Even Will was not immune to Ben’s charms, despite Isabelle’s threat to castrate him if he even so much as breathed in his direction. Rejection she could handle, but not for a family member.

The guest of honour, in fact the whole reason for the pre-show, was Cherry Lucas, self-styled ‘legendary’ stylist, who worked for everyone – including Vogue. Cherry was more important than a publicist, more important than an agent, more important than the Fashion Council or the buyers for Selfridges or the bank manager. Cherry was a gatekeeper. And boy, did she know it.

She arrived late, but nobody would dream of starting without her. She made an entrance as if she owned the place, with an entourage of eight – six ridiculously overgroomed gay men, and a couple of dumpy girls with too much make-up, her ‘Mini Mes’ as they were universally known. Cherry herself was built on generous lines, and looked rather like her name, round and juicy and black. She was famous for her make-up, her penchant for white eyeshadow and yellow eyelashes, bright pink circles drawn on her plump cheeks, glitter thrown over everything as if by an overexcited child at Christmas. On anyone else, it would have looked insane. On Cherry it worked. She was everything the fashion world told you not to be – fat, loud, opinionated – and somehow, she ruled it. Designers quaked in her presence. If she put you in a shoot, you were made. She liked to announce that she was dressed entirely from charity shops and Primark, because designer clothes were ‘a rip off’ and ‘ugly’. Cherry was a loose cannon, and for that reason she attracted malicious gossip – but all of it was behind her broad back. Nobody was ever anything but pleasant to her face. Pleasant, tinged with grovelling. Cherry lapped it up.

On this occasion, Cherry was dressed in what Will referred to as her ‘Mama Africa’ look, a clashing collection of batiks wound round her body and head, her shoulders and arms bare but for half a hundredweight of ivory bangles, straw sandals flapping off her feet. It was rather an odd choice of outfit for late January, but then Cherry didn’t spend a great deal of her life outdoors. She’d been known to turn up to shows in Garfield slippers and a highly styled dressing gown.

‘I see,’ said Will, when Cherry and her people arrived, ‘we’re playing the ethnic card.’

‘Oh God, she doesn’t expect my collection to be all Nigerian, does she?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought so. But if you can be just a little bit blacker than usual, it might help.’

Isabelle rolled her eyes and sighed.

‘Oh come on, Princess,’ said Will. ‘You’re always telling me that you’re your father’s daughter rather than your mother’s. Just this once, put your money where your mouth is. Oh, look. She’s seen your brother. Marvellous. Beeline.’