Everyone was waiting for the big stand-off between the current Signora Rivelli and the heir presumptive. It was not long coming. Rivelli was jittery, fiddling with his wedding ring, his cufflinks, his tie, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he wanted to run out of the room. Janet was serene – horribly, icily serene, her champagne untouched, the only sign of tension a whiteness around the eyes. Victoria was the first to greet Isabelle when she came out, intercepting even her parents, grabbing her in an ostentatiously physical embrace, kissing her on the lips.

‘We did it!’ she cried. ‘We bloody did it!’ She stuck by Isabelle’s side, hoping, perhaps, to be shielded from Janet Rivelli, and so she had to be introduced to Christine and Andy. She more or less ignored Christine, extending a languid hand and looking away while Christine shook it. The woman is on drugs, thought Christine, who had seen more than her fair share of stinking junkies when she was knocking about the magistrates’ courts at the start of her career.

When Andy was introduced, things were very different. ‘Now I see where Isabelle gets her looks from,’ she said, holding on to Andy’s hand and caressing his sleeve. ‘You must be very proud.’

‘Yes, I am.’ Andy tried to concentrate on his daughter, who was looking lost and fragile and far too thin.

‘Well, of course, I always knew she would go far, this one,’ said Victoria, gesturing expansively. ‘One develops an instinct. I would almost say a fashion sixth sense.’ People were looking at her, laughing, talking behind their hands. ‘And it’s so gratifying to see what a little faith can do, just at the critical moment, when the rest of the world is turning its nose up . . .’

Nobody was listening, and Victoria was quite clearly de trop, but she would not let go of Andy’s arm. Even when Isabelle was swept off to be photographed and interviewed, she commandeered him. Christine’s attempts to get a few words with her own ex-husband and co-parent were thwarted; the look Victoria gave her would have discouraged anyone.

‘So,’ Christine heard her say, ‘you’re single these days, I understand. That’s fascinating . . .’

Christine went to find John. ‘I think Andy’s been vamped,’ she said.

‘Who is she?’

‘I have no idea. Bad news, I suspect.’

‘A note of jealousy?’ said John, with half a smile.

‘Of course not. I just don’t like the look of her.’

‘Andy’s a big boy,’ said John. ‘He can take care of himself.’

‘Let’s get a drink.’ Christine sounded too bright. ‘I’m finding it a little odd to see my children being so . . . I don’t know. Successful. Sought-after. They don’t seem to have time for their old mum.’ The DJ booth was surrounded by admirers; Ben’s hair, half mashed down by headphones, was all that was visible of her son.