Backstage, there was barely room to swing a cat, let alone wrangle two dozen models and attendant stylists, make-up artists, hairdressers, journalists, photographers and hangers-on. Isabelle was jostled and trampled at every turn. But gradually from the chaos emerged the spectrum of colours and cuts that would soon be the talk of fashion town. The preview show had done its job, just as Will said it would. Cherry Lucas had talked of nothing else – her infatuation with Ben had lasted long enough to ensure that she’d brought everyone along. Considering that this was a first show by a new designer in a small venue – and considering it clashed with a very big catwalk show by one of the major Paris houses – there was some serious firepower in the room. Will was handing out cards like confetti, and getting other people’s back in even greater numbers. As well as launching a fashion label, he could have set up a dating agency.

Things did not go smoothly; they never do. Models missed their entrances, zips tore and lighting cues were confused – but the audience didn’t seem to notice. From the moment the first little black dress shimmied down the catwalk, to the squelching, clicking electro soundtrack that Ben had selected, the crowd was cheering. Pens raced across the surface of notebooks. Cameras flashed, cameraphones clicked, voices gabbled into digital recorders. Three men with movie cameras ran up and down the room; whatever footage they captured would be little more than an abstract sequence of light and colour. ‘Film students,’ thought Will, shaking his head.

Christine and Andy caught each other on opposite sides of the catwalk, beaming up at the show, pride and surprise writ large on both their faces. Christine’s heart did a little leap, then a little flutter – surely Andy would not make the mistake of thinking that she was ‘with’ John?

The Cissé collection evolved before enraptured eyes from severe beginnings to flamboyant finale, and when the models did the final line up, sashaying out en masse to show the key pieces again, the applause drowned the music. Cherry Lucas was on her feet, and so were all her people – and soon everyone was up and stamping, clapping, cheering. Isabelle was dragged into the spotlight, grinning, blinking, apparently stunned by the lights, her eyes huge and wet. The models applauded her, applauded the audience. The lights got brighter. Everyone loved everyone.

Cut to black.

There was a strange, ferocious energy in the room afterwards, as if everyone felt the need to make their own mark, to show that they were just as important as the fashion, to say ‘I’m fabulous too.’