry in a generalised, chronic sort of way. She hadn’t eaten properly for weeks, even months, and could feel her hip bones digging into the mattress. Oh well, a meal skipped was a few quid saved, and that, under the circumstances, was no bad thing.

Money was tight – so tight that she and Will had decided not to buy each other Christmas presents, and had taken advantage of as much seasonal hospitality as they possibly could. The Fashion Council grant was all spoken for, every penny dedicated to the show in London Fashion Week, a couple of months away. The bank would not lend any more. Will’s savings had all gone on studio rent. They were living on the money that Andy gave her – and that just about paid for electricity, transport and a few essentials like coffee and toothpaste. They didn’t eat at the café any more. Meals, such as they were, consisted of sandwiches made from the cheapest ingredients. This, Isabelle told herself, was why she was off her food.

Oh, and cocaine, of course. That was the other major expense. But without cocaine, no work. No show. It was not a luxury. It was a necessity. She must get some.

Hope had reared its ugly head when a music promoter offered to sponsor Cissé to the tune of four thousand pounds, with promises of stage and video work next year, and for a while Will was hopeful, but then Christmas intervened, people went on leave with no deals signed, calls unreturned.

Isabelle wondered, dreamily, if this was all just a temporary illusion . . . If, this time next year, she’d be living with her mother or her father, looking for a lowly job alongside all the other unemployed fashion graduates, frustrated, bitter, her health screwed and her career over.