She was dozing off again when she heard the key in the door. She did not move or call out. Nobody knew she was there. It could only be Will. She would surprise him.

She heard voices – Will’s voice, and another man’s.

‘Well, this is it. The Cissé studio.’

‘Very nice.’

‘It’s a dump, but it’ll do for now.’

She made herself very small under the duvet. She was so thin that she wouldn’t show.

‘I’d offer you a drink or a cup of tea, but . . .’

‘I haven’t come round here on Christmas Day to drink tea, have I?’

‘No.’

Silence, heavy breathing, the occasional click of wet mouth parts interlocking. Isabelle peeled back a corner of the duvet and peeped out. She could see Will’s back, in a denim jacket with a bright knitted scarf around his neck, his arms around another body, another pair of hands feeling his back, his arse.

Thank God for the Valium, thought Isabelle. I feel nothing.

She shuffled forward, quiet as a mouse, and peeped through the join in the screen.

If Will decided to use the bed, he would get a hell of a shock, she thought, stifling a giggle. She felt rather breathless. It was so funny, so funny, watching him like this . . .

The two men broke apart, and she got a good look at him for the first time – my rival, she thought, and nearly sniggered again, but it was caught up in a strange gulp that might have been a sob if she’d let it out.

He was about thirty, red haired, pale skinned, freckly, good looking in a slightly puggish way, wearing a black navy pea coat, a pair of suit trousers and a well tailored pink shirt that shouldn’t have gone well with his colouring but, irritatingly, did.

They stood apart, looking at each other, arms hanging by their sides, breathing heavily, like boxers.

Ding ding! Thought Isabelle. Round Two!

And they were grappling again, Will pushing him back towards the cutting table, where a length of black satin was laid out, ready to be marked up and cut. It was going to be a very simple, nineteen-forties-style cocktail dress, with beaded detailing on the bodice . . .

The redhead’s backside hit the edge of the table, and he half sat. Will pushed him back, still kissing him. Hands went up the back of Will’s shirt, lifting his jacket, exposing his broad, pale back.

Isabelle carried on watching. One hand moved down inside the duvet, inside her pants.

Will was on his knees, unbuckling the man’s belt, unzipping his trousers, moving around in his crotch. Isabelle could not see ‘it’ – but she knew what Will was doing. As did he, evidently, judging by the moans his partner was making.