‘Don’t count your chickens. That wasn’t the show itself.’

‘But the collection is ready, the money’s in the bank, the invitations have gone out and tonight, my dear, we made sure that everyone that matters will be there. Cherry Lucas is your new best friend.’

‘She’s my brother’s new best friend, God help him.’

‘She said you were fabulous.’

‘Oh, headline news! “Stylist tells designers she’s fabulous” shock. People like her say things like that to people like me a thousand times a day.’

‘But she meant it.’

‘Today, maybe. But will she remember in the morning? Or, more to the point, next week?’

‘Yes, if we send her flowers and nice choccies.’

‘Whatever it takes, I suppose.’

Will busied himself with bottles, emptying dregs of wine down the sink, filling the recycling crate. He could feel her eyes on him, too big in her skull, too hungry.

‘And Victoria came, of course.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?’ snapped Isabelle.

‘So, maybe we’re still in with a chance with Rivell, after all.’

‘I suppose so. Let’s see if he comes to the London Fashion Week show.’

‘It’s a good thing, Princess,’ said Will. ‘Don’t be so touchy.’ He put his coat on. ‘Right. I’m off.’

‘With Ricky, I suppose.’

‘Yes, with Ricky. Wish me luck.’

She nearly said ‘Go to hell.’

Everyone came to the London Fashion Week show.

Christine was there – not with Joel, nor with Andy, but with John Ferguson, her instructing solicitor, who had known Isabelle since she was a baby.

Andy was there – not with his girlfriend, of whom he never spoke, nor with any other woman, but with his best friend/best man Steve, with whom he’d been to college. Steve was now big in town planning.

Ben was there, with a few mates of both sexes, with a smile for everyone from the DJ booth.

Cherry Lucas was there, in the front row, strategically positioned so that she could see Ben, as well as the dresses, to their best advantage. She was wearing a reinvention of the puffball skirt in blue PVC, gathered above the bust and below the knee. She looked like a ghetto-fabulous Smurf.

Dan Parker was there, nerdily smart as ever, with Fiona Walker in tow, looking as if she’d been on a lemon-only diet for several weeks.

Maya Rodean was there with her celebrity boyfriend du jour, ignoring everything except the paparazzi who buzzed and clicked around her.

Victoria was there, telling everyone that Cissé was ‘my fashion story of the year’, and that Rivelli was determined to take them under exclusive licence.

Rivelli himself was there.

And so was his wife.