Cherry planted herself in front of Ben, hands on her hips, swaying in time to the music. Understanding without being told that this was someone whose good opinion was worth cultivating, he got to his feet and started moving his hips with hers. Whoops broke out from Cherry’s delighted entourage, who clapped their smooth hands in front of their shiny faces and made ill-advised attempts at African dance steps themselves.

All this was conducted to a soundtrack of Girls Aloud.

‘Remind me to download some Youssou N’Dour,’ said Will.

‘He’s Senegalese, not Nigerian.’

‘Well what do they play at Nigerian parties?’

‘Mostly Michael Jackson, in my experience.’

As soon as Cherry was sitting down with a drink in her hand (and drinks in the hands of all her friends – this was goodwill at a price), the show began. Will gave a running commentary, using a beer bottle as a microphone, and got more laughs than, Isabelle thought, was really necessary. The ‘models’ squeaked and giggled behind the screen, which fell over at one point, discovering bony knees and boyish breasts. The show opened in black and white, evolving into more colour and more fantasy, the fashion version of Dorothy’s arrival in Munchkinland.

It began, as these things usually do, with a certain amount of indifference, as if the audience were rather annoyed at having their chit-chat interrupted. Conversation continued, competing with the music; some people even had their backs to the ‘catwalk’, as if to pay attention was beneath them. But gradually, the chatter ceased, heads turned, eyes focused on the collection. By the time the last three dresses emerged from behind the screen – three flamboyant jeux d’esprit in lime green, electric blue and gold – they were cheering. Will grabbed Isabelle, brought her on to take a bow, kissed her and hugged her and signalled for quiet.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I give you Isabelle Cissé.’

They expected a speech. She could have killed Will.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said, acutely conscious of forty, fifty pairs of eyes taking in every detail of her clothes, her hair, her body. ‘I don’t really like speaking in public.’ Will had told her off about her habit of self-effacement; if she didn’t flog her wares, nobody else would. ‘But I think I can safely say, on this occasion, that I’ve let the clothes do the talking for me. Please come to our show at London Fashion Week. Please tell all your friends and colleagues about us. And if any of you happen to know any heterosexual millionaires, please send them my way.’

They laughed, and Will kissed her again.

‘I’ve got one,’ screamed Victoria above the hubbub, ‘and I’m keeping him!’

After they’d all gone, Isabelle and Will rescued the dresses, put them back on hangers, opened the windows to air out the smoke, collected up the plastic cups and empty bottles.

‘Well, Princess, we pulled it off.’