She had to think for a while. Dan? Who’s Dan? Oh – Dan. From Parker Walker, or Walker Parker, or whoever. What were they? A PR company? Selling agents? Loan sharks? Will dealt with all that sort of thing. She had a rather blurred image of a smart, dull young man with blond hair and glasses, and she had a surprisingly warm, agreeable feeling in her stomach.

Craving for cocaine kicked in suddenly. She had to have some – now – or she would scream. Will – the redhead – Dan – the money – work – Christmas – it was too much. She needed cocaine.

She called Victoria.

‘Be right round,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a party.’

Victoria arrived with a bottle of champagne in one hand and, judging by the clinking, plenty more in her bag.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’ She produced a chic little alligator wallet. ‘Let’s make it a white one.’ Two fat lines were chopped out on the table where Will had so recently, and so energetically, secured their sponsorship deal.

‘Forget your troubles,’ said Victoria, handing Isabelle a stylish silver tube – the sort of thing Alessi might have come up with if they designed drug paraphernalia – ‘come on. Get happy.’

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The collection was ready.

Twenty-eight pieces of evening wear, from white to black – without spunk detailing, Isabelle decided) – via every colour of the rainbow, severe or elaborate, all clearly the work of one hand, like the plays of Shakespeare of the symphonies of Mahler – said Will. Out of that uncertain autumn and miserable winter had come a burst of fashion fire. Will was ecstatic. Dan Parker was delighted. Victoria was effusive. Even Isabelle, insecure and coke addled, admitted that she was not displeased.

It was late January, and they were having a little preshow in the studio, roping in friends as models, before an audience of supporters and sponsors, including both Victoria and Ricky the redhead, who was clearly hoping for a repeat performance.

It was chaos, with models changing behind the screens, the music a mix from Will’s iPod, no lighting, no lasers, no dry ice – but it was, undoubtedly, a smash.

Victoria was dancing around, high as a kite, grabbing dresses from the rails and trying them on, until Will stopped her.

Dan Parker hovered on the sidelines, sipping a drink, smiling at everyone, trying to get a word with Isabelle and being frustrated at every turn. But he was patient. He would wait.

Ben was there, having come down specially from university; he was going to DJ at the London Fashion Week show itself, for free, and sat there scribbling notes, beating out rhythms on his thighs, occasionally fending off the attentions of Victoria or one or two of the other over-refreshed guests who seemed rather taken with his dark skin, brushed-up Afro hair and full, shapely mouth . . .